Pov: U Just Interrupted Them..!

Pov: u just interrupted them..!

A/N: Here it is....one final leaf left on the Fall Fluff tree. Unexpected cancellation of a class gifted me the time to finish it.

Thank you for everyone who participated in our event! Chev was my first fic for it and fittingly, he is my last!

Chevalier Michel x reader

Word Count: 657

It happens because of cinnamon and an innocent idea that just won’t leave you alone, one that keeps scratching at the surface of your mind until you decide to give in, buckle down and learn everything. After all, you have to be ready to make your case to the King of Rhodolite.

After several hours, you are ready for him.

He comes to bed, shedding the day's weight with every article of clothing that he removes. You watch him undress, needing only one hand to undo clasps and buttons and hooks where mere mortals would need two. It is here, in the intimacy of your shared bed, that he finally releases the tension in his body, that cold line of strength and diligence that vaults him from human to mythos. His spine curves as it settles back against the satin pillows, the tight lines of his shoulders relax.

Those morning glory eyes are sharp with curiosity as he notes the book in your hands. Why is a simpleton reading something as tedious as a treatise on foreign agriculture? That question is the opening you need. You sit up straighter, laying the open book down between you as you begin to explain your idea for a greenhouse in the far corner of the royal gardens, an isolated area without much in it aside from a bare stretch of grass and a few, unenthusiastic hedges. He says nothing so you press on, explaining why cinnamon would be a perfect choice for said greenhouse. You regale him with information about light and soil conditions and temperature. You catapult facts about cinnamon types and harvesting and propagation. You shower him in the medicinal uses for cinnamon, ticking things like ‘anti-inflammatory’, ‘antioxidant’ and ‘good for your blood pressure’ off with your fingers. You make your case using every bit of knowledge you have gleaned over the past few hours and end with the admission that yes, you know it's one of your favorite spices but really, this whole idea benefits everyone. 

And even then he says nothing, that gaze trained on you as you speak, not looking away once. Unbeknownst to you, he has been memorizing the play of expressions across your face, that face he holds in such esteem. He follows the way your lips move and your eyes gleam as you explain everything you have learned. The lift of your brow, the tilt of your head, even the untamed fall of your hair over your shoulder please him beyond measure.

Words run out and you stop talking, waiting. He shifts, reaching down to move the book away from where you laid it between the two of you. You watch the deliberate movement, the slow grace of it, and wonder why such a small gesture has sent your heart into such a sudden tailspin. 

And then grace dissipates as he reaches for you, his grasp a bit rough, lacking in finesse. The gleam in his eyes explains why, the frostfire that burns in them, the heat of wanting something. He has you in his arms and covers your mouth with his. The king may be ice but the man is fire, his hands sliding over your bare arms, sparks to your kindling. Your fingers slide around and under his arms, grasping his shoulders as he bends his long body over you, his lips moving over yours roughly, turbulent and almost messy with hunger.

You gasp as he drags his mouth away from yours, leaving a trail of careless, fiery kisses down your jaw and the side of your neck. Somehow the part of your brain that controls speech is still functioning, albeit on very shaky legs.

“All this because I researched cinnamon?” Your voice is breathless, a whispered sigh in the night.

His husky laughter against your skin fans the sparks already marching through you, heat now spilling from your veins and flooding your whole body.

“I admire dedication,” he murmurs into the hollow of your throat, his arms caging you in. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

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 @ariamichel @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @moonstruck-writing @scorchieart

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

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Your writing is just amazing and I absolutely love your detailed kiss fics, they're truly just such perfection! ❣️

I wonder if you could please do one for Nokto Klein?? Please and thank you! 🙏🏻

A/N: Here you go anon!

Word Count: 441

He is beautiful when he sleeps. He is honestly always beautiful to you, your silver-haired, silver-tongued love, but when he’s sleeping, there is an air of innocence about him that leaves you weak in the knees. His handsome, sharp features are relaxed into a softness that is only visible when his usual current of energy, the one that underlies his waking movements and ignites the spark in his crimson eyes, is at its lowest, at a mere hum instead of a bright stream.

But Nokto possesses a sixth sense when it comes to you, a supernatural knowing of when you are near, whether your gaze is seeking him across a crowded room or running over his sleeping face as tenderly as a caress. First his arm moves, his hand reaching out across the sheets and finding you. Once he has you in his grasp, he pulls you against the sleepy warmth of his body. Those eyes open, red depths already flickering with desire. His voice is still rough with those last, clinging tendrils of sleep and when he says your name, the sound slinks its way through you, slow and beguiling. It is a sensual purr that you feel in the base of your stomach, a provocative murmur that rolls languidly through your veins.

