Asking A Request: I Seen Your Previous Writing For An MC Who's Plus Size And Insecure About Herself.

Asking a request: I seen your previous writing for an MC who's plus size and insecure about herself. Could you write a second one but maybe with Nokto, Luke and Yves? Please, you're first one was absolutely beautiful~

A/N: Because of the nature of the content, it will be posted after the "Keep Reading"

TW: body dysmorphia, self-loathing

Word Count: 1455

Nokto:

Although the ballroom is crowded, filled with glamorous women dripping in gems and handsome men in hot pursuit, he notices you. You’re standing at the edge of light and shadow, allowing the darkness to spill over you, cover you like a shroud. But still he sees you. 

He sees the way you stand, body pressed against the wall, arms wrapped around the curve of your midsection. Maybe if you press yourself hard enough against the polished wood, you’ll sink into it and disappear, surround yourself with quiet and isolation, away from eyes that notice the way your body stretches your gown, the soft, dark material spilling over your curves like water over stone.

One final drink from his glass and then he is on his way to where you are. You look up from the business of staring at your shoes to find his crimson eyes on you, his hands reaching for yours. His smooth voice in your ear, whispering for you to come with him. 

And you do, following him away from the glittering masses, down a darkened hallway, up richly carpeted steps until you arrive at your own room.

He has a key. Of course he does. And he pulls you inside, closing the door behind him. Again you find your back pressed against wood, eyes wide as you look up into his beautiful face, as you feel his hands slide down your waist, over the generous curve of your hips. What are you doing, you whisper as your heart drums a wild rhythm in your chest. 

His nimble fingers find the hooks on the back of your gown as he lowers his mouth, catching your earlobe between his teeth. Reminding you of how beautiful you are, he murmurs. How much I want you.

You shudder, both at the feeling of the heavy gown opening and at his words. Your eyes close as he slides his hands over the now exposed skin of your back. The gown looked horrible on me, you whisper. Nothing looks good on me.

Nokto pulls and fabric cascades to the ground in a whisper of heavy silk. His hands caress the skin of your hips, one skims over your throat to catch your chin in his fingers. You look beautiful in all your clothing he purrs.  However, he continues as he drinks from your lips, without your clothing….you look positively divine. A goddess who deserves worship. 

Slowly, the silver-haired fox sinks to his knees, his hands reverently gliding down your sides, fully intent on showing you just how devout he can be.

Luke

You’re walking through the small store, admiring all the homemade jellies and jams and chutneys. Luke has been wanting to visit this place ever since he heard they sell a specific kind of wildflower honey he has been wanting to try. You are browsing the colorful jars as he speaks with the store owner, listening with an interest he only has for his favorite things: you and honey.

You are admiring a jar of deep red cherry marmalade when you hear it. The snickering. Glancing over your shoulder, you notice the boys, no older than thirteen, staring at you, their eyes bright with amusement and malice. The one leans over, hand cupped over the other boy's ear as he whispers something. They both burst into wicked laughter. You make a cursory glance over your clothing. Nothing appears to be undone. You haven’t stepped in manure. Your hair is still neatly braided away from your face. What could be so funny? And then another sound. A loud mooing. The moment you turn to look at them, to see the source of the mocking noise, they burst into laughter again, nearly tripping over each other in their giggles and haste to get out of the store.

You set the jar of marmalade down with a shaking hand. Your heart feels like it’s been pierced by something sharp, something barbed. It stumbles in your chest, shaking, grabbing your breath to try and stay afloat. They aren’t wrong. How must it look, you, large and unwieldy, staring at a jar of sweet cherry jelly as if you could swallow it whole. Tears of shame sting your eyes and you turn on heel, pushing open the door and stepping out onto the street. The boys are nowhere to be seen but it doesn’t help. The damage is done.

Luke finds you already inside the carriage, hands over your face, body turned away from him. You have fallen apart in the time he was in the shop, your self-esteem in tatters around you, the jagged edges of your heart having ripped it to shreds when it broke. He slides over to where you are, pulling you into his arms, your name whispered over and over until you finally turn, burying your face in his broad shoulder.

Holding you to him, he kisses your temple, resting his cheek against your hair. He does not know exactly what has happened but he loves and knows you enough to be patient. You’ll explain when you are ready. Until then, his body knows what to do. It knows to keep you close. To kiss you. To rock you gently. To make you feel every bit of love he has for you without saying a word.

This is how he loves you. He takes your broken heart in his hands, unafraid of the jagged edges, the ones that bite and slice and scar. He takes each piece of you and carefully fits them back together. It isn’t beautiful nor is it perfect. But when he is finished, when you can finally lift your head from his shoulder, you feel air flow into your lungs again. You have a heartbeat once more.

Yves

He flits around the kitchen like a hummingbird, hopping from dessert to dessert. He is talking to you, muttering about this or that, making a mental list of all the things he is going to improve on before the sweets are perfect enough for the visiting diplomats. You are seated at a small table in the corner, only half listening to your love as he murmurs notes to himself. 

He’s placed a whole tray of desserts in front of you. Tarts that didn’t come out perfectly, small cakes that may have been the slightest bit lopsided, a chocolate mousse whose consistency wasn’t quite up to snuff. Help yourself, he said before spinning off to the oven where his next attempt needed checking on. And you want to…..but then you look down at your fingers, at their roundness, their ugliness. Long, slender, elegant fingers worthy of jeweled rings will never be yours.  Petite Princess hands, dainty wrists, long, thin arms….none of these are yours. You are made of flesh and curves and a body that demands space, demands room. A body that stretches clothes and strains necklines. Certainly not a body that needs or deserves anything as sweet as Yves’ creations.

