Hi I Saw Kiss Request Were Open And I Really Wanted To Ask Please Can You Do A Kiss With Luke ? Thank

Hi I saw kiss request were open and I really wanted to ask please can you do a kiss with Luke ? Thank you Have a Wonderful day ☺

They did @vivifucksthevillian but it was older and I had forgotten. (I'm so sorry lovely @queengiuliettafirstlady). Here it is, for you both 💜

Luke x Reader

Word Count: 404

Honey. 

When Luke reaches for you, his eyes soft as the green hills in springtime, hands a paradox of size and gentleness, the sweet feeling that spreads slowly through your limbs can only be compared to the thing he loves most, after you. His strong, calloused palms cup your face with a fragile tenderness one wouldn’t expect from a man of his size. He’s careful, his movements slow, a large beast treading softly so as not to disturb the sleeping fawn in the underbrush. Maybe his deliberate care stems from his surprise that he is allowed and encouraged to touch you like this. That you are willingly and wholeheartedly his. Maybe he’s more of a beast upon whose paw a delicate butterfly has landed, and he moves slow as syrup, in order not to scare this wonder of beauty away.

But you are no delicate butterfly. 

You slide onto his lap, wrapping your own strong arms around his broad shoulders. You are the one who leans forward and captures his lips in a kiss meant to burn away any hesitation, any doubt. He has won the prize of your love and you want him to feel what that means. That under his strength, you won’t shatter, but flourish and meet that power with a ferocity of your own. You kiss him with the force of your desire, your fingers diving into the flame of his hair, grasping the soft strands. His lips part in a soundless gasp and you, opportunist, take advantage of it, eager to taste him. He is warm and sweet, carrying the faint, sugary taste of his beloved honey on his tongue. Your hands, though small, are a vice, holding him still so you can chase the ghostly essence of that sweetness. 

He submits to you easily, his body lax and at your command. Your hands leave the silken jungle of his hair, travel the broad steppes of his shoulders, and end with your fingertips dancing across the wide plain of his chest. His heart thunders under your touch, a wild animal bucking against his breastbone. You press your palm against it, your kiss slowing from the glare of bright wildfire to the slow, steady warmth of glowing embers. Your mouth closes and you press your lips to his, sweetly. Once. Twice. His body shudders under yours, a tremor of emotion rocking his long limbs, love settling itself into your foundation.

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

A/N: This is a joint effort by myself and @thewitchofbooks who I reached out to after falling for her beautiful art. A gifted creator and a super Gilbert fan? Perfect 💜

The title of this fic comes from the well-known Robert Frost poem

Gilbert x female Reader

Holiday / winter fluff

Word Count: 1068

Obsidian is the opposite of Rhodolite. If your home country is soft, velvet roses and rolling green hills and trees staggering under the weight of the fruit they bear, then Obsidian is bushes with sharp, hungry thorns, dusty, cracked earth and trees that look utilitarian at best and menacing at worst. But Mother Nature has a secret, a way to equalize them both: snow. Snow covers the idyllic hills and small villages and gardens the same way it does stone houses, empty fields and barren trees. Snow brings beauty to even the harshest of places.

When you had stopped at the tall, arched windows and seen the blanket of white laid out before you, gleaming despite a wan sunlight muted by voluminous, gray velvet clouds, there was only one person you wanted to rush outside and experience it with.

He agreed readily, setting aside the day’s papers and letters and worries for something just as important, something vital to giving him the strength to continue with all those papers and letters and worries. Time with you.

Now you walk, arm in arm, over the soft snow, following the path that runs along the meager grain fields behind the palace. To your left looms the forest, black-barked trees with bare, spindly arms reaching for the heavens, bedecked in layers of sparkling white.

Gilbert is quiet, his red eye taking in the landscape, black boots ringed with clingy snow. You tighten your grip on his arm. If you were a snowflake, you would cling to him too, this man born of winter, whose skin is as pale and soft as the world around you. And as cold. However you know that under those layers of heavy black fabric and ornate gold and leather is a winter landscape that has trembled at your touch, melted under the heat of your mouth, and flushed at the movement of skin against skin. 

“This way,” he says, breaking the silence. “There’s something I want to show you.” Your arms unlock but his hand finds you, threading his leather-gloved fingers through yours. He leads you onto a small, narrow path that turns left, weaving its way through the trees. At first sight they loomed ominously, a vague sense of foreboding radiating from their bare branches. But now, walking through them, hand in hand, there is something that feels more akin to safety, as if the forest was sheltering you instead of warning you. 

