#violettwrites

[violettduchess]

A/N: A continuation of this headcanon, here is the same scenario with Chevalier and Licht, a small child entering their bedroom in the middle of the night

WC: 1.3

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

The hall is empty.

Tiny bare feet tiptoe across plush carpeting.

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

Chevalier

The door slowly opens and a pale head of blond hair, silvery in the moonlight that spills through the bedroom window, peeks around the corner. Chevalier is still awake, reading by the warm glow of the oil lamp on his nightstand. You are sound asleep on your side of the bed, your feet stretched out and resting against his legs. It’s a small thing really, but he cannot deny the way it feels to know that even in sleep, you seek him out.

He lowers his book, making eye-contact with the little girl who is still peering around the door. “Yes?” It’s invitation enough. She enters, her stuffed white tiger tucked under one arm, both hands clutching a book to her chest. She approaches his side of the large bed, shoulders squared as she looks at her father, quiet determination in her expression. Chevalier glances at the silver clock, ticking quietly away on his nightstand, next to the lamp. “You should be sleeping.”

She nods, drawing a breath. “I know, Papa. But I have a dilemma.”

He forces himself not to smile at her very serious expression but the warmth is there, winding its way around his heart as he regards her. “Do you?” 

Carefully, she lays the book she’s been holding down onto his lap. He recognizes it as the book of fairy tales he has been reading to her for the past few nights, the one you had gotten for her birthday a fortnight ago. “I would like you to finish the story we began this evening. The one about the fae and the knight.”

Chevalier tilts his head, regarding her. “I believe we had this discussion an hour ago when it was your bedtime and I told you we would finish it tomorrow night.” 

She clears her throat, looking at him with eyes as blue as the endless sea, eyes that perfectly mirror his own. “I know and that is my dilemma. However…I’ve thought about it. And I have a good reason why we should continue now.”

His eyebrows raise ever so slightly. “Go on.”

She takes a moment, gathering her thoughts. “You see, the story was so interesting that I have not been able to sleep. In fact, I have been kept quite awake wondering what is going to happen. As you said Papa, this has already cost me an hour of rest. But…” She takes a deep breath, reading herself for the heart of her plea. “If you were to read me the last three pages, it would take you approximately fifteen minutes. And then I would know how the tale ends. And I could go to bed. If not, I worry I may continue to toss and turn and my sleep will be further interrupted.” 

He does not answer a moment. His words momentarily robbed by the strange and heady mixture of pride and love for his daughter that is squeezing his heart, an emotion she so often evokes and that never fails to leave him amazed. She waits, the only sign that she is eager to hear his response is the impatient wiggling of her toes. Finally, the corner of his lips lift in a soft smile.

“You make a very compelling argument.” He sets aside his book and then gets out of bed, taking her fairy tale book in one hand and holding out his other to her. “We’ll finish the story in your room, in our reading chair so that we don’t wake your mother.”

She smiles, brighter than the full moon, and suddenly he sees you, his beloved wife. There you are, the echo of your warmth and joy painted across her young face. The warmth and joy that reached through the walls around his heart and gathered him close, taught him not only was he worthy of love but he could love back just as fiercely. 

And here, your daughter, the living embodiment of that very love, grips his large hand happily as she leads the way back to her room. Impulsively she turns her head and kisses the top of his hand. “Thank you, Papa.” Chevalier answers her affection with a tender smile and a squeeze of her hand in return. “You are very, very welcome.”

Licht

He stirs the moment the bedroom door opens, having not quite sunk into the well of dreaming yet. Pushing himself up, his first instinct is to reach for the nightstand drawer where his dagger is waiting to bite into any intruder. But his hand stills, midair, when he sees who is peeking her pale head around the door. “Papa?” 

He murmurs her name and motions for his daughter to come in as you sleepily rub at your eyes, rolling over to see what’s going on. She rushes to the bed, her stuffed wolf held by its bushy tail. It’s only when she’s close that he notices the watery eyes, the rapid way her small chest rises and falls, the paleness of her cheeks.

“Sweetheart? What’s wrong?” She climbs onto the bed and launches herself into her father’s arms, burying her face in the soft white linen of his sleepshirt. “I had a bad dream,” is her muffled reply. 

Licht’s breath hitches in his throat. He is far too familiar with the phantoms that still sometimes haunt his nights, the dark tendrils of fear and terror and pain that wrap themselves around his mind at its most vulnerable. Noticing the way he’s frozen, you reach over, placing a reassuring hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing gently even as you reach with the other hand to touch your daughter’s bare foot, letting her know you are there for her.

Licht breathes in, your touch bringing him back from the shadows. He adjusts his arms around her, then strokes her moonlight-hair with a steady hand. Your touch on his back soothes him, sending calm waves of warmth through him, the same steady flow of love and reassurance he is giving to your child.

“Dreams can feel very real,” he murmurs, speaking slowly and tenderly, his lips resting on the top of her head. “And it’s ok to be scared.” You nod, resting your chin on Licht’s shoulder and brush the back of your fingers against her round little cheek. “We’re here for you, my love. Always.”

She leans back, sniffling and Licht tenderly brushes her hair away from her flushed face. “Can I sleep here tonight?” He nods immediately, a smile gracing his lips as she climbs her way over the both of you to wiggle herself under the covers. Her wolf tucked close to her chest, she throws herself against her father, eliciting a soft laugh before snuggling up against his side, her head on his chest. 

Licht glances at you over her head, his eyes the soft red of sunset as he extends his arm in invitation. You slide closer, curling up against your daughter, your head pillowed by his arm. 

No nightmares trouble any of you for the rest of the peaceful night.

Taglist: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage

@redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet

@silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton

@ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp

@got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @starlitmanor-network

@sh0jun @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny

@chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @ozalysss

[negansbestie]

Top 5 favourite writers atm? I need new fic recs 😭

oh hiii, i'm so glad you asked me! i only read twd related stuff, but here's my list

the first author i read here was the main reason i wanted to make this acc, so i could read everything. that author is @naughtyneganjdm and whatever fic you read is awesome! But my faves are 'The guest' and 'Arcadia'

@violettwrites another great writer. everything she does is amazing, you can't miss her work. the tp!daryl series is just *chef kiss* but also her one shots are just a work of art, believe me.

i'm currently reading their 'Skeletons' series and it's an amazing story, it also follows the lines of the show in great detail. if you enjoy slow burn, @the-name-is-z is your writer!

@angelwings-crossbowstrings has been my comfort writer for a while. if i don't know what to read, i go to her profile and re-read anything i've already read, it never gets boring and it feels like reading it for the first time all over again. 'And baby makes three'? my fave mini series.

@daryl-dixon-daydreams is an author i discovered kind of recently, but i've already read most of her work. I'm obsessed with 'Bad Medicine' and 'Sacrifice'.

and since my obsession -besides twd- is pedro pascal, let me tell you that the best author for pedro's characters is @stylesispunk. you're gonna love her writing, i'm sure. 'Did the love affair maim you too?' deserves a nobel prize.

also, i'm currently reading an ongoing series, but i promise it's GREAT if you enjoy a good oc. @thevegandarkelf's series 'Finding me, finding you', you can't miss it.

I kinda cheated and it wasn't just 5 writers lol but i hope i was helpful 🤍

[violettwrites]

the wc for this fic wasn’t anywhere near 2k?

https://www.tumblr.com/violettwrites/766094537829580800/the-fall-daryl-dixon-an-hi-guys-sorry-i?source=share

hey nonnie, i shouldn’t have to respond to this but just for your peace of mind it definitely was ! i’ll include the sc from my docs

i use small text so that can make it look a lot less than it actually is

[negansbestie]

this is so sweet, omg

@vaniniweenie @violettwrites @stunt-lads @stylesispunk @j-doredior @ragedspirit @nanifiles

happy halloween, pumpkins 🖤🧡

send this to all your favorite moots and pass the pumpkin round! KEEP THE PUMPKIN TRAIN GOING 🎃🖤🎃🖤🎃

YESSSSUH! That's a great idea!

@ophelialaufey @mx-pastelwriting @bigbaldheadname @vaniniweenie @francisofthespook

🎃🖤🎃🖤🎃

Happy Halloween y'all! ❤️

P.s I don't actually know how to do this lol someone help me

[violettduchess]

A/N: My first Ikevil fic! I loved Harry's route and figured why not ease into writing him by starting with a kiss 💋

Harrison x Reader

WC: 500

Note: I only tagged people who have previously asked to be tagged in everything. If you want to specifically be tagged in Ikemen Villains fics/headcanons, please let me know!

You might think that if you found a man reading by firelight, settled into an expensive leather Ottoman the color of burnished copper, he would be drinking whiskey. Or maybe wine. A rich Irish single malt or perhaps layered, velvety Merlot.

But not your Harry.

He’s drinking strawberry milk. 

The sight of it has laughter bubbling out of you, a soft, almost musical sound and he looks up, his wintergreen eyes suddenly bright as he watches you set down your evening clutch and approach him. The missive he was reading slips from his long fingers, flutters down onto the thick burgundy carpet. There are other, far more important matters that require his attention now.

He reaches for you, strong hands gripping the line of your waist as you boldly straddle his lap, your voluminous maroon skirt spreading across him like a blossoming flower. His smile is slow and unhurried when you lean down, touching your forehead to his. You lock your fingers behind his neck, breathing in the familiar, tangy scent of mint.

“They kept you out far too late,” he murmurs, his voice enveloping you like the softest of cashmere.

“I’m here now,” you answer, falling into the pastel tenderness of his gaze, struck for the hundredth time by just how beautiful he is. You glance over at the glass of pale pink milk he’s set down on the end table. “How’s your nightcap?” You’re teasing him and he loves it.

Gently pulling you closer, his eyes flutter closed like a butterfly closing its brilliant wings. “C’mere and have a taste.”

His lips are sweet, like strawberries kissed by summer sunshine. His palms slide down to feel the curve of your hip through your skirt, his grip tightening, pulling you closer still. Your hands unlock and you wrap both arms fully around him, melting into the hard planes of his body. He kisses you slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, a hedonist indulging himself in the most heady of pleasures. He savors each kiss, languid and almost lazy in the movement of his lips, the slide of his tongue against yours. 

“Harry…” His name, that cherished and precious word, is a whisper, a twinkle of starlight in the night. Twin tendrils of the softest affection and the brightest desire are twined around it. He drops his head, burying his face into the warm curve of your neck, pressing his lips against the place where your heart is drumming just for him. He doesn’t need to open his eyes because in your arms, there is nothing but truth. He feels it in the way your fingers push their way through his tawny hair. He hears it in the stuttering breath that escapes you. He tastes it on your lips and smells it on your skin.

He rises, effortlessly lifting you into his arms, holding you close against his chest as his long legs swallow the distance to your bedroom. You cling to him, press a kiss to his cheek as he carries you, not caring where you’re going. 

After all, in his arms, you are always home.

Taglist: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage

@redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey

@mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight

@ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics

@justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating

@portrait-ninja @starlitmanor-network

[violettduchess]

A/N: My gift for the incredibly talented @dicenete 💜 as part of the excellent @flash-exchange

Prompt: Make It Quiet

Clavis x Reader

WC: 552

“Ah…..there you are. I was just wondering where the brightest jewel in this sea of noble gemstones had ventured off to. I have been speaking to some of our esteemed guests and I’m sure you would have delighted the Azurite prince–”

“You have to come with me.”