He pauses in his whirlwind, pushing his blond hair out of his face. You haven’t even touched any of his desserts. Head cocked, he watches you a moment before heading over, sliding onto the chair next to yours. Is something wrong with the sweets? I know they are dreadfully ugly but they should still taste perfect. 

You shake your head, unable to meet his gaze. You claim you’re not hungry. Your stomach has been sensitive. You can’t eat any of it. In fact, you should just get out of his way and leave. You start to rise but a surprisingly firm hand to your wrist stops you. Fingers touch your chin and you flinch, wondering if he notices how ugly that part of you is too. Your name, a tight sound that slips through his lips, grabs your attention and you meet his gaze.

What you see in the blue depths of his eyes unlocks the tightness of your chest. A softness, wounded by the sadness in your expression. A brightness, admiration and desire for you in equal measure. He leans closer, pressing his lips to yours, the taste sweeter than any of his creations. Reaching up, he cups your face, canting his face to deepen the kiss. In his hands, at his touch, you feel yourself slowly letting go of the knife of self-loathing, your fingers going slack with the heady current of want. You know this does not solve how you feel. It won’t make you immediately love yourself and all that you are. 

But feeling his love and his desire for you, the way he is standing, you locked in his arms, pulled up to your feet and then against his body, it helps. Somehow, it does.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @leotoru @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @moonstruck-writing @scorchieart

Home Sweet Homesick | AO3

Characters: Clavis Lelouch, Chevalier Michel

Genre: Angst, Comfort.

Summary: Two brothers. One month. The final autumn before Bloodstained Rose Day.

Word Count: 5.8k (grab a mug of your preferred warm beverage, friends)

A/N: It has come to my attention that I have never written a fic with these two interacting. Yes, I am shocked, too. This is a franken-fall-fic for the following challenges, many warm hugs to the awesome writers who set them up!

Prompts:

Getting warm in their sweater - Cozytober hosted by @randonauticrap

"Your hands are cold." - Pumpkins & Fireplaces 2022 hosted by @chaosangel767

Treats - Fall Fluff & Autumn Angst CCC hosted by @aquagirl1978 & @violettduchess

Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, mild descriptions of injuries and pain (no blood), mild Clavis route spoilers.

“Recent activity west constitutes a growing concern, however full-blown mobilization of troops would be premature at this juncture—”

“Yaaaawn!”

“—No significant changes to report. Although such an extended pause may suggest possibility of attack—”

“Sn-ore!”

“—Our swiftest horse and rider are prepared to head out on-call with detailed instructions, should any perturbing developments arise—”

“Some perturbing development better arise in the next five seconds before I die of boredom!”

Tent flaps crack as a sharp gust bursts in unannounced, causing the stacks of paper and envelopes piled on top of our makeshift oakwood desk to flutter longingly underneath the stones I arrested them with. Three of the four candles illuminating my side blow out instantly, but the last one manages to hold on to its wicker as the mini tempest fades out as quickly as it started. It flickers feebly before bouncing back to its previous height, as though the wind was but a slight inconvenience.

I want nothing more than to grab that candlestick and plunge it straight into the desk.

But I don’t do that. I straighten my back, brush the windswept hair out of my face, and assess the damage. Luckily I had the foresight to restopper the ink bottle, because it was rolling halfway across the table by the time I spotted it. I manage to snatch it and my quill before they tumble over the edge and lay them atop the slightly wrinkled letter I was penning. Oh well, wrinkled doesn’t mean illegible, and I would know that better than anyone. Besides, the thing will get folded and stuffed into an envelope anyway. What’s one more crease in its cap? 

I lightly tap the last word I wrote and lift my finger. No stains. Amazing how some good came from that nimble nimbus, considering all the damage its friends did to our tent. A large dollop of water trickles through a rip in the top and drops onto my hair, a casual reminder of the rainstorm that bucketed our camp this afternoon. I shake my head and peek through the still-swaying tent flaps to the citadel stationed at the bottom of the hill. 

Golden fireplaces and candelabras illuminate the dozens of windows scattered across the fortress walls. Up here they look like tiny fireflies waiting to be captured.

I would like to go down there and catch them.

But I am technically still on duty. Yes, being a scribe is a duty of mine, and one I take rather seriously, despite what some nosy naysaying ministers may claim. Despite the fact that I prefer to be buried beneath a stack of dry blankets than wet letters, next to one of those shimmering fireflies. Despite the fact that our shabby little tent is one gust away from flying off to oblivion.

I mean Obsidian.

Either? Both? Beyond?

I do not like our shabby little tent.

But it doesn’t matter what I like because Chevalier likes it. Or rather, he likes its location. High above the tallest hill, the perfect vantage point overlooking both Rhodolite and Obsidian’s movements. Close enough to the citadel to relay any new perturbing developments as soon as they occur. Far enough from the border to dispel any accusations of militaristic intent.

Were this hilltop not the size of my closet, I bet Chevalier would move here permanently.

I wish Chevalier would move here permanently.

“Though it would be ardent to begin preparations at present, for the tides may turn mere moments after this letter leaves our base—”

“Now hold on, I haven’t caught up yet!” I say, quickly picking up my quill again. Did he say “preparations for presents”? I didn’t realize we were throwing a party. Yves’s birthday was a few weeks ago, but he’s back at the castle. 

This makes no sense. And “tummies may turn”? Jin would sooner swear off women than Chevalier utter the word tummy in any context. Though mine has been spinning in circles since we started nearly two hours ago. It is long past midnight now, and I’d really like to lie down. But if Chevalier isn’t tired, neither am I.

I’ll just write down my best guess.

Like the candle, Chevalier only paused for a moment then instantly resumed his blathering as soon as the wind ceased. It doesn’t surprise me, honestly. I’ve seen my brother cut his dinner with a steak knife, stab an assassin with said knife, and chew his brisket all in the same breath. 

And people say I’m the batty one.

