Excerpt From An N S F W Wip

✦ excerpt from an n s f w wip ✦

I M P O R T A N T ! please don't interact with this post if you are a minor or have no indication in your bio that you are 18+ (or you will be blocked)

i made his hands too small :)

⚠️KEITH HOWELL ROUTE SPOILERS WARNING!⚠️

I noticed something in his story, which made me wonder (I will put it under the cut!):

When he started telling Mc the reason his second personality was born, he thought back to the past. Keep in mind that Keith is many times called a "tree" by the rest of the characters (and even his little bird believes in that).

It was mentioned by Gilbert how he (Keith) lost someone very precious to him before, which shows the importance his little brother (Tio) had in his life.

Now back to the flashback, Keith was running with his little brother through the unknown, scary forest, until he noticed a tree that was hollow, and he hid him there, telling him to not leave. But Tio wanted to protect him as well, knowing the burden Keith carried all this time from the pressure put on him, so when Keith was on the ground and ready for the sword of the enemy to kill him, he felt the weight of his brother, who got killed instead.

This made me think how that the tree truly represented Keith and how he feels about his brother. He was "hollow", but happy he could protect him, and the tree protected Tio inside it. It was as if his life became "full". Yet, the moment Tio left, the tree became hollow again, and it's how Keith feels for the loss of his brother, and his inability to make their promise with each other to come true.

Just a random thing🥲

Catching Belle when she falls~

Hello Violet! I’m new to your blog and i fell for your writing style 💜, Can I request some fluff Leonardo (ikevamp)? Anything you want to write, just make it fluffy. Thank you! 🫐

A/N: Here you go! I hope you like it 💜

Leonardo x reader

This is.....sort of meta 😉

Word Count: 1024

You’re sitting on Leonardo’s bed, letter in hand. Night has come to the mansion, bringing with it a sky full of glittering, winter stars and a sliver of bright moon visible through the window. You can feel the cold radiating from the glass, icy fingers that have you tug Leonardo’s warm caramel-colored sweater closer to your body. Of course, it’s far too big but you love it for the times when he isn’t with you. It feels a bit like wrapping yourself in the ghost of his embrace. Now, by candlelight, you read the request a few times, frowning as you try to come up with a scenario that could fulfill it. It’s actually nothing you haven’t done before but how to make it interesting? Different?

Leonardo strolls in, Lumiere tucked under one arm like a sack of grains. He’s muttering in Italian and Lumiere is glaring in Cat. The moment he is set down, he dashes as fast as his paws will take him toward his man cave somewhere amongst the papers and books and scrolls under Leonardo's desk. “Monello,” Leo mutters before turning his golden eyes to you. Ah, just the thing to put him in a better mood.

“Cara mia, should I tell you what the little brat did?” He readies himself to tell the story of Lumiere and a flock of extremely aggressive geese, already thinking over the various ways he could begin but you are glued to your letter and murmur a faint “Uh huh” in his direction.

Hmmm. An Italian brow raises in suspicion. What are you reading?

He moves closer to you. You are thinking something over; he can tell by the way you’re drumming your fingers against your thigh, mirroring the whirring cogs of your brain. Maybe he can distract you, win your attention with sensuality, he thinks as he slowly removes his jacket, stepping right into your line of sight.

But no matter how slowly the jacket is peeled away from his broad shoulders and muscular arms or how many buttons he opens on his soft white shirt, you do not look up. The situation is dire indeed. He lowers himself behind you on the bed, admitting defeat as he rests his chin on your shoulder, peering at the paper that has you so entranced.

“What is this? It must be riveting if you can ignore the sight of me removing clothing.”

Sighing, you reach back with one hand and ruffle his soft ombre hair, inhaling his familiar scent of smoke and parchment. “You know Stumbler, the literary magazine I sometimes contribute to.” He nods, chin still resting on your shoulder, on the soft wool of his own sweater. One arm winds its way around your waist, holding you against him, his larger body at your back casting a spell of comfort and protection.

“Well they sometimes dole out requests to the contributors and I’ve been given one that wants a sweet, romantic story.”

He grins slowly, sneaky fingers climbing their way over the woven fabric of his sweater, sliding it off of your shoulder. For good measure he also pulls down the wide strap of your nightgown, leaving your shoulder bare. He nuzzles the skin he has just exposed.

It appears he has a new tactic to capture your attention.

“You know how to write those, yeah? You’ve done it many times before.”

His breath tickles your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms.

“Yes but they are asking for a character who I have written a lot of romantic stories for. The question is,” you pause as your brain momentarily forgets what it is trying to communicate. He’s pressing feather-soft kisses along your bare shoulder, moving toward the sensitive slope of your neck. “The question is,” you repeat, your voice dropping as a shiver runs through you, “what can I do that would be new and interesting?”

“Mmmm,” he practically purrs, his arm tightening around your middle, holding you to him as his mouth reaches the line of your neck. “What about…slow dancing?” He nips at your skin and you gasp, aware of how fast your heart has started pounding, how warm you’re beginning to feel.

“Done that,” you murmur, your head tipping to the side, allowing him more access.

“Cuddling in bed,” he says before leaving a trail of languid, heated kisses along the elegant line of your neck, all the way up to your ear.

“Also done.” The words are more breathy air than anything but you’re amazed you even manage that.

