Could I Please Request Some Unrequited Love Headcanons For Comte, Theo, Arthur, And Leonardo?

Could I please request some unrequited love headcanons for Comte, Theo, Arthur, and Leonardo?

A/N: Hello anon! I've left Leonardo out because he just got a very long fic and the others don't have quite as many requests so I wanted to let them have their time to shine. I hope that's ok!

Word Count: 964

Comte de St. Germain

Pushing aside the heavy velvet curtain, Comte has a perfect view down into the sunlit garden and a perfect view of you. Of both of you. Leonardo has set up his easel and is watching you attempt to paint the wooden gazebo with its clinging vines and flowering bushes. He leans over your shoulder, reaching around you and covers your hand with his, guiding your brush strokes. Comte’s sharp golden eyes zero in on the way his long fingers curl around your delicate wrist, the flirtatious, downward cast of your eyelashes, the sensual smile playing over Leonardo’s lips.

You turn to look at Leonardo, your faces so very close, and Comte’s breath is held prisoner in his lungs. Your eyes, even at this distance, are bright as stars, your cheeks rival the pink petals of the roses you’re trying to capture. His chest begins to burn. There is undeniable longing in the tilt of your head, the inviting pout of your lips. What would he give to have that perfect expression of admiration and yearning aimed at him?

Leonardo leans forward, as unable to resist you as the tide could the enthralling pull of the moon. The paintbrush falls from your fingers, abandoned, as you wrap your arms around him, your body melting into his impassioned embrace.

Leo deserves happiness. This is the mantra that gallops through Comte’s mind, over and over, even as he tries to ignore the agonizing ache in his chest. He closes the curtain once more with a trembling hand. Now he stands, slumped in darkness, his heart a flower without sunlight, without water, slowly withering away.

Theodorus van Gogh

One of the best things about walking through Paris on a clear afternoon, just before evening breaks and spills its lavender and orange and pink across the sky, is using the fading light that is left to admire the street artists and their work.

Vincent’s fingers are laced through yours, strong and protective as you move across the Pont des Arts, taking in the different paintings, all sizes and subject matters, that the different street artists are displaying, trying to make a sale. You pause in front of a painting of tiny calico kittens in a basket. “Oh look!” Vincent smiles, soft and affectionate as he nods, immediately engaging the artist in a conversation about brush types and which paint they used. You are content to listen, unable to hide the sunshine of open admiration you have for him. Your smile is radiant with it. Your eyes sparkle with it.

Theo pretends to be deeply interested in a smaller painting of a doomed ship out at sea during a violent storm. Normally he would spend time studying the black, thrashing waves with their white caps, noting the way the artist created movement, how they captured the chaos of nature gone feral with their brushstrokes. But he is distracted. Because rather than stare at the painting and study it, he is staring at something he considers a perfect piece of aesthetics: you. He has long since memorized the line of your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, the perfect symmetry of your lips. Your eyes are a color that has never existed for him until he saw them. They are the bright window to the part of you he admires most: your kind and gentle heart, that luminous part of you that shines resplendent as a harvest moon.

And now those eyes are fixed on his brother as if he were the one who hung all stars in the sky. Your fingers are locked tight with his, laced together, a perfect pairing. His jaw clenches as he turns back to the painting of the wild, roiling sea. He has that same turbulent ocean inside of him every time he sees you look at Vincent that way. It floods his heart, dragging it down into the black depths of despair, leaving him as windswept and lost as the small, broken ship in the painting.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Of all people, why Newt? Newt with his wide, cherry-blossom eyes and slight frame, his dislike of people and a good time. His mind which so easily winds its way through impossible equations but cannot small-talk its way out of a paper bag. That Newt is who you have chosen to love. The one you have decided is allowed to receive all of your warm smiles, your tender touches, the melody of your laughter.

He caught you one night. Strolling back from a tryst with one of his regulars, the sweet taste of blood stilling lingering on his lips. He entered the mansion through the garden gates at the back. As he made his way quietly as a shadow around towards the front, a certain sound caught his attention.

He stops, ducking behind the gazebo when he spots you and Isaac. Evidently you had come out into the garden at night to do a bit of stargazing. Isaac’s telescope is set up, pointed toward the sky. But it is abandoned, left to gaze on its own. You and Isaac seem to have gotten distracted, laying on an oversized picnic blanket, wrapped in each other’s arms. Gripping the wooden railing of the gazebo, Arthur’s sharp blue eyes note the details: the way your fingers are white, curled so tightly against Isaac’s shoulders; the way his leg is pressed between yours, the tilt of your head, baring your sensitive throat to him. And that sound, the one that caught his attention, the sharp gasping of your breath as his lips feast on the bare skin of your shoulder, the slope of your neck.