Keeping my head hanging low over the paper, I steal a peek at Chevalier at the other end of the tent. He twirls a red stone figurine of a soldier in his left hand as he studies the large map laid out on the table, his back towards me. Not even his hair looks disturbed by the wind, and for some reason that angers me more than his refusal to slow down enough for me to catch up.

“Stop that,” he snaps, plunking the red soldier on the map with a sharp thwack.

“Stop what? Writing for your lazy behind?” I say.

“That nettlesome tapping. It is disrupting my thoughts.” 

I unconsciously halt tapping the quill. Now do you understand what a blessing it is that I am still sane, dear reader?

“Well, you’re disrupting my process with your ugly mug,” I say, resuming the tapping, louder this time. I wish I could see his face right now. His eye is probably twitching like it does when I interrupt his reading, and that always makes it worth the mental trudge it takes to see him.

I will not be rewarded for my efforts tonight, it seems. 

“You’re welcome to pick up where I left off if my way bothers you so much,” I say.

Chevalier hums and reaches for another figurine from a box. This time he pulls out a black one.

“And what would you do then to occupy yourself?” he asks, flicking the tip of the soldier’s miniature sword with his finger. “Tap your quill? Twiddle your thumbs? Sleep? When you’ve hardly managed to catch a wink this past month?”

And whose fault is that? I want to say, but I force my lips into a tight grin instead. A gentleman does not complain when faced with adversity. He powers through with grace and dignity and an unyielding smile. 

But my cheeks are seriously starting to bear the toll of weeks upon weeks of these fake smiles. And my eyes have long since run out of tears following all those late-night jumpscares whenever I do manage to fall asleep. And my limbs are screaming from the grueling daily training rounds from dawn to dusk. Even if the days are getting shorter, they’re getting colder as well.

And I haven’t told Chevalier this, but earlier today I sprained my wrist while sword training. It really isn’t that big of a deal, to be honest. I was only squeezing in some extra swings before training officially began because a nasty nightmare woke me up too soon again. I figured I’d practice on the ancient oak tree we secured our tent to, and maybe set up a scenario where I’d “accidentally” sever the ropes and let the thing collapse on top of snoozing Chevalier, but I ended up tripping over one of the massive roots in the dark and tumbling down the hill. 

He just had to choose the tallest hill.

“You are thinking of something asinine again,” says Chevalier.

“Definitely not,” I say, turning back to the letter. He is very lucky I injured my illegible hand.

I stuff said hand into my pocket and slowly stretch my fingers one by one, starting from the thumb, but my index finger only makes it halfway up before I have to muffle a grunt from the pain. I masterfully mask it by coughing into the crook of my good arm.

Another thwack of a figure placement, and Chevalier is back to reciting his correspondence. If he is upset that I just coughed on his sweater, he doesn’t make an effort to show it.

Yes, this is Chevalier’s sweater I am wearing. My shirt is all in tatters now after a certain fall down a hill (that I cannot believe I am bringing up twice in the same sitting). And my backup shirt is currently hanging outside, still dripping with this afternoon’s downpour. Chevalier took one look at me after I returned from practice and tossed me the sweater before I could get even one foot in the tent.

How very considerate of him, forcing his exhausted and sopping younger brother to change outdoors after sunset in October so his precious maps and documents wouldn’t get drenched.

I think I’ll leave a great big sneeze in the collar next, just to show how much I appreciate his prospective.

But I’d end up inhaling more wool than medically recommended before Chevalier would ever bother to tell me to stop. 

I’m actually still in shock to even be wearing it, to tell the truth. I figured it was buried at the bottom of his closet half-eaten by moths. It had been years since I’d last seen the thing, when his grandfather gave it to him at his mother’s funeral. One of those events I figured Chevalier deemed not worth remembering.

But I remember.

I remember the way Chevalier stood in front of her grave after they buried her, pale and stiff and dry-eyed, like a flawless stone figurine. I remember how the Lord Michel walked up beside him and almost put his hand on his shoulder, but pulled away at the last second when Chevalier turned to look at him. And I remember how he looked back. How he shakily drew the folded sweater from his other arm and trembled as he presented it to his grandson, a boy not half his size. 

“She’d want you to keep warm,” he’d said. I remember how cold his words sounded that day.

I remember how cold my mother’s hand was, too.

“Ow!”

The quill clatters on the desk as I furiously rub at my temple. When I open my eyes, a black knight lays atop my letter, shimmering dully in the single candlelight.

“What was that for?” I growl.

“You misspelled ‘accommodate’.”

“What?” I push the knight aside and count the letters of the last word I wrote. Two c’s and one m stare back at me in glossy ebony ink. I glance back at Chevalier. His hand is rummaging through the box again, but his eyes never lift from the map.

I pick up the quill and start to squeeze a mini m by the first when a second figure bounces off my head.

“Stop that!” I yell.

“Start over.”

“No way, it’s just a tiny fix. And I was almost done!” I hold the nearly-filled page up to him, but he still refuses to look.

“Then you should have been more attentive.”

“Who cares? It’s just going to Leon.”

“With my signature.” He slams another figure on the map with finality.

But I’m not finished. 

“You rewrite it then.”

No response.

My seat flies back as I stand, but my cheek is pressed against the dirt before it reaches the ground. 

My wrists are trapped and suspended in the air, but this time I can’t hide my roars of pain. They’d be louder I’m sure, but the knee jabbing into my back limits the airflow into my lungs. 

My vision spins. I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to breathe deeply through my nose. Wet, molding tent mixed with the unwashed stench of two teenage boys who haven’t bathed in weeks burns my nostrils, but years of experience taught me this is the fastest way to calm my nerves in these situations. Years and years and years of experience. My head is still going fuzzy though, and I can’t tell if it’s from the pain or the exhaustion. 