In the space between heartbeats he moves, rolling until he has you underneath him, his body pressed against the length of yours, welcome and thrilling. He lowers his head, moonlight hair falling across the sharp planes of his cheekbones as he whispers against your neck, the column of your throat. Silken words wrap themselves around your skin like ribbons. He binds you with velvet promises, his hands sliding over your forearms, nimble fingers curling around your wrists, arms pinned above your head. His words rain down on you, tiny drops of fire, driving you to the edge of madness. You want to feel that mouth on you, not just the ghost of his breath. You want to swallow each tempting word that drops from his lips like nectar.

You know the man you love. You know how to stop his cruel teasing. Holding that red gaze with yours, unafraid of the heat smoldering in them, you lick your lips, arching your body under his in a way that screams “more”. He may be a tease, but he is helpless in the face of his desire for you. His mouth crashes into yours, hungry and determined to feast. He feels like a draught of cold water to a body that’s burning. You respond eagerly, greedily, drinking in his lips and tongue, drunk on his taste and the wild rollercoaster of his hunger.

You're at the mercy of his masterful mouth, of his adroit touch. And there is nothing else in the world that could please you more.

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

Hello hello, new to this Ikemen world. I hope u are having a good day!

Can I ask headcanons of Chevalier Michel when the Belle is a very kind woman ( just like Emma ) but she is also very cultured and good at arguments. Having a passion for law, realistic books, the philosophy of nihilism, real cases of crimes and legal failures. ALSO INTO HISTORY. She’s a very good debater, with very good morals that she protects very well through words. Her kind persona shall not give the impression that she’s vulnerable. Her arguments can destroy and she never backs down, even when she sees blood ( even if she’s scared, a lot of self-control ). A hopeless-romantic with high standards. And she is NOT AFRAID OF CHEVALIER. She is also loud about how she does not understand why people consider him so scary.

I just want his first impressions on her and how he started to fall in love.

Tbh even tho I love him, if I was in that route myself, I would have started some arguments with him… maybe this is a self-insert ( 😳😳 ) but I just want to see him shouted down in a debate/argument by Belle for once.

A/N: I am sorry this took so long, anon! I hope I was able to cover everything 💜

Chevalier x Reader

Word Count: 1453

Chevalier Michel Headcanon:

He is standing, arms crossed as his glacial gaze watches the soldiers training. The clang of metal rings through the air as swords cross, each soldier wanting to do their very best to impress the cold prince. Suddenly a loud cavalcade of metallic clanking disrupts practice. His head snaps towards the sound and he sees a young page scrambling to lift up the heavy wooden sword rack where the training swords are kept. Chevalier’s displeasure radiates off of him, cold waves of icy disapproval. The young boy’s shaking hands struggle to get the swords back in place until suddenly another set of hands is there. One rests reassuringly on his shoulder, the other lifts a fallen sword out of the scuffed grass. You speak calmly, soothingly as you kneel, helping gather up the rest of the swords. The young page shudders when he glances over his shoulder at Chevalier whose stare has never wavered. You rise slowly, back straight, head held high as you meet those impossibly blue eyes and do not look away, a defiant expression on your face. Your gazes lock like antlers and a thin sliver of surprise courses through him when you do not back down. He wins of course, but only because the young page is tugging your sleeve, nervously but gratefully thanking you for your help. You smile gently, nodding and then glance once more over your shoulder at the pale-haired prince, who has turned his attention back to the soldiers sparring. You do not see the way those eyes follow your retreating figure.

A round table discussion on what to do about a certain anti-monarchist group that has been dealing with Obsidian in secret, trading Rhodolite information for weapons. You are allowed to sit in on the meeting, listening as the princes debate various ways of dealing with the problem. Chevalier looks bored. When Leon turns heated golden eyes on him, asking his opinion, he responds by stating the only logical solution is to arrest and execute the lot of them. And then you hear your voice cut through the rumbling of the men with a simple “No, it’s not.” Again those eyes are on you, narrowing in a way that would stop the heart of most people. You are not most people. You go on to describe a similar situation that occurred within the Jade kingdom, several decades ago and how instead of slaying everyone, the ruler turned them, used them to spy on the enemy they had been conspiring with. He tries to find fault with the idea, counter points flashing through his mind like the lashes of a cat-o-nine tails but no matter how he tries, he doesn't see a disadvantage. The longer he is quiet, staring at you, the more the tension in the room grows. The other princes are still, no one daring to break the silence. Clavis’s eyes glitter like a magpie before a pile of jewels. When Chevalier rises and leaves without another word, you barely hear the murmurings of the other princes over the emphatic hammering of your heart.