He blinks. “Now?”

“Right now.”

“Oh my, my lamb seems rather impatient. Don’t you want to have a quick dance? The orchestra is just finished warming up and–”

“C’mon.” You seize his hand, a prisoner held tightly in your satin glove.

“What a delightful turn of events. Are you perhaps hungry -Pardon me, sir- Yves has outdone himself overseeing the food -Excuse me, madame- although it lacks originality if you ask me-…Um…Darling? This is an exit.”

“Exactly. Come along.”

“I see I never knew the true strength of your grip. You are very insistent, my love. My, how dark the hallway is compared to the bright lighting of the ballroom. Are you sure–”

“Just a little further.”

“Your laughter tells me I shouldn’t be so suspicious. What sort of adventure is my sweet one taking me on? I- Wait, why are we stopping? There’s nothing here.”

“Wrong. THIS is here.”

“An alcove? Are you sure, sweetheart? There isn’t even a statue or painting or decorative anything! It’s nothing but darkness.”

“So perceptive. Come closer.”

“Have I mentioned how astoundingly strong your grip–”

“Stop. Talking.”

Shrouded by the shadows of the alcove, you cover his mouth with yours, fingers curled into the soft velvet of his lavender lapel.

Clavis does not speak. He can’t. He is powerless in the face of your radiant desire. All he can do is return your fervent kisses. He wasn’t entirely wrong about your appetite. Each kiss is hungrier than the last. His back is soon pressed against the smooth, cool wall, a startling contrast to the hastening heat of your body which he can feel through your layers of silk and brocade.

You graze the elegant line of his neck with your lips as you speak.

“I saw you talking to all those people-”

“Esteemed guests, my sweet,” he gasps, his hands grasping at the folds of your voluminous gown as if he needs something to hold on to, lest he fall.

“And you looked so…..” You take his bottom lip between your teeth and bite, just hard enough for him to inhale sharply. “So at ease, in your element. So collected and calm.” Your hands slide down his sides, slip inside his waistcoat. “I suddenly had the burning desire to see you….unsettled.”

Your hands slide down further, over expensive silk and shiny golden buttons and butter-soft leather and metal buckles.

Is he….trembling?

“I believe,” he says breathlessly, “you are getting what you desire, my darling.”

Your smile is hidden in the darkness but he can taste it on your lips.

“Almost.”

“Ah….my love…..” He is losing this battle, falling backwards off the cliff of reason and hurtling towards the sea of no return. “Anyone….could walk by.”

But you both know his protest is hollow as his hands are already under the heavy folds of your skirts, gripping your thighs, pulling you towards him. 

”Don’t worry, my prince,” you murmur against his ear, a music that rivals the greatest of orchestras. “We’ll make it quiet.”

Taglist: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @tele86

@dear-mrs-otome @writingwhimsey @silver-dahlia @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton

@namine-somebodies-nobody @whatever-fanfics @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine

@mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @sh0jun @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing

@nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly

[violettduchess]

I would like to request Chevalier and the prompt lullaby!

A/N: Here you are, anon! This is an entry for me and @lorei-writes Sunshine and Starlight Creation Challenge.

Chevalier x Reader

tw: pregnancy, baby

WC: ~1k

Baby mine, don’t you cry / Baby mine, dry your eyes / Rest your head close to my heart / Never to part, baby of mine

The sun sets, running its pink and orange fingertips across the darkening sky. You lean further back in the cushioned rocking chair, resting your hands on the swell of your midsection, deeply content.

Chevalier had noticed how often the fresh air and view of the exquisite palace gardens seemed to soothe you when you felt ill or especially tired or when you just needed a moment away from the chaos of the day. He decided he would make sure to give you a comfortable way to enjoy the outdoor respite from the wide, stone balcony off your bedroom. Without informing you of his plan, he had commissioned an extraordinary rocking chair from a master woodworker, a man whose name was almost legendary throughout Rhodolite for his craftsmanship and attention to detail. In the end, he presented the king with a pale wooden rocker inlaid with soft, green velvet cushions and adorned with delicate carvings of roses and small garden creatures peeking out from behind the delicate petals. The king was pleased.

The rocking motion usually helps calm the restless baby stretching its limbs in its limited space, but tonight, despite the gentle rocking, it still continues its fidgety movements. “Oh, little one, what’s wrong?” With a sigh, you begin singing quietly, a song about treetops and cradles and breaking boughs, while rubbing over the spot on your bump that a tiny foot keeps insistently kicking.

You’re so lost in the moment that only the shifting of the shadows alerts you to the fact that Chevalier is there. He’s been watching you, head tilted as if studying a curious riddle or an interesting passage in a book. “Does singing really help calm the child?” Smiling while still continuing to sing, you reach out for him, taking his hand when he is within reach and placing it on your belly. Sure enough, the movement has slowed, the uneasy thrashing having faded away to a mild shifting of position. He glances from his hand to you, listening to the gentle sound of your singing. It seems he has more preparations to make.

Little one, when you play / Pay no heed what they say / Let your eyes sparkle and shine / Never a tear, baby of mine

He has many music books delivered to join his already impressive collection. Lullabies from Jade, Obsidian, Iolite, Benitoite, and Amber, just to name a few. His elegant fingers drift purposefully over piano keys, learning their melodies, the valleys and peaks of their notes. He can play them all impeccably, without sheet music, within a week. You watch him from the doorway of the sunlit music room, taking in the lines of his broad shoulders, the curve of his hands as they play, the fall of his pale hair across his forehead. As the last notes fade into nothingness, he turns to look at you. “And? Which children’s song do you think our child will favor?” He reads the expression that crosses your face before you can school it into something neutral. His lips turn down in a slight frown. “You’re not pleased.”

Sighing, you make your way over to the piano bench, placing your hands on his shoulders. “It’s not that. I think it’s really wonderful that you’ve learned so many songs for our baby.” He turns to look over his shoulder, blue eyes questioning. “But?” You give his strong shoulders a light squeeze, your baby bump brushing against his back. “It’s too perfect. Too practiced. A lullaby doesn’t have to be so flawless. It should come from the heart.”

Again a small frown. You answer it with a tender smile, cupping his cheek. “Nevermind. Our child is so very lucky to have such a thoughtful father.” You place a kiss right on the line of his cheekbone. “Come, let’s go and see what treasures the new delivery of books has for us.” Chevalier allows his wife to take his hand and pull him from the bench, but your words echo through his mind. 

And suddenly, he knows what he must do.

If they knew all about you / They’d end up loving you, too / All those same people who scold you / What they’d give just for the right to hold you

Three Months Later

You’re in the exhausted, deep sleep of new parenthood. So tired that the natural, internal alarm that usually shakes you awake when your daughter cries doesn’t work. You remain in the dark void of dreamless slumber. Instead, it's Chevalier who pushes back the covers, crossing the darkened bedroom to where she is stirring, mewling like a kitten as she kicks her tiny legs. He reaches down into the white cradle, carefully lifting her out and with a glance at your sleeping form, gently lifts her to him, resting her against his shoulder before walking out onto the balcony and into the warm, summer night. Above, the stars twinkle, bright and diamond-like against an indigo sky. The scent of roses lingers in the air.

“You were fed not an hour ago, child.” He speaks softly as he lowers his long body into the rocking chair, one hand patting her little bottom. “And it seems everything is still dry.” She lets out a sigh, a shudder rolling through her as she wiggles in his arms. Chevalier begins rocking slowly back and forth, running his large hand up and down her small back. “Perhaps a song, hmm?”

Closing his eyes, he breathes in her newborn scent, still surprised by how comforting it is, how the feel of her in his arms fills his heart like an explosion of summer roses. Laying his cheek lightly against her downy hair, he starts singing, his voice low and tender like the warm wind through the branches of a willow tree.

“From your hair down to your toes / You’re not much, goodness knows / But you’re so precious to me / Sweet as can be, baby of mine.”

The words Clavis taught him, the very same lullaby his mother Leticia always sang when putting her golden-eyed son to bed, live on, drifting up into the summer sky to join the cavalcade of stars.

Note: The lullaby is from the movie Dumbo and you can find it here (have tissues ready)

Taglist: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage

@redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey

@mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight

@ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea

@chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating

@portrait-ninja @starlitmanor-network @sh0jun @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing

@nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @ozalysss

[violettduchess]

A/N: I don't know where this came from. I just had an idea for it and wanted to write it down. A small, quiet moment with Gilbert.

Gilbert x Reader, comfort fic

WC: 500

Daylight wans. The sun begins its slow descent, acquiescing the reign of the sky to the night. The moon rises, regal as a queen, bringing with it a court full of cold, diamond-bright stars.  Your slippered feet move silently across black and gold carpeting, the lace hem of your nightgown brushing light kisses against your ankles. You pause outside his door, the massive dark wood carved with prowling tigers as if protecting the study and all of its secrets.

But you are not afraid of their claws or sharp teeth.

With a steady hand, you press down on the gilded handle and enter.

He is sitting at his desk, writing, working, always working. He’s shed his cloak, his gloves, his belt, his cravat, all the golden ornamental trappings of his authority. The sight of him, stripped down to his gray shirt, his dark pants and socks, flattens your lungs, swells your heart. One elegant hand is pushed into the midnight silk of his hair, his head tilted away from you as the dark feathered quill scratches continuously along the parchment. Moonlight spills like ethereal paint through the arched window, fighting with the soft, orange glow of the chamberstick over who is allowed to illuminate the planes of his face, which type of light is allowed to tenderly caress that pale skin, the gentle slope of his neck.

One step into the room and the quill freezes, his head turns and he sees you there. There are shadows under his brilliant, blood-red eye. You worry he is not feeling well, he is pushing himself too hard, he is drawing on a finite source of energy that may run out.

“Come here.”

The command is still a command, however gently he may speak it. But you go willingly, crossing the room until you are at his side. He shifts his body, pushing the heavy desk chair back slightly and then pulls you onto his lap, sighing when he feels your weight against him, as if it is relief, as if it is oxygen.

You are here.

The quill lies abandoned on the desk, losing its last few drops of ebon ink.

You are here and everything else will wait.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you so tightly against him that every breath you take pushes against his hold. You don’t mind. He nuzzles against the silk of your robe, roughly pulls it until it drapes off of you, leaving him your bare shoulder and one thin silken nightgown strap. He buries his face just there, hides his unearthly beauty away from the world so that he may get lost in your darkness, your scent, the warmth of you. Your hands slide across his shoulders where you feel the tension coiled within, the serpentine stress that bites at him daily, sinks its gleaming fangs into him over and over without remorse. Your hand comes to rest on the back of his neck and you cradle him, loving and secure, against you. His breath is hot, unsteady as you tighten your grip on his nape, firm and unyielding.

I'm here, it says. I have you. 

The Conqueror Beast can finally, finally rest.

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage

@tele86 @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen

@myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @whatever-fanfics

@justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating

@portrait-ninja @starlitmanor-network @sh0jun @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing

@nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @joiedecombat

@ozalysss

[violettduchess]

A/N: A quiet moment with Gil

Gilbert x Reader

WC: 660

Outside the arched window of the study, the night wind is busy. It tears red and gold leaves away from stark branches, kicks up piles of brown leaves from the chilled earth and howls furiously all the while, as if demanding the moon come out from behind her thick wall of clouds. The moon and her court of stars decide to remain safely hidden from the tumultuous wind as it rips along its discontented path.