The sweater has somehow been removed and curled up on the floor next to the bed. It doesn’t matter really, since you are warm, heat rippling through your veins at an alarming rate. He traces the shell of your ear with his tongue, the hand holding you against him tightening its grasp.

“Maybe, cara mia, you need some inspiration, yeah? Maybe…” he draws out the word as his teeth catch your earlobe. “…I can help.”

There is only so much brain power left in you before pure lust takes over. A shudder rolls through you. He already has you shaking and he hasn’t even kissed you yet.

“Leonardo.” Why does his name sound more like a moan than a word? You grasp at the last remaining strings of logic dangling in your mind. “It’s supposed to be romantic….not….salacious….”

“Well…,” he whispers, his rich voice soft, inviting. One hand slides across your abdomen and then upward to the buttons of your nightgown, the ones that stand no chance against his nimble fingers. “Cara mia…..” His other hand captures your face, turning it so that he can lower his mouth until it hovers just over yours. “Why not…..” His lips brush strokes of fire against yours. “….both?”

He kisses you intently, stopping you from answering as he claims the full attention of your mouth.

Your last coherent thought is: Both? Both is good. Yes, both is very, very good.

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

can you describe your favorite body parts of Chevalier, Clavis, Gilbert and Keith

A/N: Here you are, anon. This was an interesting one to think about.

Word Count: 878

Chevalier: Hands

His hands are beautiful. A perfect balance of elegance and power. Hands that as easily grip the pommel of a sword as a black-feathered quill, and both with the same fierce intensity. His fingers are long and shapely, their form belying the strength and agility they possess. Those fingers touch the delicate pages of ancient tomes as well as modern treatises, meticulously careful, reverent even in. They smooth down the edges of rich parchment as he writes in his neat, slanted lettering, not a drop of ink wasted. Not a word too much or too little. They are the second most important tool in Chevalier’s arsenal behind the majesty of his mind. 

You love those hands because you know another side to them. The side that isn’t perfect or controlled. You know fingers that can be clumsy in their show of affection. Hands that hesitate before touching, uncertainty wrapped around his fingers like rings. But you love them because they are genuine and real. And once they touch your body, they are hands that are unafraid to seek out what makes you tremble. What makes you fall apart in his arms. What makes you shake with his name on your lips. 

Clavis: Eyes

His eyes are pools of gold whose shimmer and shine hide the true depth of his soul. You’ve seen them sparkle like gold dust when he is planning something, a window into the sunshine of his mind. He burns bright when he is truly delighted, when he has come up with a plan he is proud of. That golden gleam has sent many in the palace running, at most afraid, at least uncomfortable. That shine can’t mean anything good, they think. But you would rather see the shine of mischief over the dull, burnished gold of pain that can flash in them when he clashes with his brother, that figure that looms larger than a deity in his life. Chevalier can snuff out the light in Clavis’s eyes with a look, or light the fires of determination with a word, a fire that burns on the edge of control. 

But for you, and only for you, those golden eyes grow soft, tenderness interwoven with vulnerability. With a touch, you can bring back their light, the bright and beautiful Aurelian gaze that looks at you with grace and gratitude, love and disbelief. Yes, Clavis, you are worthy of love and you want nothing more than for him to see all that he offers is reflected back at him in your own gaze. 

And when you want to show him, to prove to him bodily how much he means to you, then those whiskey-colored eyes ignite with a different sort of fire and burn bright with yearning.

Keith: Shoulders

Keith’s shoulders are wide and strong. A sanctuary where you can lay your weary head and forget the day’s burdens. A place of comfort, of protection. They shield you from the wicked, from the things in this world that snarl and claw and hiss. They are your fortress. Curled up against him, they shield you like angels’ wings, a barrier to everything that could hurt. When you stand behind him, they are a wall. When you are wrapped in his arms, they are a shelter. And when they are bare, you skim the palms of your hands across them, enamored of their breadth, the sublime curve of muscle and sinew. Your fingers find every small dip, every indentation. And sometimes they bite, nails sinking into those muscles, marking him with the evidence of your desire for him.

Yes, those shoulders are safety and security. Until they turn cold. Until the line of them is rigid and unyielding with tension. Until they go from shelter to barricade, keeping you away, holding you at a distance from those too-clever, malevolent golden eyes, the ones that now look at you like you are prey instead of partner. The power in them now does not inspire admiration, but apprehension. Uneasiness. Fear. 

Gilbert: Mouth

That mouth. That beautiful, dangerous, talented mouth. The one whose smile is a thousand shades of silver. The one that can be sickle-sharp and glacier-smooth at the same time. The one that can spin lethal poison into nectar, threats into effervescent bubbles, sentencing into a whimsical communiqué. Soft words that carry grievous consequences pass through comely lips that always seem to be on the verge of a sharp smile. Gilbert may possess an armory of smiles, but there is one there that is reserved for you. The one that is softer, gentler. The one that reaches the red of his eye, illuminating the vivid cerise like a votive candle in a cathedral. 

You know the taste of that mouth. The cool bite, the wild storm. Those lips can be soft. They can baptize your warm skin with kisses like snowflakes. They can send your pulse into a flurry and freeze the very air in your lungs, all of you locked in an icy cage of longing. And those lips can part, baring sharp, white teeth that savor the feel of your body and leave a wanton trail of rose-red marks in their wake. 

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