He finds you later that evening in the library, reading by candlelight. He ignores you as he walks to the shelves, scanning the many leather-bound tomes for the one he wants. You lean back, one elbow on the back of your chair. “Looking for this?” He turns at the sound of your voice. “I doubt you would be reading ‘The History-” “of Mercantilism in the Benitoite Kingdom’?” You finish the book title for him. His jaw clenches, the only outward sign that you have surprised him. Yet again. You close the book, the heavy leather cover falling shut with a small thunk and slide it to the end of the table. “I found it informative, if a bit tedious. The author spends far too long explaining why the need to maintain a trade surplus is paramount to wealth building and could have focused more on the need for a strong military to ensure local markets and supply sources are protected.” You stand, gathering several other books in your arms. “But perhaps you’ll find it useful. One is never too old to learn. Good night, Prince Chevalier.” 

You are in the gardens, sitting on a stone bench, surrounded by a riot of beautiful red roses, their scent wrapped around you like a mantel of beauty. In your lap, a sketchbook where you are doing your best to capture them, pencil to soft paper. So engrossed are you in your art, you do not hear the rustling in the bushes. You do not notice the deafening silence. It happens in a flash, a blur of men emerging, dark shapes with swords drawn, coming towards you, and then the white storm of vengeance that rains down on them, thundering past you to meet them head on. Men’s groans rise from bodies that fall. The iron scent of blood mingles with the soft scent of the roses, a stomach-churning mixture. Chevalier’s sword drinks deeply, bloodthirsty and relentless until there are nothing but corpses littering the garden path like fallen petals. He turns to face you. His pristine white clothing is splattered red, matching the droplets that are strewn across your sketchbook, your gown, your bare skin. Inside you are trembling. Outside, you rise slowly, closing your sketchbook, pressing those drops of blood into the paper, painting your rose drawing red. “Thank you, Prince Chevalier, for my life.” 

He sits at his desk, quill in hand. But it is not moving. It has not even been dipped in ink. What had he expected? You to faint at the violence. You to weep at the blood. You to burst into tears. To scream. To tremble like the last brittle, brown leaf in winter’s wind. He did not expect you to calmly rise, thank him, and walk away from the carnage as easily as if you were leaving a tea party. The blank parchment in front of him mocks him and pressing his lips into a thin line, he wets the tip of the quill. He manages two words before he stops writing again. Your interjection at the previous day’s meeting, using the historical example in Jade to convince the other princes that allowing the anti-monarchists to live was a better choice, the gleam in your eye as you met his and refused to look away. The curve of your mouth when you effortlessly discussed that book. The gentleness of your hand as you laid it on the page’s shoulder. The shape of your body as you walked away. These are the things that are flipping through his mind, like the pages of a book fluttering in the wind. Angrily he turns his usually razor-sharp focus back to his parchment. His quill has dribbled ink all over it. If it was mocking him before, it is laughing at him now. He growls, the legs of his chair scraping against the wooden floor as he pushes himself away from his desk. This is unacceptable. He must find a way to stop it. Now.

He finds you in the main salon. The hour is late and you have fallen asleep, curled up on the red velvet loveseat, wrapped in your pale yellow dressing gown, your hair shining in the warm light of the fire. Several books lay strewn about the carpet. He recognizes them as art history books. He should just turn around and go, but his steps are taking him toward you, not away. He stops in front of the loveseat, staring down at you, at the way the soft, flickering light caresses your cheek, the exposed skin of your calf, the slope of your neck where your hair has fallen to the side. And then he notices the sketchbook, laying open next to your head. His own face stares back at him, captured in perfect detail. Except there is a softness to his features, something that could only be drawn by a hand that is creating something it cares about. Something that has meaning. Do you really see him this way? Capable of this….emotion? He turns back to you and his hand reaches down, awkwardly moving strands of hair away from your face. His fingers brush your cheek in the process, a light touch. You stir but do not wake, unaware of what you have just done, of the way you have now burned the memory of your softness into his skin, the way your spirit has been branded into his mind. The unshakeable Chevalier Michel jerks his hand away from you, the unfamiliar feeling of his heart beating so rapidly is unnerving. He leaves the salon hurriedly, the fingers that touched you curling into his palm. He had come looking for you to end something. And instead, something else, something new and disquieting, has been born.

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