The light from your desk lamp is valiantly combating the autumn fury that raps at the window panes, but there is little oil left and soon it will sputter into darkness. Your quill scratches faster against the parchment, the white feather waving like a tiny flag of surrender as you write, trying to conclude your thoughts.

You’re so concentrated on your missive that you don’t notice the door open.

Gilbert enters, quiet as a wraith, soundless as a moonlit shadow. The door closes behind him and for a moment, he is still. He watches your movements, the tension in your arm and shoulder as you dip the quill into the peacock-blue ink you love so much and continue writing. He knows who you are writing to. Only a letter to him would cause you such distress.

The quill pauses, hovering over the end of your last sentence. Should you go on? How many ways can you entreat him to understand? The man who was a father to you, who loved you with his whole heart, cannot fathom why you’ve chosen this place, this man, this…darkness. But you desperately want him to understand. You want him to see that you haven’t been manipulated, that your heart found its match in Gilbert’s fierceness, his sharp mind, his iron determination. The ruler of Obsidian carries you delicately in his claws, teeth bared and ready to tear anyone who threatens you asunder. 

You’ve written him countless times….and somewhere, deep down, you know this will be just another arrow in the wayward wind, destined to never reach its target. But you have to try.

You’re only aware of Gilbert when you feel a cool touch against the back of your neck.

“It’s late, Häschen. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Little Rabbit in his native tongue. More precious to you than your own name on his lips.

Laying your quill down, you turn towards him and reach out without rising from your chair. Instead of standing, you wrap your arms around his waist and press your forehead against his midsection. He hadn’t expected that. For just a moment, a candle’s flicker in the night, he is caught by surprise. But then he exhales, lifting his hand and resting it on top of your head. He slowly strokes down the length of it, gentle but firm. This is a side of the fearsome ruler that is yours alone. Only you have felt that the hand which has taken countless lives is capable of a caress filled with infinite tenderness, that the lips which have casually condemned men to their doom can kiss you with a gentleness that moves you to tears. 

Gilbert continues to run his fingers over your hair, feeling the way the tension slowly seeps out of you with every stroke. It is soothing. It is possessive.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine to touch, to soothe.

Mine.

You stay that way for several moments, the ruler of Obsidian petting your head, your forehead resting against his ribs.

The oil in your desk lamp comes to its mortal end, sputtering its dying breath before plunging the room into shadow. With a heavy sigh, you pull away but only so that you can stand, roughly pushing your desk chair back. Then you are in his arms again, pressing your whole body against his, your hands sliding up his neck, fingers threading themselves into the mass of dark hair behind his head.

Your lips brush his, a paintbrush skimming canvas. “Take me to bed?”

You feel his smile rather than see it, a thing of soft shadow and razor-sharp pleasure.

“Sofort.”

Of course. 

Immediately. 

As you wish.

Taglist: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @dear-mrs-otome

@tele86 @writingwhimsey @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @myonlyjknight

@ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @whatever-fanfics @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family

@kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @sh0jun

@queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot

@bubblexly @joiedecombat @ozalysss

[violettduchess]

A/N: An entry for @mitsuhideswifey's From Harvest to Hearts event!

I used a randomizer and got the prompt: "Cold Hands" and "Chevalier" so here we are☺

Fluff

WC: 450

You think there may be nothing that quite moves you the way a sky full of stars does.

The cold autumn air nips at your skin pleasantly and as you stare up into the heavens, you swear the silvery stars are twinkling in time with your heartbeat. The sliver of white moon is the night’s crooked smile and you can’t help but answer it, smiling in turn as you enjoy the beauty of the evening.

“You shouldn’t be out here without proper clothing.”

Chevalier’s voice pulls your attention away from the divine expanse of breathtaking sky. He steps out onto the balcony, the corner of his beautiful lips curved in an elegant but stern frown, an inverted image of the pale moon with her mysterious grin.

You rub your arms over your thin sleeves, realizing he is right.

As much as you hate to admit it. 

So you very stubbornly don’t.

“I’m fine.”

He does not believe you in the slightest and why should he? Even in the wan moonlight, he can see the blush of color in your cheeks where autumn’s chilled fingers have caressed you, the tension in your muscles as they try to create warmth.

He steps in front of you, blocking your view and reaches down, taking your bare hands in his.

You would normally glower at him, knowing that your cold fingers and frigid palms are a dead giveaway of how chilled you really are and how right he is....but his hands are so large and warm and my god, his hands feel so good that instead you sigh, your shoulders relaxing as you sink into the pleasure of his touch.

“Maybe….” you murmur, “Maybe it is a bit cold.”

He rubs your hands with his, warmth blossoming across your skin where he touches you like small tendrils of sunshine. When you raise your gaze to meet the dark blue of his eyes, the tenderness and affection burning there brings another, different flicker of heat to life inside you.

“You’re doing an excellent job at chasing away the cold.” Your voice is soft, almost playful, twinkling with suggestion as you gently pull your hands away from his and wrap your arms around his waist, tilting your head up. He accepts your embrace willingly, his hands coming to rest on your hips. “Perhaps the second Prince of Rhodolite would like to continue warming up his betrothed inside?”

As you step away from the balcony and back into the velvety shadows of your bedroom, you realize that earlier, you were wrong.

There is something that touches your heart more than a sky full of stars.

It is the slow, soft smile Chevalier answered your question with, the one that you taught him he was capable of, the one that will only ever belong to you.

Taglist: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @tele86

@writingwhimsey @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ozalysss

@ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @whatever-fanfics @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family

@kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @sh0jun @queen-dahlia

@themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly

[violettduchess]

A/N: I know I am late but this is a very belated birthday present for a very special person: @lorei-writes 💜 I'm sorry this took so long but I hope you know what a wonderful friend you are and how grateful I am to have you in my life!

Chevalier x Reader, Only One Bed (the trope that won my poll!)

tw: injury

WC: ~2.5k

The trees whip past you, black blurs with long, spidery branches like fingers that reach for you, the wind carrying their whispers of how much they yearn to touch you, to pluck you from the back of the white horse you’re currently astride, tear you away from the man whose waist your arms are so tightly wrapped around. 

Chevalier says nothing as he guides his horse expertly through the darkening forest, the evening light fading with each thundering heartbeat, each turn of the ground under the horse’s hooves. You hear the distant sound of yelling, of the soldiers who are pursuing you and squeeze your eyes closed, pressing your cheek harder against the softness of his white cloak. You don’t know how much time passes. Your arms begin to tremble with the effort of holding on. Your legs feel as if they are numb as they struggle to keep you atop the churning muscles of the animal beneath you. It’s only when you hear him say your name that you slowly come back to yourself, eyelids fluttering open as you feel his body slowly twisting away from you. 

You’ve stopped.

Darkness has almost completely taken over. Only the palest shafts of dusk filter through the gaps in the trees. Strong hands reach up, pulling you down from the exhausted horse. Despite the heavy pace of the ride, Chevalier’s grip feels solid, a strength you lean into, wishing it would somehow seep from him into you and grant your shaking limbs calm, your burning lungs cool steadiness.

He waits a moment, still as the tree trunks, but you can see the way his eyes roam the gloom, searching. 

A decision is reached.

“Can you stand?” His voice is low, quiet, hushed with alertness.

“Yes,” you manage, surprised at how raw your own throat is, how the words have to be forced out like sandpaper against rough wood.

He releases you and your back curls like a question mark, your hands sliding down to your knees where you hold yourself, focusing on breathing. Your shoulder burns, a lick of fire that feels oddly wet when you reach up to touch it. 

You hear him murmuring to his horse, patting the loyal animal’s neck, speaking in a tone that is both gentle and soothing. Who would have thought the brutal beast capable of such softness? And then, having removed his bedroll and saddlebags from the animal, he reaches back and with a crack across the steed’s rear, sends it rushing away into the yawning darkness with a soft whinny.

What….? The horse is your only way back….how…. why…..

He may not be able to see your face clearly but somehow he can still read your thoughts. “It is familiar with these woods and will find its way back to the palace. We cannot risk having it close by.” 

Suddenly his hand is grabbing yours and he’s moving, pulling you along with him over the uneven forest floor. “Come.”

You trust him to lead you, even if you cannot make out a path. He pushes his way through branches and brambles and bushes and you very quickly lose hope of ever figuring out what direction you are moving in. Just when your legs begin to cry for mercy, he pushes aside several low hanging branches to reveal the destination he has been heading for: The mouth of a small cave underneath an overhang of uneven rocks and scraggy bushes. It is here he takes you, into the maw of darkness.

You’re hit immediately with the strong, dank scent of rock and earth. Chevalier has to duck, the cave not high enough to accommodate his full height. How does he know where he is going? It’s nearly pitch black. You don’t have the energy to voice your concerns or questions. The aftermath of fear and flight has left you compliant, wordlessly trusting this man to lead you somewhere safe.

The mouth of the cave is almost out of sight when he stops, dropping to his knees in the darkness. You hear him lift the flap of the leather saddle bag, rummaging around until he finds what he is looking for. There’s a quiet snapping sound and suddenly the small area is illuminated with soft blue light, a sight so unexpected and beautiful that you gasp.

You’re at the back of the cave, surrounded on all sides by smooth stone. Chevalier is holding what looks like a vial of some kind, filled with glowing blue liquid. You’re so enchanted that you momentarily forget the terror of just an hour or so earlier, of the masked soldiers who ambushed you while on a sunset ride with the prince, the hiss of the arrows they fired at you, the cry of your horse as it stumbled to the ground and the way Chevalier swept you up in one fluid movement, anchoring you behind him even as he carried you away from the violent chaos, deep into the safety of the dark forest.

“What is this?” You touch the glowing tube even as Chevalier pulls out another, bending it until it emits a small cracking sound and more blue light, pale as the underside of the ocean, fills the cave.

“My brother may be a fool but he has his moments.” He sets the glowing vial down, turning to reach for the bedroll.

Clavis. Of course. He’s always working in his room, tinkering, inventing. That he was the one to come up with such a clever invention doesn’t surprise you. As Chevalier lays out the bedroll, you continue to look at the glowing tube. The gentle blue light almost feels like it’s wrapping itself around you, gentle waves guiding your lungs into a steady rhythm, your heart lowering its guard as you feel a sense of cautious safety begin to settle over you. 

“Come here.” You look up to see Chevalier pointing to the bedroll. He’s kneeling beside it, pulling off his dark gloves one finger at a time, a small brown jar on the ground beside him. Before you can ask, annoyance flickers across his face. “You’re injured. This will help keep the wound from becoming infected.”

Injured? Where are you–

“Your shoulder. Now come here.” His words are crisp, edged with impatience. 

You glance down, pushing aside your cloak and are stunned by the darkness that stains the sleeve of your white blouse. 

When did that happen? In the blur of escape you didn’t even notice…..

Carefully you settle yourself in front of Chevalier. In the cool light, he leans close to you, shifting the torn fabric to try and examine the injury. He’s so close you notice just how long his lashes are, how the wild ride through the dusky woods tangled his pale hair. A slender red line mars the perfection of his face, a scratch that cuts a slanted line right beneath his cheekbone.