Green-eyed jealousy roars inside of Arthur’s heart. His fingers are bloodless as they grip the railing. The lingering taste of another woman’s blood suddenly turns sour, curdling like rancid milk on his tongue. He doesn’t want her, or anyone else. The woman he wants, the one he dreams of, is currently in the arms of another man. And all he sees now is red.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bubblexly

Request for your Broken Heartstrings:

Sariel + injury + nightmare? If possible? Please?

Thank you

A/N: The prompt "nightmare" was requested several times so each request will get a shorter fic. The Nightmare shorts will share the same beginning and then change with each suitor.

This short features Sariel x reader

CW: blood, death

Word Count: 913

Sleep found you easily that night, rocking you in its arms until you fell into a deep and peaceful slumber. What dreams found you were pleasant, drifting in and out of your mind like iridescent bubbles following a light breeze. At the moment, your mind has taken you to a far-away beach. White sand is warm under your bare feet. The salty air tickles your nose. The gentle lapping of the waves soothes your body as you sink slowly into the deeper, darker parts of slumber...….except there, off in the distance, something is pulling at the threads of your peaceful dreaming. You try to ignore it but it is insistent. A tugging at your sleeve. A knocking at a door. A chime that won’t stop ringing. The beach fades away, despite your desperate desire to stay in that warm, safe place. The tugging grows more urgent. The knocking grows louder. The chiming fills your mind until you are jerked completely out of sleep’s embrace......to the fitful sounds of your lover in crisis.

Sariel Noir

Being the minister to the royals of Rhodolite is not without its dangers. His closeness to the throne is well known. His influence undeniable. It grants him respect but it also paints a target on his back. He is always careful, has never worried much for himself. But now he sees the error of his ways, too late.

They came for him in the dead of night. That late hour when the moon holds its breath and the stars retreat from shadows that rule the land. The assassins’ blades found their mark, sinking into the form huddled beneath the blankets of Sariel’s bed. Over and over they drank. Sloppily. Greedily. Until the bedsheets ran red. Like wraiths in the night, they vanished, a job well done. Only it wasn’t the palace devil they brought an end to that night.

He returns to his room, rubbing at the knot in his neck as he pushes open the familiar door. The paperwork could not wait and he told you to go to bed without him, not to wait up despite your pleading that you could read in the same room and not be a bother. A tender caress of your cheek, a quick kiss to your forehead and then he had insisted you get some rest. Even disappointment looked beautiful when it was on your face. But you had given in, warning him you planned on holding him close to you, a prisoner to your embrace with no hope of escape when he finally joined you for the night. Those words brought a smile to his lips. He was looking forward to it all throughout his work.

His body knows before he does. He freezes in place the moment he steps through the doorway. His room is too still. Too quiet.

The smell is what hits him first. Iron. Copper. The bedsheets look too dark. His feet move of their own accord, each step taking him closer to the gruesome truth. A sliver of moonlight is enough. He sees the blood, the torn bed sheets, your wide-open eyes.

His limbs suddenly weigh as much as boulders. His knees buckle as he sinks to the carpet, also wet with your blood. They were after him. They wanted him. They stole your life instead and now he is left, speechless, breathless, motionless at the bedside of your destruction. Air sputters from his cracked lips. He tries to say your name. Nothing comes out but strangled gasps.

“Sariel!” His gasping noises were what did it, the thing that tore through your sleep like a shot and exploded you into wakefulness. You say his name calmly but firmly, hands gripping his shoulders. Your voice is a lifebuoy amid treacherous waters, pulling him away from the wet, clinging hands of despair and with one final, soul-shaking gasp, he surfaces into the night, into the pale moonlight of his own bedroom.

His heart pounds inside his chest like breakers upon black rocks, but his gaze finds you, your hands still on his shoulders, your eyes swimming with concern. Your name is a whisper carried away by the wind, lost in the howl of his mind as it tries to reconcile the image of your lifeless body with the real you, the you of right now, your beloved face pale with worry. You’re in his bed, but you’re not…..you’re not….