I pry my stinging eyes open and focus on the closest thing to me. The candlestick rolls a few inches away, the shape of my clenched fingers imprinted in the wax column, its flame still burning.

I must look positively feral, but no more feral than the beast pinning me down. 

“I expected more,” says Chevalier.

His fingers dig under the sleeves and into my wrists as he yanks, pulling my face a few inches off the ground. I gasp like I’ve just resurfaced from a lake, and crane my neck as far back as I can to meet his piercing stare. He’s waiting for an explanation. 

His palms are like ice, and my teeth chatter as I bite back the urge to scream.

“Your hands are c-cold.”

That’s it? One month of endless belittling, cold-shoulders, and sleeping outdoors. My fingers are brittle from writing dozens of letters. My elbows and knees bruised from constant repairs to this tent. My hand drips with searing wax from my latest failed payback attempt. And the best I can come up with is your hands are cold?

I expected more, too.

He stares a bit more, longer than he has all day, before finally releasing me. I fall back to the ground and bury my face in my collar —Chevalier’s sweater collar— heaving breaths in and out my nose until my head stops spinning. It takes me a few minutes, but I eventually push myself onto my knees and inspect the damage. I had grabbed the candlestick with my good hand without thinking, and my palm is now almost entirely covered in the waxy sticky stuff. At least it’s quickly solidifying in this cold, but I don’t dare peel it off yet. I might end up pulling off skin, too.

My injured wrist, on the other hand, looks even darker than it did this morning, with splotches of blue and purple climbing up my forearm. I hold my breath and nudge it with a finger, but to my surprise, I don’t feel any pain. In fact, I don’t feel anything, except for the sensation of frigid digits tapping my skin.

“Get that checked and be back by noon,” Chevalier calls. Another surprise, he’s not at his map but at my desk corner, chair back upright, scratching away with my quill at blinding speed.

“Noon?” I repeat. “You mean tomorrow?”

“I mean six hours from now. The numbness will wear off soon, and you’ll hassle the medics with your obnoxious blubbering if you do not hurry.” As if on cue, the first specs of dawn trickle in through the tent flaps.

“I’m not missing training,” I say. “If you’re going, so am I.”

“There is nothing more foolish than a dying man demanding poison over cure.”

“I’m not dying!” I march over and pull my good arm sleeve up to my elbow. “See? You’re just being dramatic.”

Again he refuses to look my way, instead focusing on folding the paper he was writing on into thirds. He retrieves the fallen candlestick, elegantly prepares a stamp, and, as soon as the seal cools, stacks it and the other letters I prepared onto my outstretched hand.

“You will deliver the post and return in time to memorize this new battle formation before afternoon practice commences. With the correct hand bandaged,” he warns, pushing past me to his maps. “Do not fall short of my expectations again.” He picks a red soldier from the box and resumes his planning. 

I push through the flaps before the thwack reaches my ears.

Even though the tent is meager at best, it still mostly protects us from the harsh winds that pound every night. The approach of dawn hampers the air, but a brisk rush still uncomfortably tickles down my spine as I approach the edge of the hill. The numbness in my hand starts to fade as I stare down at those jagged rocks, almost goading me to trip again, and I back up until my boot bumps the oak tree. 

Chevalier did say I have six hours.

I stuff the letters in my armpit and start climbing the tree, slowly as it is still quite dark out and my hands aren’t exactly in best form. I also try to keep quiet, in case Chevalier won’t approve of my little recess. 

Once I reach the highest branch that can support my weight, I throw my legs over the edge and lean my cheek against the trunk. It is cool and covered in morning frost; a welcoming sensation to my welting face. Not so much to my tense thighs, but if I learned one thing on this trip it is to hold on to any good happenstances because they are rare to come by. Or last long.

I pull the letters out again and straighten them. Leon’s is first, a tiny detailed rose drawn directly underneath his perfectly-penned name. That’s the code we came up with for documents that need to be read with high urgency. Chevalier likes his papers to be ordered by importance, both outgoing and incoming, and as I leaf through the rest I see he’s arranged the next one to Sariel, followed by Jin, and then to various nobles and ministers back at the capitol.

I sometimes wonder, if I wasn’t Chevalier’s shadow, could my letters top his piles?

My skin prickles with envy. He isn’t even the king, so why must everything be under his thumb? The land, the people, and now the words. Why not let these papers be picked up by autumn winds, like the golden leaves of the oak, with no drive or direction other than away from here? Embarking on a journey unknown, a glorious adventure beyond the confines of their pages, full of twists and turns and loop de loops never before scrivened by man. In the infinite realms of possibility, there exists a universe where they all land exactly where intended. But equally likely, they also may end up at the most inopportune destination.

I spread the envelopes like a hand of cards toward the Obsidianite border, a gentle wind growing from behind. 

It’s really not so different from Rhodolite. We each have rocks and grass and bushes. Storms hound us both, the rising sun does not discriminate, and we both settle at night under the same starry blanket sky. This little sample of land shows even more, with our matching fortresses and battle posts, and there’s a high hilltop mirroring our own. It even has its own matching oak tree, though while mine still brims with flittering leaves of reds and browns, theirs stands thin and bare. So bare, it is impossible to miss the dark figure seated on the top branch.

Frostbite stabbing my thighs jumpstarts my senses, and I manage to hook my leg onto a knot in the trunk before the shock sends me tumbling down. I hug the letters and straighten my shoulders, looking back at my tree twin. How long has he been there? Has he been watching me? There’s quite a bit of foliage surrounding me. Does he even know I'm here?

I tentatively stretch my free leg, both to see if he’d respond and to encourage blood flow in case I need to make a hasty exit. A minute passes with nothing, but as soon as I start to lower my leg, a shadowy appendage protrudes from the figure. 