“It’s no good. I need more access.” He leans back as his eyes, so impossibly blue in the chemical light, flick up to yours. It takes a deep breath to keep you from free falling into those oceanic depths. Forcing a quick nod, you cast modesty aside, grateful for motion as it will keep you busy. Your cloak is tossed aside. One by one, you undo the buttons of your blouse until you can slide the material off your shoulder completely. The cool air of the cave brushes over your newly exposed skin and you shiver. 

“It’s not deep. You should heal without issue.” He uncovers the jar and reaches inside with one finger, scooping up a generous portion of the milky salve. With a practiced hand, he begins applying it over the torn skin of your shoulder. Another shiver runs through you, something bright and restless that has nothing to do with the cold.

Hands that have rained down death and destruction are shockingly gentle as he touches you, spreading the salve evenly across your injury. You watch the passage of his finger across your skin, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Have you ever noticed how beautiful his hands actually are? He glances up and finds you staring at him. Whatever he sees in your eyes seems to unsettle him. He jerks his upper body back, hastily pulling his hand away and reaches back into the saddle bag for a strip of cloth which he ties around your upper arm. His fingers now expertly avoid touching your skin. 

“That should suffice for the night.” He reaches for the jar, about to close it again.

“Wait!” You pull it from his grasp as surprise flashes across his face. Clearing your throat, you gesture with the small clay jar in your hand towards him. “You have a scratch yourself.”

His shoulder lifts in a gesture of indifference. “It’s nothing.”

You shift your body, turning to face him directly. Your blouse is still partially undone and he finds himself noticing the wash of pale blue light across the exposed skin of your shoulder, the way it highlights the line of your collarbone and the intimate divulgence of the skin beneath it. 

“Please, let me.” Your voice carries a note of something tremulous in it, pulling his gaze back to your face, the parting of your lips, the soft supplication in your eyes. He finds himself acquiescing, his powerful upper body leaning ever so slightly towards you. 

“If you must.”

The salve is cool to the touch and you apply a much smaller amount to the tip of your index finger, leaning towards him. Your other hand moves automatically, reaching up to catch his chin in order to hold him steady. He blinks, but otherwise does not move. You press your finger to the thin scratch on his face and slowly, carefully follow the red line. You’ve never been this close to him before. He carries the scent of roses and sweat, even after your hard ride. Your finger comes to the end of the scratch and it is with a surprising reluctance you let your hand drop from his face.

His chest rises with one breath, two. And then he tears his gaze away from the mesmerism of your face, leaning back to close the jar and return it carefully the saddle bag. He glances towards the cave’s entrance, shaking off the moment that still has your heart clenching with emotion.

“We cannot risk leaving now. We’ll stay the night and make our way back by the light of day tomorrow.” He gestures towards the bedroll. “It’s cold. Get in.”

“And what about you?” You don’t even realize you’ve crossed your arms, frowning. 

He shakes his head once. “You’ll freeze before I do.”

“We can share it.” The words are out of your mouth without thinking. And they continue. “It’ll be snug but we can both fit. You need warmth just as much as I do. And you can’t protect me if you’re freezing to death.”

You’ve surprised him. He draws in a breath and then exhales. With every passing minute, as darkness becomes thicker outside the distant mouth of the cave, the temperature is indeed dropping. 

Wordlessly, he leans forward, pulling off his dark, mud-splattered boots. The sight is somehow so intimate, so personal you find yourself watching, both fascinated and flustered. He removes his cape, folding it into a makeshift pillow and then pulls back the corner of the bedroll. It’s made of thick brown leather and lined with the softest looking white fur you’ve ever seen. He slides his long body inside and then jerks his head.

“Come then.”

You kick off your own riding boots close to where your cloak is lying, abandoned on the hard stone floor, and then with the roaring sound of your own heartbeat in your ears, you wiggle your way down into the bedroll beside him.

And immediately you realize you were wrong.

While the bedroll is large, it is not really made for two people. The only way you can remain covered by the top part is to press yourself as close to Chevalier as possible. He grunts as you hook your leg over him, nudging your hip against his. Your arm automatically reaches across his middle as you settle your head on his shoulder. 

Now the bedroll flap closes, enveloping the both of you.

And Chevalier has not moved. He’s barely even breathing. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your face burning as you begin to slowly scoot away. This was too much, too fast. You literally just touched his cheek for the first time ever and now you’re laying across him as if he's a pillow. “Maybe I…I can wrap the cloaks around me and–”

Your words are cut off as he pulls you back to him, his arm holding your body firmly against his. It’s a rough gesture, a jerky movement so unlike his usual feline gracefulness. 

“You’ll stay here.” His voice is low, a soft growling sound that you feel as much as hear with your ear pressed against his chest, the vibration of it slowly winding its way through you. Heat blossoms within your stomach and your veins pulse with the sudden awareness of just how it feels to be held by Chevalier Michel, how every hard plane of his body fits perfectly against your own softness.

You blink as if you have been shocked awake, as if someone has ripped the curtains away from a window full of glaring sunlight. 

Have you always felt this….desire? Has it been hiding itself within the shadows of your heart only to be dramatically exposed by your closeness to him?

Chevalier shifts ever so slightly, pulling you even closer as he tilts his chin down to look at you. Your own face lifts to meet his gaze. Clavis’s soft blue light illuminates the planes of his face, the pale white of his hair. 

He is so breathtakingly beautiful. 

For the second time tonight, you reach up and touch his face with your hand, this time cupping the strong line of his jaw. His lips part as if to speak but nothing comes. Ignoring the spark of pain in your shoulder, you stretch yourself upwards and press a kiss, soft as silk, warm as dawn, to his injured cheek. Beneath you, his chest stills with a breath held.

“Thank you, Chevalier.”

And you sink back down, your eyes closing as you allow yourself the peace of falling asleep, cocooned in the safety of his arms, welcoming the strange, new tide of yearning for him that has astoundingly, readily rolled into your heart and mind.

As for Chevalier himself? 

He holds you through the night, each passing minute you are in his embrace more and more startling because despite the enemies at the gate, despite the cold of the cavern, despite all that has transpired, it has him wishing that dawn will never come and take you from his side.

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @ozalysss @starlitmanor-network

[violettduchess]

A/N: This won the poll and it was such fun to write 💜

Clavis x Reader

Prompt: Kissing While Laughing

WC: ~560

“Where do you think you’re going? It’s about to pour!”

“Ack, Jin! My goodness, you scared me. I wanted to bathe and wash my hair but realized I don’t have any more soap. I was hoping to hurry into town and buy some quickly before it starts raining.”

“Look, the first drops are already falling. C’mon. I’ve got something you can have. Clavis gave it to me a few months ago for my birthday but I’ve never even opened it.”

“Really? Aw, you’re a lifesaver! Thank you so much!"

Half an hour later

“CLAVIS!!!!!”

“I’m here, sweet wife, but I thought you said you wanted a moment’s peace in order to— Oh......Oh my……”

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

“Me? I-my goodness, that certainly is……a look.”

“I borrowed the shampoo you gave Jin for his birthday and now I look like this!!!”

“You did what? Oh….oh....oh dear, my sweet lamb, my darling. W-why would you do that?”

“Clavis, stop giggling! This isn’t funny. LOOK AT MY HAIR!”

“I-It’s a most fetching shade of……what can we call it? Sunset? Marigold?”

“Clavis! IT’S BRIGHT ORANGE!! I look terrible….."

“Oh no, no my sweetheart. Don't sob. Come here, come to me. That’s right. Let your fantastic husband offer you the sweet comfort of his embrace and–ow!”

“WHY WOULD YOU GIVE THIS TO JIN?!”

“Because it's funny! Don’t tell me the notion of that ladies man suddenly having hair the color of an orangutan isn't funny!”

“I LOOK LIKE AN ORANGUTAN?!”

“No, no my dearest one. No, you don’t. Come, let’s sit on the bed. That’s right, here’s a tissue. Come here, my love. Right here, let me hold you close. Ahhhh, isn't that better?”

....Sniffle....

“Now, let’s wipe away those pesky tears from your angelic face. While it certainly is a change….I can assure you, the color will fade in a few days.”

....Sniffle.... “Promise?”

“Yes, my sweet lamb. I made it myself. I know it will. Now.......come here, Mrs. Lelouch, and let me kiss you.”

“I look like a carrot," you whisper sorrowfully, barely able to get the word "carrot" out.

Clavis bursts into soft laughter, cupping your sweet but oh so glum face in his hands, gently wiping away the last stray teardrops.

“You are a most ravishing carrot.” He presses a kiss to the corner of your eye, cradling your cheek in his palm.

“I’m a pumpkin.” But your voice is wavering with the threat of laughter, a shadow of a smile on your lips.

“You are absolutely the most alluring pumpkin that has ever existed.” His mouth is by your ear, his teeth playfully nipping at your earlobe.

“I’m a clownfish.” You can't hold back anymore and your voice breaks with laughter on the word "clownfish."

His laughter intertwines with yours, creating the melody of a happy couple. He nuzzles your damp but still extremely orange hair. “You are the most attractive, beguiling clownfish in the whole sea.”

“Oh, Clavis.” You can’t stop giggling as you shake your head. He leans forward, pressing kiss after kiss to your lips.

“My beautiful sweet potato,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “My exotic tangerine.” With a gentle push you fall back onto the bed and he is above you, a tender hand brushing the bright locks away from your face, his golden eyes aglow with affection.

“My darling, my sweetheart….let me show you how very much I adore you, always and forever, no matter what color your hair may be.”

Taglist 🧡 @bellerose-arcana @alexxavicry @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @queengiuliettafirstlady

@redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey

@mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight

@ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics

@justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating

@portrait-ninja @starlitmanor-network @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381

@whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly

[violettduchess]

A/N: I literally posted today that I don't have a lot of time but I did manage to finish this!

Matthias x Reader, kiss fic

WC: 500

He’s standing on the balcony, his palms resting flat against the mottled gray stone which you know from your time in Achroite must be cold to the touch. Out here, on the easternmost side of the castle, the night winds blow a little wilder as they dance in the dark along the ramparts and climb the imposing towers. They play and shriek and whistle, carrying the frigid echoes of the snow-capped mountains they have previously caressed. Matthias’s placid gaze is turned towards those mountains, but there is something paradoxically soft in the lines of his handsome face, something that counters the starkness of the jagged stone and cliffs. He looks at them and at the star-filled sky and he feels peace.

He is at home.

You break the silence by saying his name and he turns towards the sound. 

Light illuminates the gray clouds of his eyes, turning them silver, and he holds open his arms in silent invitation.

As if you would ever decline.

He pulls you against him, wrapping one arm around your waist. He is warmth in the cool night. He is your beacon in the shadows. You begin to snuggle into his embrace. His other hand catches your chin before you can tuck it away and holds you still as he leans down. Your heart never fails to flutter when he draws so close, a tiny snowstorm of emotion that shoots through your veins in whorls of yearning and love. You press yourself even closer, hungry for him and the heat of his kiss.

Matthias appreciates truth and so you play no games. You do not hide how much you want him. Your kisses are eager, your hands roam across soft fur, thick wool, enticing skin. All the fire in your veins, stoked by the swift beating of your enamored heart, is palpable. 

He can’t help but give in. 

To the outside world he is as solid and immovable as his beloved mountains. A paragon of conviction and strength. But in your arms, he crumbles. He melts. He yields to the unwavering heat of your desire, bends to the will of your lips and tongue. Your hand slides up into the soft, pale mass of his hair, thrilling in the way it slides between your fingers like spun sunlight. You tighten your grip.