He stops walking, raising one arm to point upwards. “There. This is what I wanted to show you.” You follow the long line of his arm up until you spot them. Nestled within the bare branches of the trees are bright green bushels of leaves dotted with tiny white berries. There is something almost whimsical about it, the vivid green amongst the dark, empty branches against the gray sky. 

“Do you recognize it?” Gilbert walks around, stopping behind you in order to wrap his arms around your middle, holding you against him. You lean back, tilting your head until it rests against his shoulder, gaze still admiring the view. There is something familiar about those plants. That vibrant green with its small bright white pearls. While you are thinking things over, racking your brain to place them, he lowers his head, his cheek pressed against yours. You can feel the smile on his face. “Really, Häschen? I thought you would know it immediately. After all….” He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “It is one of your favorite holiday traditions.”

Those words suddenly take the vague ideas swimming around in your mind and sharpen them, lock them in place to create something recognizable.

“That’s mistletoe!” Wonder fills you as you look at the beautiful green gifting the gray landscape with vibrant color. “I’ve never seen it in the wild before.”

“Mm hm.” He’s decided your gaze has been up in the trees long enough. He wants those luminous eyes on him. Sliding his hands to your waist, he turns you until you’re facing him, lips curved artfully. “And what did you explain to me one does under mistletoe?”

Something warm blooms inside you, a joy at the sultry, teasing note in his voice, a thrill at the way his hands are holding you tightly against him. You thought the green of the mistletoe leaves was beautiful within the panorama of gray and white surrounding you, but now, the jeweled red of his eye, glinting with the promise of something inciting, is the most exquisite color in sight.

“We are surrounded by an awful lot of mistletoe, my love” you murmur even as his hands leave your side to cup your face, the feel of those soft leather gloves as dear and familiar to you as his skin. The gesture, though gentle, still sings of his possessive nature. You wrap your fingers slowly around his wrists, holding him. You can be possessive too. He leans down slowly, his gaze still on you, your lips only a breath away from his. He smiles and you feel it, the power it has, the way it fills your heart and the space between heart beats. He is as essential to you as air under a bird’s wing or water to the creatures of the deep. 

“Then I suppose,” he says softly, “that one kiss will not be enough.” His voice pours molten gold into your ears and sends a ripple of warmth across your skin. 

“Probably not,” you whisper in answer. And then your lips touch, a metamagnetic force pulling you together, irresistible and inescapable. His lips are soft and cool against the warmth of your kiss. You feel the way he melts under the movement of your mouth, like snowflakes when they fall on flushed skin. Gilbert is cool starlight over a snow-covered field, the glimmer of frost when it kisses the petal’s edge. The air around you may be chilled, but the point of contact where your mouths meet is a warm spring from which love and lust are reborn, over and over again, with each and every kiss.

Wrapped up in each other, neither of you notices the soft fall of snowflakes as they begin tumbling from the smoky clouds, small, cold, feathery flakes that land on your clothes, your hair, adorning you and all that surrounds you in soft, heavenly white. 

A benediction. 

A blessing.

Artwork by the incredible @thewitchofbooks 💜 Thank you for working with me, Nadia. I am so grateful you had the time and so in awe of your talent.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @neoqueen-sailorvirgo @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly @joiedecombat

Mistletoe Not Required

Mistletoe Not Required 

Fandom: IkeRev

Pairing: Zero x F!Reader 

Prompt: Enchanted Evenings Day 19: Thigh Riding &  Tis The Season for Love: “A kiss under the mistletoe doesn’t have to be where we stop." 

Type: NSFW - Minors DNI 

CW: thigh riding, palming, fingering, orgasms 

WC: 850+

Tagging: @thewitchofbooks​ , @queen-dahlia​ , @kissmetwicekissmedeadly​ , @aquagirl1978 , @devildomwritersposts , @canaria-blackwell , @ikesimp100 , @kpop-and-otome​ , @sarahann-1984 , @citizensofcradle , @littlewitty , @curious-skybunny , @lordsisterxotome , @ikehoe , @psychodreamer666 ,  @kkkramba, @tele86 - If your name is crossed out I was unable to tag you. If you want to be tagged/untagged please let me know or fill out this form here.

An: Since I am still playing catch up with my Enchanted Evenings requests, I decided to combine them with the amazing Tis the Season of Love event hosted by the wonderful @voltage-vixen​ and @xxsycamore​. I hope you enjoy!! 

Keep reading

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

i made his hands too small :)

Friends wanted us to match profile pictures on Discord by putting a scarf on our favorite characters.