So he can see me.

I raise my arm. This time the figure waves back almost instantly. Could I interpret that as neighborly? I don’t want to raise my voice in case Chevalier investigates. Instead I shrug my shoulders and wag my head from side to side. My neck is still sore from Chevalier’s little “rebuttal” earlier, but I hope the message is still understandable.

What do you want?

Another unresponsive minute goes by before the figure raises both arms. The first points a finger at me. The second beckons in his direction.

I look over my shoulder as though I expect someone else to be there. This can’t be serious, is asking me to cross the border? The Obsidianite border? When we are at the cusp of war? Does this guy even know who I am?

I don’t have the time to conjure a reply before I hear my name called from below.

“Well met, Prince Clavis!”

So much for that last question. And for keeping Chevalier in the dark.

I scan my surroundings and locate a horseman at the base of the hill, waving a scarlet flag with a rose up at me. The postman has arrived.

For the first time on this trip, apart from the daily workouts, my palms pool with sweat. But this is a different kind of perspiration. Chevalier could pop out any minute, and my head whirs with what to say back to the stranger across the border before he does. Er—sign. Sorry, now’s not a good time? I’ll think about it? Can we talk later? 

Do I even want to continue this conversation? I jerk my head back toward Obsidian, but the branch is just as bare as the rest of the tree.

“Is everything alright, my prince?” the postman calls, turning the direction I’m facing. “Is something happening across the border?”

“No, no. Everything’s fit as a fiddle! Just watching the sunrise,” I say, fumbling out of the tree. No light emerges from the tent, and I quickly poke my head in to confirm Chevalier’s sleeping form settled in a chair by his desk of maps. He lets out a long snore, and I let out a long sigh of relief.

After a slow descent of the hillside (I will not fall for the same fault twice in a row), the postman and I greet each other and exchange our stacks.

“I am very glad I ran into you, Prince Clavis!” His voice is cheery, despite the fact that he no doubt traveled the entire night. He isn’t originally from the capitol, I have everyone’s names and faces memorized there, but the flag he bears is reserved only for envoys from the royal palace. He looks about my age, with modest build and eyes not yet marred by the horrors of the battlefield. If I was to hazard a guess, I would say this is his first mission this close to the border.

“You are glad?” I ask.

“Indeed! I was instructed to hand-deliver those letters to Prince Chevalier. I feared it would be a great impertinence on my part to address His Highness personally, so I attempted to leave the letters with the general. However I was shocked to hear that you two were not staying at the fort! I was told your location was classified, but I really wanted to make sure I completed my first delivery. I never would have imagined royalty sleeping in a tent mid-autumn, of all places!”

Called it, but all I say is, “You and I both, lad.”

“But this could not be more perfect! I can trust you to pass these off to Prince Chevalier, then? Master Sariel said it is extremely important that he reads his letter as soon as humanly possible.”

I see now. This could not be more perfect because he ran into Chevalier’s middle man instead of the man himself. I stretch my cheeks into that wide grin and give him a polite nod. The boy looks pleased with himself as he bows and marches to his horse, and I take advantage of his turned back to drop my smile and peek at who’s top-pile today. 

The deep purple seal pops in the faint light of dawn, rays sliding up and down the swerving curves of the embossed serpent like ethereal liquid, but it is the text on the other side of the envelope that locks my attention. Chevalier’s full name is elegantly printed in bold black. Below it, scripted in an equally flawless hand, are two roses.

My breath catches in my throat as I grip the paper tighter. The ink on the petals is slightly smudged, as though it was handed off seconds after drawn. Never before have I seen two roses, neither sent nor received, and the thought of what news they bear freezes the blood in my veins even quicker than the weather. Are we officially at war with Obsidian? Was a meeting held while we were away? Has Jade or Benitoite made a move, too? Or is it something domestic? Have the people finally started to revolt against this endless back and forth? Has something happened to the king? Has something happened to my brothers?

That last thought drives a final icicle through my chest. My eyesight blurs and my legs start to give way, but both are locked back in place as something large is shoved into my arms. It is still too dark to make out what it is, but I immediately register the residual heat it dissipates.

“And here’s the final package!” the boy says. I blink several times before I can make out the shape of the wooden crate. It is about the size of my torso, light as a practice sword, and feels like a tiny oven pressed against my chest. “It’s the other extremely important cargo piece.” He ends with a wink, mounts his horse, and departs before I have the chance to ask anything else.

My first instinct is there’s something alive in there, and I slowly lower the crate to the ground to not startle (or infuriate) it. It may be asleep, but there are no abrupt movements as I observe the box from all angles. If whatever it is was alive, it is highly suspect that it could survive the trip from the palace with only three tiny breathing holes. And the soury-sweet smell wafting out from them could not belong to a carcass.

There is no identification on the box, and I pull out the stack of letters again to solve this mystery. Sariel’s letter deadpans me with a scowl, almost like its author would, and I shuffle it to the bottom. It won’t make a difference if Chevalier reads it right this second or after I’ve figured out what’s in this crate. Each successive letter is from some general or marquess or duke, no doubt begging Chevalier for some fatuous favor because none are marked with roses, and I nearly resolve to just prying the crate open myself when a glint of pale pink catches my eye.

I grasp the final envelope in both hands and hold it up to the steadily rising sun, but my eyes are not playing tricks as the delicate figure of a cat shines back.

Why would Yves write to Chevalier?

Again, no roses adorn this letter, but I pull out my pocket knife and carefully lift the seal from the paper. I can practically hear Sariel squalling at me through the mouth of the discarded purple serpent, but I ignore it. This is a matter between brothers. Sariel could never understand.

My heart pounds in my ears as I unfold the letter to reveal Yves’s gossamer script, and I press one palm against the side of my head to steady it as I read.