He does not growl or groan. The sound that rumbles through his chest is closer to the tremulant purr of a large feline, a satisfied roll of thunder that you can feel in the press of his hips against yours, the possessive grasp of his hand on the indentation of your waist.

The Lawman, the Defender of Justice, is a step away from falling off the cliff of reason. Logic and rational thought dissipate like morning fog in the face of your molten need for one another.

Matthias suddenly lifts you into his arms as if you are light as a snowy owl’s feather.

The sky and its multitude of stars, the dark mountains and their icy summits, are left behind.

His world has narrowed down to one singular, pulsing, fundamental need:

You.

Taglist: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage

@tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia

@wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary

@namine-somebodies-nobody @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family

@kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @starlitmanor-network @sh0jun

@bubblexly

[violettduchess]

A/N: I am so happy to be able to share my gift for the lovely @ikeromantic 💜 A deep dive into your blog told me you love AUs as much as I do so I was so happy to create one for our favorite Lelouchian.

Thank you to @ikemenlibrary and @sunnyikemen for hosting and for being supportive, accommodating and all-around superstars. 💜

Clavis x Emma

Magic AU, Soulmates AU, First Kiss, Enemies to Lovers

WC: ~2k

The sun is glowing a bright lemon-yellow as Emma closes the wooden door to her shop. It’s a beautiful door, made of dark walnut and decorated with silvery moons and stars. Across the top, the words “Belle Magie” are etched into the hard wood. At night, the lettering glows a soft gold. Humming to herself, she wraps her free hand around the ornate brass doorknob and a subtle, warm orange glow emanates from her fingertips. The moons and stars flash once and she hears a satisfying, soft whoosh of magic. The door to her shop is now locked via enchantment and no one except Emma will be able to enter and poke around at all the treasures that line her shelves and counters.

Smoothing down her ochre and black robes, she carefully makes her way across the cobblestone street to the shop that is literally across from hers. Her nose wrinkles at the sign that hangs above the wooden door: “Lelouchian Enchantments” written in swirling, silver lettering that she would say is barely legible. His note, written in the same dizzying writing, is clutched tightly in her hand as she pushes open the lavender-colored door with a celestial design nearly identical to her own. But that is where the similarity ends.

Whereas Emma’s shop is neat, organized by ingredients, everything with its own place and labeled in her own very careful handwriting, his is a gigantic explosion of almost anything one can imagine. Bottles filled with liquids of all colors and bottles with questionable things floating in them, dried herbs and seeds in pots and packets, a whole section of plants that bite anyone who comes near them, not to mention odd gemstones, vibrant powders, paints and feathers. She ducks underneath the silver vines that have wrapped themselves around the wooden ceiling beams, ignoring the way they contract and rustle their leaves at her, and approaches the counter where she finds Clavis himself, carefully sorting what looks like glittery kidney beans.

“I got your missive. I believe it broke in through my window in order to deliver itself.”

At the sound of her voice, he turns, golden eyes gleaming like copper in sunlight. He wipes his hands on the folds of his pale lavender robes, grinning slowly. She is forced to admit to herself for the millionth time that Clavis is hardly unpleasant to look at, per say. But oh, how he irks her, with his smooth words, flamboyant personality and flashy enchantments. 

“Oh dearie me, when I said it was urgent, I suppose that gave it permission to cause destruction. I apologize.”

She bats away several tiny golden motes that have taken an interest in her chestnut hair and Clavis lifts his hand, wiggling his fingers in invitation. The golden pinpricks of light float towards him, circling his wrist and then solidify into a gold bracelet.

Refusing to be distracted by his tricks, she unscrolls his letter and lays it on the counter.

“Well? Where is it?”

“So impatient,” he tuts as he kneels down, lifting an ornate silver box from under the counter. It’s about the size of his hand and she can’t help but watch the way he trails his fingertips over the decorative embellishments. He has such elegant hands.

One brow arches slowly as she crosses her arms, shoving that thought away and burying it in annoyance.. “Well…..are you going to open it….?”

He sighs theatrically. “Some people have no sense of showmanship.”

Her lips quirk into a small, involuntary grin. “I’m not one of the poor suckers who come in here for your tricks and potions, Lelouch. Now open the box.”

He tilts his head, clearly enjoying how much she is trying to hide her curiosity. His hand rests on the lid of the box but doesn’t move.

“Don’t you want to know the story of how I acquired such a treasure? Why, it’s a tale of mighty heroics the likes of-”

“No. No, I do not.”

He pretends to be offended but the light in his eyes gives away the truth. 

“But it involves a goblin merchant from Benitoite and a heartsick wizard from the Jade Forest and-”

“And a dragon and a sea witch and a bloody one-eyed pegasus. Clavis, just open the box!” 

He laughs and it is the needle deflating the balloon of irritation that had overtaken her. She’s never met anyone with a laugh quite like his. It’s almost musical, but in the way of the inviting, simple melody of a children’s song. Something that stays with her, imprinting itself on her mind.

“Such an impatient pumpkin.”

“Don’t call me pumpkin.” The response is automatic, a reflex built over the long while she has known him. The first time Clavis had seen her do magic and seen the yellow-orange glow her magic emanates, he had bestowed her with that aggravating nickname.

Nimble fingers curl over the lid of the box and then he lifts it, revealing a round, milky-white stone nestled into a bed of black velvet. It reminds her immediately of the moon against a starless night sky.

She tilts her head quizzically. “This is the all-power Amor Lapis?” She had imagined something called the “Love Stone” being far more ostentatious, something pink or red and wild with sparkles. Something that would take her breath away. This stone, while pretty in its own way, looks rather ordinary.

“Such a skeptic.” He lifts the stone from its box, holding it in the palm of his hand. “It will only glow when two soulmates have found each other.” He lifts his gaze to her, his smile playful. “Know any perfect couples?”

She rolls her eyes, reaching out to touch the stone. “There’s no such thing as a perfect-” Her fingers brush Clavis’s palm and suddenly, the middle of the white stone begins to brighten, a soft glow radiating out from the center.

She jerks her hand away even as he nearly drops it. Her heart roars to life, knocking wildly around inside her chest.

Neither of them move and then, at the same time they both do, Clavis uncharacteristically fumbling to put the stone back in its box and she taking several steps back, one hand curling into the velvet folds of her cloak.

“It’s broken! It’s clearly defective!” Why does her voice sound just a bit shrill to her ears?

He clears his throat. She’s rarely seen him so rattled.

“It….oh dear…..maybe it is.” He frowns, staring down at the stone, at the dull, cream color of it, no glow to be seen. Then he draws in a breath, one that even she can hear shaking and looks at her. There is something unfamiliar in the depths of his sunrise eyes.

“We should try that again.”

“Try what again, exactly?”

“Touching.”

She should be balking at the very suggestion. 

She should already be halfway out of his crazy shop. 

She shouldn’t be stepping closer again, her gaze jumping from the stone back to him and then back again. 

And she really really should not be saying-

“Alright. To-to prove its deficiency.”

The smooth, dark counter is a barrier between them, one that feels like armor, something that will protect her although what she needs protecting from is uncertain, some nebulous thing forming on the edges of her consciousness, some unknown dream rising from the shadows of slumber.

Clavis then holds out his hand, palm up, his gaze meeting hers. Her heartbeat drums wildly through her veins, a rhythm she has never known before. Slowly she lifts her hand and places it in his. His skin is cool and smooth, soft in a way she would not have expected. Emma can feel his magic just here, flowing through him. It feels shockingly calm, not the wild chaos she thought it might be but soothing, like the scent of lavender, the soft pastels of the sky at sundown. She can feel her own magic responding, warming as it flows through her.

Beneath their joined hands, the Amor Lapis begins glowing again, a soft white light like a tiny flame igniting inside the stone. Her heartbeat roaring in her ears, she slowly withdraws her hand from his and watches as the glow dims and then, when they are no longer touching, winks off like a tiny candle snuffed out by a breeze. When Emma has gathered enough courage, she raises her gaze from the milky-colored stone to Clavis and her heart trips over its own beat. His eyes rival the glow of the stone, something new burning in their golden depths. The light of revelation. The light of truth. The light of desire.

When he finally speaks, his voice sounds soft, breathy in a way that causes Emma to bite the inside of her lip at the sound.

“Dearie me,” he murmurs, his gaze locked with hers, bright with an intensity that feels almost physical. “If that happens when we touch hands, imagine what might happen if we actually kiss.”

The word lingers between them, shimmering in the air like desert heat over sand dunes. Emma unconsciously licks her lips and Clavis’s gaze drops there, fast as quicksilver. His own lips part slightly as he stares at the full curve of her lower lip, the sweet bow of the top. His own voice, his own words, echo like thunder between them. 

….if we actually…..

….kiss….

Emma hasn't moved, hasn’t said a word, her soft eyes wide as a deer’s startled by a sudden, unexpected sound. And then he realizes what he said, what he has actually suggested and shame floods him, a tsunami of embarrassment that washes away the glimmer of hope, the clouds of desire that had overtaken him. 

What the hell was he thinking, talking like that? As if someone like her, someone so intelligent and kind and talented, someone beautiful inside and out, would ever be soulmates with someone like him. Forget soulmates, she doesn’t even like him. 

He hangs in head, soft twilight locks falling across his forehead, his knuckles white as he grips the counter with trembling hands. Stupid. Idiot. Never good enough. Never smart enough. Never ever would he be enough for someone else.

“Nevermind, I lost myself for a moment.” The words are acrid on his tongue and he feels the hot wash of color staining his cheeks and neck. “Obviously, there’s no way–”

Her hands are suddenly gripping those warm cheeks, pulling him towards her, forcing him to lean over the counter, above the stone, where she presses her lips to his. The Amor Lapis explodes with radiance, a tiny supernova encased by smooth stone. Even with closed eyes, Emma notices the brightening of the light but right now, she does not care. Because right now, she is holding Clavis’s face in her hands, and she is falling falling falling into kissing him.

At first he freezes, shock turning his blood to ice water in his veins. But then he realizes her mouth is really there, pressed against his, and then the burst of light automatically closes his eyes and the shock begins to thaw.

Now all he feels is the warmth of her kiss, the tentative movement of her lips and he gasps, reaching across the counter to touch her. Cradling each other’s face, they kiss, at first slowly, drinking in the fragile newness of the sensation, the unveiling of the truth that has been growing in both their hearts, quietly. Steadily. And then novelty slowly turns to pleasure, to desire. He grows bolder, sliding a hand down to the nape of her neck, holding her there so he can part her lips and sink into the sweet taste of her. If this is a dream, may he never wake up.

Emma sighs against him, a sound that echoes the twinkling of diamond-bright stars in a black velvet sky. All this time….all this time she’s been falling in love and never even realized it.

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Neither of them can say when they finally pull away from one another. Breathless, light-headed, floating, they both glance down at the Amor Lapis. The stone is luminous, glowing like a tiny moon dropped from the heavens. 

And it will continue to give off its beautiful light, for the rest of their days.

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

[violettduchess]

A/N: This is my gift for @readerinsertfanfiction 💜 The moment I saw Cyran on your list, I was thrilled. I hope you enjoy!

A huge thank you to @ikemenlibrary for her support and friendship and for being a generous, caring host 💜

Prompt: A servant, someone who knew Cyran from before his time in Rhodolite

Cyran x AU Emma

WC: ~4k

Obsidian: the Past

She runs across the cracked, sunbaked cobblestone streets, her treasure wrapped in a cream-colored tea towel and held protectively against her chest. Her worn leather shoes make a pleasing thunking sound against the stones as she hurries past dusty shop windows and faded porches, carefully dodging people on the street.

“Langsam, Emma!” someone yells as she flies past but she doesn’t listen to their warning. She can’t slow down. She has somewhere to be.

Finally she reaches the edge of town and takes a sharp left, leaving the cobblestones behind for a ribbon of dirt road that winds its way along tired hills covered with sparse sage-green grass and dotted with scraggly yellow dandelions. Another turn onto an even smaller path, a faint thing that meanders through the knee-high growth and then, finally, the faded barn comes into view. 

She smiles, pumping her young legs harder, willing them to swallow the distance faster and faster until she reaches the peeling, splintered wooden doors and haphazardly flings one open.

“Cyran? I’m here!!”

The boy, just shy of fourteen, turns away from the wooden beam he has been faux-sparring with, lowering the dull, well-worn practice sword he is so proud of. His hair gleams like fire in the hazy sunlight that shines through the pocked roof. 

Emma hurries over, gulping down huge breaths of musty air as she grabs his thin forearm.

“C’mon. I’m dying to see how they taste.”

Cyran laughs, struggling to sheath his sword as she drags him over to the blanket thrown over the hay in a cozy corner of the barn. This is their favorite place to meet, an escape from the outside world they discovered several years ago while exploring. It is here that Emma sometimes reads to him from one of her treasured books. She’s even shared stories she’s written, romantic tales of princesses and dragons, knights and monsters. Cyran is always the hero, the knight who slays the monsters and rescues the damsel in distress. Emma will change her roles in the stories. 

Sometimes she needs rescuing. 

But sometimes, she is the dragon.

Often they sneak treats to each other, hard biscuits or smoked meat or, if they are really lucky, sweet berries brought across the border from the lush neighboring country of Rhodolite. Cyran’s neighbor is a servant for some of the merchants that make the risky trips over and when he’s lucky, she manages to tuck away a few treasures just for him.

He settles himself down on the frayed checkered blanket and pushes his bright hair away from his forehead, eagerly watching as Emma drops down next to him, laying the tea towel down. Her face is flushed from her run and from the thrill of what she’s managed to bring him.

“Ready?”

He nods, enthusiastically motioning for her to unwrap it already. He has hands that are too big for his young body, growing the way many boys do at this age, in odd fits and spurts. 

Emma leans forward, pushing up the sleeve of her too-big dress and carefully pulls back the edges of the tea towel.

The smell hits them first, the warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of the cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger. It wafts up towards them, exotic and tempting. Cyran breathes in deeply and then sighs happily as he looks at her, eyes bright and admiring.

“It smells so good.”

Cyran had carefully been saving up the exotic store of spices, some of them gifts from his neighbors, others decadent purchases made at the market from his meager earnings made mucking stalls and chopping wood. He knew that Emma would be the one who would create something special with them. Young as she was, she was a talented cook and baker, able to make the most fantastic treats out of the simplest ingredients. And now that she had been given such a treasure trove to work with, she had spun pure magic.

The spiced biscuits are dappled dark brown and gold. When she hands him one, it is with a reverence that echos a priest giving communion or a child receiving a shiny new toy at Christmas.

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Together.”

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes.

“Together.”

They bite into the cookies at the same time. Emma breaks into a proud smile as Cyran closes his eyes, savoring the medley of flavor and even better, the knowledge that she made them just for him.

“It’s good, isn’t it?" she asks, grinning. She sees the look on his face, the way he is practically melting with enjoyment.

He lifts his shoulder in a casual shrug, feigning indifference.

“I guess……”

“What?!”

He takes another bite, leaning back on one hand. “I mean, they’re ok. But you know, Hilde’s biscuits are also really good–OOF.”

She’s tackled him, throwing herself at him with all the force of a frenzied feline, her nimble fingers scratching at his sides. Cyran breaks into laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to squirm away from her.

“Ok ok Brown Eyes, enough!”

Emma lets him go, sitting back on her heels with a glowing, triumphant smile.

“Never say that about Hilde’s cookies again.”

He pushes himself up, heart pounding furiously in his chest. Only some of it is from laughing. He tears his gaze away from the unsettling beauty of her eyes, traveling up to her hair.

“You’re a mess. You got straw in your hair and your braid is a disaster.”

Emma turns and scoots until she is sitting in front of him. “Since it’s your fault….you fix it.”

Cyran heaves a sigh he doesn’t mean and then settles himself into a comfortable position, reaching forward and with a tenderness and care far beyond most boys his age, begins slowly picking the straw from her messy plait.

Emma’s eyes drift closed as she revels in the attention he’s giving her, the gentle way he untangles her braid and then very slowly begins brushing his fingers through her soft, chestnut-colored hair.

It feels comforting and safe.

It feels thrilling.

It feels like the early evening has come to a standstill and they have all the time in the world.

But their time together is like a rose slowly losing its petals.

A petal falls as he tells her, wide-eyed and shaken, that his neighbor has been killed in her own home, throat opened in the dead of night and left smiling its ghastly red smile until she was discovered hours later. Emma rubs his back, not knowing what else to do. This is not the first death in their village as of late. And it will not be the last.

A petal falls as they lay, side by side, on the blanket in the hay, staring up at the patches of starry sky visible through the holes in the roof. “My parents are scared,” she whispers. He turns his head to stare at her profile and knows it isn’t just her parents who are frightened. “I’ll protect you,” he whispers, voice fierce with youth’s naïve promise. Her gaze remains on the silver stars but she reaches out, taking his hand and squeezes it.

A petal falls as she comes to their favorite spot, face pale as bone, to tell him that her family is leaving. Her father has contacted distant relatives that live far to the north, as far from Rhodolite and the dangers it poses as one can get. Cyran feels like his young heart may break right there in his chest and he will be forced to live the rest of his life with its pieces rattling around inside of him. Though filled with dismay, Emma’s eyes are as beautiful as ever. They shine with tears, rivaling any star they have ever spent time gazing at.

A petal falls as she rushes through the dark, on the night before her family is to leave, her throat burning with feelings she can’t quite name, waves too strong to try and understand for fear they will sweep her away. She bursts through the barn doors and finds him already there, his hair dark as garnet, damp with sweat. He has spent the entire day doing heavy labor, removing heavy wooden beams, hauling ancient and broken equipment, sweeping the dusty, straw-strewn floor. Several lanterns placed around the interior bathe the space in warm, yellow light. The barn is as clean and inviting as he can make it. He wanted to give her one more memory, something beautiful, that she can take with her on her journey away from here. Away from him.

Emma is frozen in place, soaking in all he has done, before finally stopping on the young man at the center of it. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Already his shoulders carry the hint of what manhood will bring him: strength and breadth. Arms that with training will turn hard and sculpted, legs that will lengthen until he is taller than most. He is the faint beginning of what he will become. Emma wonders wildly if she will ever get the chance to see the finished masterpiece.

“Emma,” he says, his voice raw and rough, deeper than she has ever heard it.

She sets down the bundle she is holding, the one she carried so close on the way here, leaving it on top of a weathered wooden barrel.

“Cyran,” she answers, her muscles tense, like a fawn when it hears a crunching in the underbrush.

He starts forward, one hesitant step and that is enough. She flies towards him, throwing her thin arms around his neck and buries her face in his worn linen shirt, clutching him to her. There is power in her small frame, something fierce and bright, a hurricane in crystal. Cyran holds her close, his eyes closing as he breathes in her familiar scent. He’s been teased his whole life because of his last name, but she is the one who reminds him of a rose, who always smells so sweet.

The anticipation of loss that has them clinging to each other slowly ebbs and something else, something that has been burning low and quiet in every laugh, every touch, every glance begins to emerge. She is suddenly aware of the press of her chest against his, of how much taller he is, the earthy smell of his skin. She leans back to look at him and sees the same awareness mirrored in his dark eyes.

Outside a rooster crows, loud and discordant.

Cyran turns his head toward the sound and Emma, sparked by the frantic knowledge that she must leave, grabs his chin, pulling him back to her and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips to his.

It is a sunbeam bursting through gray clouds. A spark breathing life into a pile of dried leaves. It is hope and promise and wonder.

And heartbreak.

With a stifled cry, she steps away, turns and flees the barn, not wanting to see the look on his face as she leaves, not wanting that to be her last memory of him.

Cyran watches with a thundering heart as the door swings shut. Flooded with helplessness and misery, he notices the bundle she left behind. Tenderly he lifts it, undoing the sky-colored ribbon. It’s her favorite handkerchief, white with pale blue forget-me-nots painstakingly embroidered along the edges, and nestled inside are several of her spiced biscuits. His favorites.

Rhodolite: The Present

Rhodolite is so much MORE than she expected. The streets are wider and cleaner and lined with greenery, more trees and flowering bushes and grass than in the entire garden of the palace in Obsidian. There are more people than she expected too, many standing under awnings and lampposts, peeking through windows and around doorways, watchful eyes in beautiful faces following the royal procession as it makes its way towards the palace. 

When she had been told by the Head Chef that they would be accompanying Prince Gilbert and his entourage to Rhodolite, Emma had felt a familiar ringing through the cockles of her heart. Rhodolite is where Cyran was rumored to have ended up. Whispers from the south had traveled her way, over the many years since they parted. He had joined the army when he was of age. He had left Obsidian for the verdure of Rhodolite. He was employed by one of the Princes there. Crumbs of information she had managed to gather, hoarding them tightly like precious drops of mana. 

He may not even be here, she reminds herself as her tired gray mare plods along down the street. She and the other servants are at the end of the procession and most of the people have turned away, not interested in anything but the dangerous Prince Gilbert with his sharp smile and blood-red gaze. 

Still, Emma finds herself scanning the crowds as they pass, looking for any head of red hair. She spots a few but they are never him.

As the overwhelming elegant palace suddenly rises towards the heavens before her, she draws in a sharp breath. 

We’re here…….

…….Is he?

The palace looms closer, a breathtaking monument of pale beauty.

And if so….how in the wide world will she ever find him?

Cyran runs a hand through his thick mass of russet hair as his long strides make quick work of the pathway towards the training hall. It’s late evening and the young, freshly-minted knights are at the end of their training and he needs to make sure everything went well without him there. He knows Lucian is more than capable of leading them through their drills but Cyran has a responsibility to make sure. They are all under his charge.

Entering the hall, he sees several of the knights laughing in a corner. Some are sitting and catching their breath, others are pushing the heavy sandbags they sometimes train with back into their storage room. What he sees reassures him. They look tired and sore, yet satisfied, faces bright with the feeling of accomplishment a tough training session will leave behind.

He’s about to go look for Lucian, expecting a full report when he notices several of the knights standing by the wooden table at the far end of the training circle, the one usually covered with straps for shields and rope and other odds and ends. They’re smiling, far too widely to be discussing anything so mundane as weaponry. Several are chewing. He approaches the table, greeted by his men with smiles and respectful nods. Immediately he notices the tin: it’s round and black, covered with decorative golden swirls. 

“What’s this?” He glances towards the first knight at his left, a tall lad with sandy blond hair.

“They were brought here by an Obsidian servant. She said they were a present for us.”

Cyran frowns, a skeptical look on his face as he reaches inside the tin for one of the golden brown cookies.