Gladdest tidings, Prince Chevalier.

Thank you ever so much for taking the time out of your busy schedule to write to me. It brought me the greatest joy to receive your letter on my birthday, I could not stop myself from shaking with excitement upon reading it.

Shaking with fear sounds more like it. That answers why Yves sent this, but drops a new more important question: Why did Chevalier send Yves a letter? Surely not just to wish him a happy birthday.

While your sentiments are more than enough, I truly wished you and Prince Clavis could have been present for the celebration. It was a small affair, as usual, but it was a welcome respite from the turbulence of the court since your departure. I am sorry to say our people are not pleased that your two-day inspection of the citadel has turned into a month-long station at the border, and many nobles are demanding your return to the palace posthaste. They fear your decision to remain may anger Obsidian and incite retaliation, but they only speak their minds so freely knowing you are so far away. I have no doubt you will have received letters from them asking for your return, but I beseech your understanding of their apprehension in your responses.

I scoff, the cooled breath materializing before me. Leave it to Yves to think the best of the people’s intentions, but he hasn’t read the novels of resentment Chevalier receives each week. And he hasn’t penned the curt, cold-blooded replies. 

Then it hits me, Chevalier sent a letter to Yves that I didn’t write. The paper wrinkles as my grip tightens, and I have to squint to make out the next lines.

Ah, but I am getting off topic. I am sure you tire from talk of military and government, Sariel is currently drafting a lengthy report to you on both as I write this, so I shall make this as brief as I can. 

It will please you to hear that despite the political climate, the seasonal climate has been rather generous. The harvest has been bountiful this year, and while the people’s spirits are not at their highest, their bellies are full and they are thankful. It took some help from the other princes, but we even managed to prepare the extra set of treats you requested. I must admit, I worried I would not be able to bake and pack the lot in time for the post. I had wanted the delivery to arrive as fresh as possible, and it was only with their assistance that we prevailed. Even with their pilfering hands snatching ingredients left and right, I ask that you thank them as well when you sit down to enjoy the sweets.

The tart aroma hits my nostrils again, and I have to hold back from clawing the sides of the crate apart. I limit myself to prying off two boards from the top, and am rewarded with a waft of warmth and a cornucopia of baked goodies. My mouth waters as I stick my face through the opening, letting the heat and the smell envelope my senses. 

Home. It really is a piece of home right in front of me. So close I can touch it, smell it, taste it… but I hold off on the last one for now. What if Chevalier sent a specific numbered order? I pull my head out and rest my chin on the top as I read the last part.

And speaking of the others, it will also please you to hear that they are all well. Prince Leon and Prince Jin have placated the citizens for now, and while it is fortunate they are a team of two, I fear their efforts will not last much longer. I have spotted Prince Nokto speaking to nobles as well, and despite his age he harbors a magnetic quality that calms even the tensest of brows. Prince Licht and I have been handling paperwork in the background, and we have learned much about our kingdom and its operations in the process.

Furthermore, I know you did not ask, but father is in good health as well. Though he seldom leaves his room these days and only speaks with Sariel. I fear his spirits are lowest of all.

I have a little space left on this page, so please allow me to use it to ask of my brother. You mentioned he has not taken well to the extended stay, I hope he is at least keeping himself entertained. Even with the disquiet of complaints, the halls never felt so still in his absence. But I believe he can keep up with you, we all do. 

Lastly, I do hope you are both keeping warm. The previous postman reported the weather is much colder near the mountains where you are. It was a bout of good fortune Prince Jin managed to hand you your sweater before you left, was it not? But as you said, a decorated mantle does nothing to light the hearth, so please enjoy the treats while they are still hot.

Take care of one another, and I pray for your safe return before the first winter snow.

Yves Kloss

The hand reaching for the crate is automatic. It takes a couple chews before I realize I have bitten into an apple strudel. It takes a few more before I realize I am crying.

Hot tears stream down my cheeks and smudge Yves’s words as I hug them and the pastry to my chest. Weeks… months… years of what I could never put into words rock my body as I scream into the crate. 

I don’t want to go to war. I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. I don’t want to keep hurting myself climbing to catch Chevalier, because I know I will never make it. I just want to go home. Home where these treats were made. Home where these treats were shared. Home where these treats never fathomed a life outside their oven.

The sun is mostly up when the final cries exit my system. My body weighs like it ran to the palace and back, and I cannot even raise an arm to shield myself from the blinding rays or the chilling winds of early morning. The only thing I can do is bury my face in the collar of my sweater. Chevalier’s sweater.

Chevalier’s sweater is warm.

I wrap my fingers around the half-eaten strudel. It is warm, too.

Warm, like Yves’s hands when he pulls them out of the oven. Warm, like Licht’s cheeks as he stands tip-toed at the edge of the table and watches his brother set them down. Warm, like Nokto’s hugs when he ambushes his brother from behind, both in thanks and in distraction. Warm, like Jin’s ears as he swipes the top pastry and it disappears into his mouth. Warm, like Leon’s laughter as he prepares to pacify the situation.

Warm, like Sariel’s gaze as he watches the scene unfold. Warm, like my mother’s kisses that linger to this day. Warm, like Chevalier’s…

A sharp crack turns my attention back up the hill. The top of the tent rips and flutters in the breeze, waiting for me to patch it up again. Chevalier must be cold.

Pain throbs in my wrist. I peel the wax off my hand. I look back and forth between the citadel and the hill. Then between the border and the sun. I have many paths before me, and a good four hours left.

I stuff the rest of the pastry in my cheeks and collect the letters, careful to reseal Yves’s the way it was and return Sariel’s to the top. I grab the crate under one arm and start back up the hill. It is a long climb, yes, but one I know I can make.

*Nudges Yves* Get in there, Evie! You're the hero of this story! And uh, you can just stay where you are, Gilbert.