“And you didn’t think to–” He was going to ask if they thought accepting gifts from strangers was a good idea when the scent hits him, cutting through the sweat and musk of tired men.

The warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger.

He goes still, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Could it be…..

Something in his face hushes the men around him. They watch, curious as Cyran lifts the cookie and takes a bite. 

The man who sees everything, ever watchful, closes his eyes as he chews and the knights are transfixed by the absolute stillness that has overtaken their leader.

And then those eyes open and something in them has begun to burn, bright and alive.

The other half of the cookie falls to the dusty ground as he turns on his heel and, practically jogging, exits the training area, leaving behind the half-eaten biscuit and a slew of surprised faces.

The rose gardens are somehow even more beautiful in the twilight of evening. The red petals seem to have darkened, shedding their bright rose-red for a sultry scarlet. Shadows emerge from the trimmed hedges, stretching across the winding stone pathways, giving a visitor like Emma glimpses of hidden benches and secret dirt paths leading into clandestine corners of the gardens.

She has taken several of these more narrow, less-trodden paths, not at all afraid of getting lost. Her heart is a bird, flitting between dark branches, full of a nervous, tightly-wound energy she can’t quite explain. 

As the sky darkens to a deep navy blue and the first stars open their eyes, Emma pauses in front of a gray stone fountain. Two swans, nuzzling their beaks together, bodies curved towards one another as a blossoming flower rises above them, water spraying outward in celebration. She tilts her head, the romantic in her sighing at the way the two swans perfectly mirror one another, two halves of a whole, two souls in perfect harmony. So enchanted is she by the fountain that she doesn’t hear the footfall on the path, doesn’t notice the man who has stopped several meters away from where she is standing, the sight of her freezing him in his tracks.

“Emma.”

She jumps at the deep voice, her eyes wide and dark as she turns towards the sound. The owner of said voice is standing, half in shadow, at the place where the small path to the fountain begins, beneath a shadowy arch of crimson roses. She is so startled, she doesn’t even register that he has said her name.

“Oh….s'il te plaît, excuse-moi,” she says quickly, doing her best to remember the phrases of the common language spoken in Rhodolite. “J'espère que ça va…” She trails off, trying to remember how to say she hopes she is allowed to be here but the man takes another step closer, leaving the blanket of shadows and stepping into the fading light.

Even the dusky hue of evening cannot hide the red of his hair.

A gasp as soft as the flutter of a bird’s wing escapes her. The young boy she knew juxtaposed against this tall, broad man before her sends her heart into a tailspin. Her hand flies to her mouth as she takes him in. She sees the same bright light of recognition and admiration and overwhelming emotion plain as day on his beautiful face.

“Cyran?” The word is a whisper, a breathless repetition of the name she has kept in her prayers for decades.

His eyes never leave her, almost as if he has the power to hold her there with his gaze, to keep her from vanishing into the realm of his dreams where she has lived for so long. Slowly, he reaches up and loosens the laces at the top of his tunic. His hand slides inside and when it emerges, he is holding a small square of cloth. As he slowly opens it, her heart falters.

It’s white, with pale blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the edges.

He holds it out to her, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes. That handkerchief has lived next to his heart, in an inner pocket, one he has sewn into every shirt he has ever owned since the day he watched her leave.

“I think…..this belongs to you, Brown Eyes.”

She chokes back a sob, unable to contain the thunderstorm of emotion coursing through her and runs to him, falling into his arms as naturally as a willow bends to the wind, tears falling freely down her cheeks. Cyran wraps his arms around her, sheltering her, holding her the way he has imagined a thousand times. His throat burns with all the words he has ached to say, all those sleepless nights spent remembering the lilt of her smile, the music of her laughter, the bittersweet taste of her kiss.

Emma squeezes her eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him, at once so familiar and yet so strange. Her arms wind around his waist as she presses herself against him, drinking in the sensation of his body on hers. 

This is Cyran….her Cyran…..her….

A thought pierces her heart as she suddenly steps away from him, eyes wide, still so beautiful as they glimmer with the remnants of her tears.

“Oh…I…I didn’t mean…..you could be married. I shouldn’t have-”

His laughter is coarse, rough with emotion, a roll of rushing water as it careens over the lip of a cliff.

“As if I could ever love anyone else.”

Love…..

As if summoned by the very word, the moon itself parts the soft gray clouds, flooding the small section of the garden with silvery light. The tinkling of the fountain fills the momentary silence. 

Cyran’s cheeks suddenly flush, a hot mixture of embarrassment and panic overriding the elation of the previous moment.

“I…..I don’t mean to presume of course that you feel the same. It has been a long time and…..” He trails off, wincing. Fluster is such an uncharacteristic state of being for Cyran. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I–” 

His words are cut off as Emma launches herself back into his arms, hugging him fiercely.

“Please, don’t apologize.” She tilts her head up to look at him, still in awe of how she sees the young man he was and the handsome man he has become in his beautiful eyes, in his exquisite face. “It has always been you.”

Cyran drags air into his lungs, hardly able to believe he isn’t dreaming. His rough fingers capture her chin, his thumb running over the sensitive skin just under her lower lip. 

Slowly, he leans down as she stretches upwards, eager and nearly trembling with emotion. 

He kisses her, his hand still cupping her face. Gently his mouth moves over hers as he tells her a wordless story of longing, of a bruised heart that learned to somehow keep beating. 

He kisses her, a strong arm pulling her closer, his lips and tongue weaving the tale of a young soldier who never forgot the girl with the tender heart and radiant spirit. The soldier who dreamed of her face during his darkest nights and longed for her laughter on days of sunshine.

She meets him, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke, sliding her palms along his broad shoulders, clutching him as she answers his tale, confessing without words how he has never left her heart. How his smile was her light in times of worry and despair. How seeing him again has been her northern star from the moment of parting.

Only the moon knows how long they stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s yearning.

When they finally part, Cyran rests his forehead against hers, still keeping her tightly in his embrace. He may never let go again.

“You’re….in the employ of Prince Gilbert. I am here.” He frowns ever so slightly as he brushes several loose strands of hair away from Emma’s charmingly flushed cheek. “This could get complicated.”

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Yes…..but we’ll figure it out.”

And suddenly he is carried back in time to an evening when her eyes shone just as brightly, just as excitedly, a young girl with something to give a young boy, a homemade cookie, an offering of love.

“Together.” 

Her voice echoes across the years, that word wrapping itself around his battered heart, a balm, a blessing.

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes, tenderly stroking the silk of her hair, and answers her now as he did back then. 

“Together.”

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @wordycheeseblob

[violettduchess]

A/N: This is an official entry for the @flash-exchange In a Flash Creation Challenge. A huge thank you to @lorei-writes for all her help with organizing this so that I can post the whole thing at once.

Ikemen Prince OCs and their Suitors. Thank you to everyone who shared their OCs with me and trusted me to write them. It really is an honor! 💜

WC: 3.3 k

Esther x Chevalier (@lorei-writes) Bright fingers of sunlight try to push their way through the hazy white curtains, but even their insistent prodding isn’t enough to wake Chevalier. Esther, propped up on one elbow, takes a moment to study him, sunlight washing across his features, brightening the pale blond of his hair, gilding his long eyelashes, caressing the sharp line of his cheekbone. She smiles, allowing her fingertips to brush the soft, fair strands away from his forehead before leaning down, her own hair falling in curls over her shoulder like a curtain of ringed sunshine. “It’s morning, Chevka.” Her voice is brimming with affection, rounded with love. He grunts, the only sign of life aside from his steady breathing. Warmth blossoms in her heart and Esther knows what she must do. Cupping his face in her hand, she lowers her head until her lips touch his. She lingers there, reveling in the feel of his mouth, the scent of him, remaining still as a marbled statue until she feels him respond: there’s the curve of his smile against her lips and the sudden, secure wrap of his arms around her. In a voice thick with sleep and purring with tenderness, he kisses her back through the following words: “Good morning, my Ragdoll.”

Imogen x Nokto (@yarnnerdally) Nokto watches from the bed as Imogen rubs a towel through her damp chestnut hair, expressive green eyes narrowed in concentration. She catches sight of him in the mirror and turns, hand on her hip. “Something funny?” Slowly and shamelessly he sits up, allowing the bedsheets to slide down his lean torso and gather enticingly around his hips. “You….being so annoyed at having to bathe.” Imogen shakes her head, huffing out a breath. “You try getting all that chocolate out of your hair!” He grins slowly. “When I suggested we use chocolate, I believe your response was something like ‘Show me what you mean’ in a very seductive voice.” She rolls her eyes and his heart echoes the motion, flipping about in his chest as if he were some lovestruck youth. So what, he thinks. So what if he is? With a flourish he throws the bedsheets back and stalks towards her, relishing the way her expression goes from startled to heated in a matter of seconds. Nokto slides his arms around her, pulling her against his naked body, and dips his head so his lips brush the shell of her ear. “How about we take a bath together?” He kisses the sensitive spot just below his whispers and Imogen’s breath catches in her throat. “But…I’m already clean,” she murmurs, towel slipping from her hand to the floor. She feels his huff of laughter against her neck, the sharp nip of his teeth before he kisses the pink skin. “Then I will just have to dirty you again.” The words are throaty, a soft growl. She sighs happily, her body already saying yes as it yields itself to his kisses and his touch.

Melinda x Chevalier (@dododrawsstuff)  “I have something to show you.” With these words, Chevalier reaches for Melinda’s hand, threading his fingers through hers tightly, and leads her through the winding halls of the palace and into one of the salons. “What...?” she murmurs as he drops her hand a bit quickly, a bit awkwardly. She watches, perplexed, as he makes his way to the elegant white piano and lowers himself onto the bench. There is no sheet music in front of him. What is he.....and then he places his hands on the ivory keys and begins to play. At first she is simply captivated by the movement of his beautiful hands, the dexterity of his elegant fingers, but then the melody breaks through and she gasps. It is a song from her home country, one she sings to herself when she feels the lonely pangs of homesickness echo through the corridors of her heart. It is a song made famous by a woman who sang from the very depths of her vibrant soul, whose voice not only comes from Brazil, but IS Brazil. Melinda’s vision blurs as she makes her way over to the piano. She never knew he was listening, let alone that he was mentally recording every note she sang. His hands still as the chords fade and he turns towards her. “I had to infer certain musical elements but I believe this was an adequate—” He stops speaking as Melinda leans down, capturing his face in her hands and kisses him, words unable to convey the gratitude and love for this man who sensed her sadness and tried to bring a piece of her home to her. He relaxes under her touch, eyes only opening when she pulls back to rest her forehead against his. “Obrigado meu querido.” Thank you, my love.

Beatrice x Yves (@bicayaya) The kitchen is filled with the smell of cinnamon and sugar. Humming to herself, Beatrice carefully uses the flat end of her knife to spread the thick, pink cream across each of the cookies that have cooled enough for decoration. She leans down, concentrating as she makes sure the spread is even, each cookie matching the one before. She doesn’t notice that Yves has returned from the small garden just outside the kitchen, nor does she notice the way he’s paused, simply watching her with sunny affection dancing in the bright blue skies of his eyes. “There,” she says, straightening up again, staring down at the sea of pink frosted cookies proudly. Glancing over her shoulder, she spots him and smiles. “Don’t they look wonderful?” He pushes off the doorway he’s been leaning against, his smile curving into a grin. “They do, little bee, but….” He stops in front of her and with a small laugh, touches the tip of her nose, his finger coming away pink. “It looks like you decorated yourself.” Beatrice gasps softly, touching her nose and then starts laughing when her fingertip is also pink. “I guess I got too close!” Yves sets down his small basket of edible flowers, reaching for a clean dish towel. Gently, he cleans her nose and then leans forward, giving it a light kiss. He starts to straighten up but she catches the back of his neck. “Ah ah….not when I have you so close.” He melts into her touch, sighing happily as he slides his arms around her and meets her lips for a kiss sweeter than all the cookies in Rhodolite.

Viva x Leon (@lorei-writes) Being king means many responsibilities and one of them is dealing with ambassadors. Most are skilled at what they do and therefore polite, but every now and then, one comes along who believes that rudeness may prove more advantageous than civility. Leon watches one such man walk away and sighs heavily into his champagne glass, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. The man was arrogant, condescending and above all, an idiot. At least Viva didn’t hear some of the insulting things he had said– “How dare he speak to you like that!” He winces inwardly, turning to see his beautiful wife puffed up with indignation. Her eyes are narrowed, her shoulders squared and she’s about to chase down the man and possibly cause an international incident. Leon quickly sets down his glass and catches her hands mid-raise, turning her away from the gathering so that she can only focus on him. “Viva, my love.” He smiles, tenderness welling up inside him at the sight of the indignant fire blazing her eyes. “That boar of a man–” she rumbles, ready to let loose a storm. Leon gently tugs her towards him and places a calming kiss on her lips. “Forget him, my beautiful, valiant rooster.” Her attention snaps to her husband at that and he laughs, triggering her own, answering chuckle, deflating the cloud of umbrage. He twirls a curl of her golden hair around his index finger, head tipped as he regards her. “How about we get out of here?” Viva grins slowly. Never has she heard a better idea.

Romarin x Leon  (@ikeprinces-stuff) He follows the sound of music, the soft, mournful notes that guide him away from his study and up the winding stairs towards the salon on the third floor. It is a room he does not visit all that often. The walnut-colored door is open, just a crack, and he slowly pushes it further, peering inside. She’s standing by the window, magnetic jade eyes closed as she plays her beloved violin, that constant companion that saved her in so many, many ways. He watches her from the doorway, his heart aching in his chest at the story her music is telling. A song of sadness, of loneliness, of the dark, secret shadows that haunt a person’s heart. Her whole body bends as she plays, one with the instrument. The final note fades, leaving the room in silence until Leon clears his throat. Romarin’s eyes open, at first startled, but when she sees who it is she relaxes slowly like a skittish feline that needs a moment to recognize a kind face. “I didn’t know you were there.” He doesn’t answer with words but crosses the room to where she is standing. She notices the way he swallows, emotion balling in the back of his throat, before he places his hands on her shoulders and bends to place a kiss on her cheek. She breathes in deeply, the cool scent of him flooding her senses and steps closer, her violin hanging by her side as she rises onto her toes and kisses him, marveling at the way his mouth fits perfectly against hers. He sighs her name, sliding his hand along the silken moonlight of her pale hair. That sound, her name from his lips, feels as romantic and full of longing as any serenade, any sweet piece of music, could ever be.

Carina x Leon (@fang-and-feather) The campfire burns a warm orange, crackling steadily as it releases tiny red embers up into the night. The forest trees stand tall, reminding Leon of gentle, peaceful guardians keeping watch over the campsite he and Carina have built. Speaking of his love…he pulls his gaze away from the flames and stands, frowning. Where has she gone? Squinting, he looks beyond the tent towards the water. Moonlight glints off the smooth surface of the lake, silvery and idyllic. But there is no sign of her. A tiny tendril of concern sprouts in his heart and he’s about to call her name when suddenly, a dark shape explodes from behind several trees and leaps into the water, shattering the peaceful silver and filling the air with a loud gasp of laughter. He grins slowly. Of course. Carina waves from the water, still gasping from the shock of cold on her bare body. She watches, sapphire eyes alight with mischief and anticipation, as Leon makes his way towards the water, shedding his clothing piece by piece as he goes. Only when he is as bare as she is does he pause with a leonine grin on his face and then takes a running leap into the water, diving towards her. Their laughter fills the isolated area and when she holds out her arms in welcome, Leon swims to her and accepts her embrace. Moving aside her damp curls, he begins pressing kiss after kiss to her cheek, her neck, the curve of her shoulder, his mouth so very warm against her cool skin. Above the stars gleam brightly, tiny diamonds in a black velvet sky.

Ciel x Rio (@floydsteeth) Rio adjusts the straps of Ciel’s quiver on his shoulder as they walk back through the fields. He listens, bright blue eyes alight with adoration, as she explains the characteristics of the mushroom she is holding, a beautiful brown and pale green specimen she spotted on the way back from archery practice. “They only grow for a period of two weeks and then they’re gone. We’re so lucky we found—” Her words cut off and they both stop in their tracks. Just ahead, grazing upon the lush grass in the field, is a massive horse. It’s easily seventeen hands high, with powerful muscles that roll underneath its glossy silvery coat with every movement it makes. Ciel freezes, the little mushroom tumbling from her hand. “Rio.....” Her voice is small, shrunken with fear. But he’s already moving, walking towards the huge beast, calmly, fearlessly. “You seem to be in the wrong place, fella.” His tone is soothing, gentle. The horse lifts its great head and nickers. Before Rio can say another word, a red-faced stablehand comes huffing and puffing over the mound of tall grass. “This one got away,” he manages between deep breaths. “C’mon now Llwyd, let’s go.” He leads the horse away and Rio quickly returns to Ciel’s side. She’s pale but breathing steadily. Setting down the quiver of arrows, he reaches for her, pulling her against him and embraces her lovingly. “It’s ok.” He presses gentle kisses to the beauty marks on the side of her face. “It’s ok.” One final kiss, this time to her lips, soft and reassuring, a candle in the darkness. “Let’s go home.” He bends down, picking up the quiver and the tiny mushroom which he presses gently into her palm once again. “Let’s go home and you can keep telling me all about this little one on the way.”

Oliver x Sariel (@olivermorningstar) The sun has long since set, sinking into darkness, as Oliver adjusts the focus of his microscope. He wants to observe the bacteria he’s been cultivating just a little bit longer. The door to his study opens, the hinges squeaking softly, but he is so focused on his subject that he doesn’t even look up. The sound doesn’t even register. He’s muttering to himself, his black quill scratching against the parchment as he records his observations and questions they spark. It’s only the surprising sound of someone clearing their throat that breaks through, letting him know that he isn’t alone. He turns, eyes wide behind his glasses and then relaxes instantly when he sees Sariel. “It’s late,” the minister says as he approaches Oliver. The researcher sighs, turning to look over his shoulder at his instruments and his notes. “I know, I know but I just wanted to finish collecting my observations on this particular–” Sariel reaches up, gently taking hold of Oliver’s chin and turns his head back towards him. His eyes, an arresting dark violet, are full of something soft, something admiring. Still holding Oliver’s chin, he leans forward and presses a delicate kiss to his lips. Oliver’s breath catches in his throat, any and all protests crumbling immediately. Sariel kisses him again, then lets his fingers trail down his neck before falling back to his side. “I’ll wait here while you finish.” A rush of warmth colors Oliver’s cheeks. Sariel is so patient, so considerate….and somehow, in the greatest mystery known to mankind, he has chosen him to love, to care for. He nods, reaching out to briefly squeeze his hand. “Just another minute.”

Maeve x Keith (@keithsandwich) Maeve’s emerald eyes are closed, her head resting comfortably in Keith’s lap. The grass is soft beneath her bare feet and every now and then, a bird chirps, adding its music to the soothing sound of Keith’s voice as he reads to her from a new collection of Jadean poetry. In one hand he holds the slim volume, the other is holding hers, reveling in the feel of her slender fingers entwined with his. He’s reading a poem about love and nature and fate, about stars in the night sky that bless those who have found the sacred bond of lovers. Then he feels Maeve’s hand squeeze his and he lowers the book to find her looking up at him, those eyes wide open and bright, green as springtime, beautifully wild. Under that loving gaze he feels his heart unfold like a flower beckoned by sunshine and he can’t help himself, he has to kiss her. The book falls to the soft grass as he leans down just as she reaches for him. Gently he shifts her, pulling her into the warm circle of his arms, his lips moving over hers with wordless declarations of love and devotion. It is moments like this, enveloped in the safety of her love, that he understands a poet’s desire to try and capture the enormity of what it means to love and be loved in return. Maeve kisses him and the world is born anew. She smiles and it is daylight illuminating a field of wildflowers. He loves her and she loves him. There is nothing more natural or more beautiful.

Céline x Gilbert (@celiciaa) Céline slashes her way through the underbrush, single-mindedly heading towards the narrow dirt path that runs through this part of the dark Obsidian forest. Her sword bites into bushes and brambles, an extension of her fury. Gilbert knew they were being followed and went without her to take care of it. Damn it. Damn him. Her blade hacks through the last scattering of vegetation, revealing the earthen road and she stops when she sees the sight laid out before her. Gilbert, face flecked with crimson drops, pistol still in hand. Several bodies are laid out like fallen petals before him. He glances up from the havoc and offers her a bright smile. “They made poor choices.” Céline throws her long white braid over her shoulder, her sword falling to the ground as she crosses the space between them in several long strides, throwing her arms around him and kissing him fiercely. She catches his lip between her white teeth and bites down. The sound he makes is fire to gunpowder, sending a wash of heat straight through her body, every nerve feeling like it might explode at any moment. He pulls her tightly against him, their mouths restless and searching, rough and savage. She tastes blood, but it doesn’t matter. There’s blood everywhere anyway.

Leyla x Silvio (me) —  The overcast sky matches the expression on Silvio’s face. He watches as the last of the crates are loaded onto Siren’s Call. Leyla’s ship. The one getting ready to leave the royal Benitoite port. “That’s the last one, Captain.” First Mate Kai clamps a large, reassuring hand on Leyla’s shoulder and she nods at him. He inclines his head towards Silvio, a begrudging sign of respect, before heading onto the gangway. The silence between Silvio and Leyla hangs as heavy as the gray clouds above. “I don’t get why you gotta go. You know I could–” Leyla cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head, her gold hoop earrings swaying with the movement. “I won’t be a kept woman. You know that.” She sighs heavily, brushing aside several wayward strands of hair that the wind has plucked free of her dark braid. Silvio’s fingers ache at the sight. He curls his hands into fists, fighting the burning need to touch her. “Besides,” she continues, “It’s not that long. Just a few months.” Her words are hollow with forced optimism. Silvio looks down at his boots, jaw clenched. “Fuck.” His voice is ragged. “Captain!” Kai’s deep baritone calls from the ship. “The tide!” “I know!” she barks back, her own voice scraped raw with emotion. Trying to ignore the vice squeezing her heart, she turns to Silvio. He lifts his head and in his eyes she sees all the words his mouth can’t form, all the storm clouds churning in his heart. At the same time they stumble towards each other. The kiss is messy and desperate, tinted with anger and sharp with longing. It’s Leyla who pulls away first, afraid she won’t be able to take a step towards her ship if she holds him a moment longer. “Good-bye.” He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He only watches as distance shrinks her figure, taking her away from him, with her kiss still lingering on his aching lips.

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