Tagging:@atelieredux @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus

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

on Violence

Chapter 5

Chapters: [1] , [2], [3], [4], [5]

Fandom: Ikemen Prince | Nokto Klein / Adam Kain | Words: 2k

Tags: Scriptfic, screenplay format, Political stuff, Slow burn, Route spoilers

Summary :

Confrontation.

tagging: @altairring @tiny-wooden-robot @kissmetwicekissmedeadly

notes: Just for clarification, in my format the underline is for emphasis, while italic means something is said in another language besides Rhodolitian. When something is said in Yashpari, it's actually in Javanese. The translation would be right below the sentence.

ACT FIVE

INT. THE OUTSIDE OF ADAM'S CELL - MIDNIGHT 

A warden lays unconscious on the floor. No one dares to approach the door towards the stairs, not even to check on him. 

Because, they’ve been told that...

Prince Nokto is inside with his arms up, and a person disguised as a guard had a gun pointed at him. They want the other Rhodolite princes. If anyone else attempts to get inside… it’s his life on the line.

Sweat running through his skin, he could only see Adam standing behind his cell door, having all the power in the room.

NOKTO

You planned for this.

ADAM

...A little.

NOKTO

You’re a bunch of Obsidianites, after all, huh? I should’ve known.

ADAM

No. Sura doesn't speak Rhodolitian. At least she’s willing to compromise with a language you’ll understand.

NOKTO

She?

The person behind him did not sound like a woman. Before he could care any further, the door to the cell block blasts open, letting in numerous heavy footsteps inside.

In the instant that Nokto turned around, Sura had already stepped behind him again, now pointing their gun towards his befuddled brothers that had just witnessed the scene. 

He saw Licht amongst them first.

LICHT

Nokto!

NOKTO

Licht, don’t step closer!

Someone steps closer anyway. There’s no other man that silhouette could belong to but Chevalier Michel. He draws his sword faster than Nokto’s eyes could register.

BANG!

The gun’s explosion blows right past Nokto’s ears. His heart stopped dead. But Chevalier’s sword hitting the ground sounds more deafening.

CLANG! The bullet had shattered the sword hilt, missed his fingers by a miracle. The blade then lands behind him.

ADAM

There are six round bullets in the chamber. That was the first. There are five of you in the room.

All attention points straight towards Adam, and his shooter. That small, peculiar firearm produces so much smoke, it’s engulfing the nose, eyes, and throat. Noone had seen something that compact making that sort of sound, much less an explosion. Chevalier, Licht, Leon, and Clavis, they all stare with faces just as shocked. Who knows where the rest of them are. Nokto couldn’t hold in his coughs— Licht wants to jump towards him before he is immediately restrained by Leon.

ADAM

—Five. It’s enough for each of you. Now listen carefully.

[Read more on AO3]

Night's Witness

Fandom: IkeVamp

Pairing: Leonardo x F!Reader

Prompt: Enchanted Evenings Day 17: Impact Play

Type: NSFW- Minors DNI

Cw: impact play, spanking, fingering, punishment, dirty talk, teasing, orgams, implied overstimulation

WC: 1000+

Tagging: @toloveawarlord , @thewitchofbooks , @queen-dahlia , @kissmetwicekissmedeadly , @aquagirl1978 , @canaria-blackwell , @devildomwritersposts , @ikesimp100 , @sarahann-1984 , @kpop-and-otome , @citizensofcradle , @littlewitty , @curious-skybunny , @lordsisterxotome , @queengiuliettafirstlady ,@namine-somebodies-nobody , @jihanel , @atelieredux , @violettduchess , @leotoru​ - If you want to be tagged or remove please dm me or fill out the form here.  

"Such a naughty Cara Mia" his voice pulls you from your dreams and you whisper his name. Opening your eyes you look around, taking a moment to get your bearings. Night has fallen, and you are wrapped up in his shirt on the balcony, your skin cool to the touch from the night air. His hand resting on your thighs, the cool air rustling the fabric.

"Leonardo" you whisper, eyes opening long enough to find his golden ones, smiling at the loving look in his eyes.

"What are you doing out here, dressed like that" he scolds, worried about you catching a cold in the chilly breeze.

"I was waiting for you to come home. I guess I fell asleep. Good thing you are here now to warm me up though," you murmur, rubbing the last traces of sleep from your arms. Leonardo goes to move his hand, but your legs snap together, trapping his hand between your thighs, keeping his warmth close to your core.

"Oh?" His eyes widen at your movement and you whine softly, looking up at him with pleading eyes. Sleep recedes quickly from your mind when you remember why you are out here, and the interactions the two of you had all day. Capturing his second hand stroking your cheek, you press slow kisses to his palm, keeping your eyes on his as you kiss the strong calloused hand. All the teasing the two of you have been engaging in all day has made mass of your core. Desire and pleasure tangled in a ball. Your eyes try to convince him of what your lips can't, though by the smirk on his lips, he knows.

"Do you need something?" He lowers his breath so it teases your neck and ear, watching the goosebumps rise over your Tender flesh. The hand trapped between your legs, squeezes the supple flesh of your thighs as you relax enough that he can slide his hand up.

"Are you wearing anything under my shirt?" His eyes furrow as the wind picks up again, and you tilt your head at him, an innocent look gracing your features.

"Find out yourself" you challenge, enjoying the spark of defiance and pleasure hitting your nerves. His smirk darkens slightly, posture changing. He sits on the sofa next to you, tugging you close to him. You shut your eyes, anticipating a kiss, senses drunk off his smell. Opening your eyes when your lips don't connect, your brows furrow and you watch the amusement in his eyes.

"Leo, please" you press your hand on his chest, trying to close the distance. His hand is slowly caressing your thigh. Unbuttoning his shirt with his other hand, he bares your body and you spread your legs slightly wider, your bare core already glistening with need.

"Out on the balcony in just my shirt, asleep. You should be ashamed. " His words don't mask the lust in his voice, and you can feel his gaze still on your core.

"What are you going to do about it?" Feeling scandalous and bold, you bring your face centimeters from his, letting your breath warm his lips. Dominance flickers through his gaze, a primal lust taking over as he pushes you over his lap.

"I see a naughty Cara Mia needs to be taught a lesson" his voice laden with desire and you brace your hands against the marble of the balcony floor. His hands caress your butt, one hand teases your thighs, the other choosing where to start. You brace yourself for the impact, but Leonardo is patient, watching as your body anticipates it and finally bringing his hand down when you least expect it. The sound seems to echo in the night, and pleasure ripples as you let out a moan.

"Surely this is more scandalous than just being out here minding my own business" you manage, your heart pounding at the ideas of the others hearing.

"Maybe, but at least they know to stay away. They could have wandered out here and seen the display you were putting on. A display for my eyes only" Leonardo brings his hand down again on the other cheek, his fingers brushing along your core, timing his thrust with the next impact. Your walls clamp down on the intrusion, riding the aftermath of the impact on the stimulation his finger provides. Whimpers fall from your lips as your hips rock against his legs. He adds a finger next, massaging your skin as he curls his fingers, your legs trembling with pleasure.

Your pleas fill the silence, begging him for more stimulation, your pleasure creating faster with every thrust. He can feel how you clench and pulse around his fingers, the need making a mess of his hand.

His hand comes down again, and his other thumb finds your clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves as your moans fill the air. Only his name falls off your tongue, and he complies with your whines, speeding up his thrusts, as the pleasure threatens to wash over you.

"Please,please, please" your coil is building bigger as his hand hits the tender flesh again, feeling your nerves ripple.

"Let go, I have you" he promises, feeling your body sag in response.

Your orgasm washes over you in blinding pleasure, cutting all thoughts as you focus only on him. Your body arches up off his lap as you ride his finger through your orgam, listening to his praise. When his fingers don't still, your hips jerk with overstimulation. His fingers grip your chin, pulling your gaze up to his. Golden eyes pierce through your lust ladder ones.

"This was a punishment Cara Mia, remember? I never said I was done with you yet." The promise has the coil building back up. Your eyes rolling back as the night sky bears witness, Leonardo's skilled fingers don't stop until he is satisfied by the mess he's made of you.

CYRAN x READER

...Are Red ...Are Blue

drabble . angst . blood mention . kissing

minors and ageless blogs please dni

° ° ° °

"Cyran. I don't think... I don't think last night was a mistake."

Cyran's hands register the words seconds before his placid mask ripples under moonlight and distorts, breaking, ruining and elevating his beautiful smile; and there, where you can't look away, like blood spatter, his clutched bouquet spills out over your bare, stone-scraped feet. Because maybe the ribbon around the stalks were bound in apology, and maybe each flower found its way into a sweaty grip writing goodbyes into garden air while a pretty red brow hung with reasons you have no right to know. Because that would be so like Cyran, to gently let you down into your tears so you wouldn't have to crash.

All falls are crashes. It's just sometimes you have the luxury of choosing which organs burst.

The roses you manage to save find a new bed in your arms, this shield wrought of self-solace years in the making without you ever knowing, but when you stand back up and dare to sight beyond your glistening lashes, Cyran's lips take you.

All falls are crashes.

And it's different from the night before. His kiss is proof that the person you are today is different from the person you were yesterday and the person you will be tomorrow. Beginnings get marked with kisses. Promises are immortalized in them. Cyran's kiss, crushing his roses between you, bending you into his clawing, beastly, cradling hand, is the birth of a hero come to claim his runaway.

When he pulls back into moonlight his hair is tousled and wild, his smile hangs draped in sensual shadow-shapes with glimpse of pearly teeth, and his only word is an invitation, awkward and a bit boyish, but written into the garden's ears in a language beyond those of any rose.

---

Once again heavily-inspired by gilbertvonobsidian and his heartwrenching, genius fic Lillian

CYRAN x READER

...Are Red ...Are Blue

drabble . angst . blood mention . kissing

minors and ageless blogs please dni

° ° ° °

"Cyran. I don't think... I don't think last night was a mistake."

Cyran's hands register the words seconds before his placid mask ripples under moonlight and distorts, breaking, ruining and elevating his beautiful smile; and there, where you can't look away, like blood spatter, his clutched bouquet spills out over your bare, stone-scraped feet. Because maybe the ribbon around the stalks were bound in apology, and maybe each flower found its way into a sweaty grip writing goodbyes into garden air while a pretty red brow hung with reasons you have no right to know. Because that would be so like Cyran, to gently let you down into your tears so you wouldn't have to crash.

All falls are crashes. It's just sometimes you have the luxury of choosing which organs burst.

The roses you manage to save find a new bed in your arms, this shield wrought of self-solace years in the making without you ever knowing, but when you stand back up and dare to sight beyond your glistening lashes, Cyran's lips take you.

All falls are crashes.

And it's different from the night before. His kiss is proof that the person you are today is different from the person you were yesterday and the person you will be tomorrow. Beginnings get marked with kisses. Promises are immortalized in them. Cyran's kiss, crushing his roses between you, bending you into his clawing, beastly, cradling hand, is the birth of a hero come to claim his runaway.

When he pulls back into moonlight his hair is tousled and wild, his smile hangs draped in sensual shadow-shapes with glimpse of pearly teeth, and his only word is an invitation, awkward and a bit boyish, but written into the garden's ears in a language beyond those of any rose.

---

Once again heavily-inspired by gilbertvonobsidian and his heartwrenching, genius fic Lillian