Suddenly he reaches out, his hands scuttling across your body, anxious and seeking. You’re ok. You’re not hurt. There are no gaping wounds on you anywhere. You’re startled at his hurried touching, at the way his hands fly over you. Normally his touch is like air to fire, spreading warmth and want throughout. But this is leagues away from that kind of touch. It’s only your hands finding his, catching them like lost birds and then holding them against your heart that stops his frantic searching.

“It’s ok.” You repeat the words, gently, your fingers wrapped around his hands, keeping them still and warm. “Sariel….it’s ok.” He blinks his violet eyes, so dark in the wan light of the bedroom. You hold his gaze. You stroke the back of his hands. You nod as his breathing slows. 

He swallows and then reaches for you, falling back into the bed with you in his arms, his embrace a mix of something protective and something afraid. He breathes your name into your hair, turning his cheek to rest it against your head. You wrap an arm around him, placing a kiss above his heart. You don’t ask him what happened. He will tell you when he is ready. For now, you are satisfied that he is breathing evenly, that his heartbeat drums steadily under your ear.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

🍕 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙈𝙤𝙤𝙣 𝙃𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙀𝙮𝙚 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝘼 𝘽𝙞𝙜 𝙋𝙞𝙯𝙯𝙖 𝙋𝙞𝙚,

► A story about Italian vampires, secret admirers, and pizza.

Galileo x MC • rating: G • wordcount: 1,863 • characters: mc, galileo, francis, leonardo, napoleon, comte, dazai • tags: Pizza; Secret admirer; Romance; Cliché; Feelings Realization; Crack treated seriously  • masterlist

a/n: I don't know. I don't know.

I blame the English Ikesen twitter for informing me it's international pizza day (in a very creative way), which led to me going "haha three italians in ikevamp" which made me remember one very bad movie full of pizza and cliché, which led to me coming up with this. I don't even like pizza that much.

Idk if I should label this as crack, but don't take it seriously either way.

MC and Galileo's first encounter described in this fic is canon and you can read a translation of it here - many thanks to @cirillafionariannon

I wanted to try my hand at writing for our new two vamps, and this could also be an early Valentine's Day fic! Hope you enjoy!

Fun statistics!: the word pizza appears 33 times in this fic.

Leonardo was in Comte's room, lounging around with a drink and listening about his friend's most recent trip to the 21st century. While Leonardo was a man with passion for knowledge, not everything that Comte talked in great detail about was to Leonardo's interest. Mind trailing off in random directions while supposedly continuing to be a good listener, he suddenly feels the need to interrupt his friend.

Waving a hand in the air and looking over the Gucci shades that Comte actually bought for himself, he motions a pause.

"Forget about that, tell me if they made an International Pizza Day in the future yet."

"…Why, there actually is a day like that. It's the 9th of February, if I remember right."

***

With a little over a week remaining until Pizza Day, or Just Another Thursday as 19th century Parisians know it, Leonardo mobilizes the mansion into preparing something grandiose for the occasion.

"We're going to feed the whole of Paris with pizza."

MC blinks in apparent bewilderment. With the amount of crazy stuff happening around the mansion already, one would think that feeding the whole of Paris with pizza would find its place low in her list.

They're all gathered in the kitchen as if it's some kind of conference hall, with Leonardo using a blackboard to illustrate his schemes. So far he's drawn just one giant pizza taking all of the blackboard. He taps the chalk against the board.

"Think of it as a charity. While everyone would be free to help as well as consume, we'll prioritize those who are in need."

Dazai raises a hand. "Let me guess, you always wanted to invent a giant stove and this is your mastermind plan."

Leonardo enthusiastically points at Dazai with the chalk in his hand, "Esatto! But not exactly a stove. While fixing various gadgets for people in town, I had this idea of making a massive hot plate," he draws an oval under the oval supposed to be pizza, "which is a metal plate heated by charcoal underneath. Some of you will help me assemble it, others will get the word around town. And for those who are incompetent with cooking pizza…"

"I can give out a lesson or two." Napoleon says, with a raised hand. "I love the idea. I have volunteered in food banks a couple of times already around town. I'd be glad to help."

"Heh, Napoleon, knew you had that Italian blood still running hot in you. Alright then, it's settled."

***

MC is in her bed, staring a hole through the wall. Eating in bed is something she rarely indulges in, moreso if it's pizza, but she can't help it. As she chews with eyes squinted in deep concentration, she tries and tries to make just any connection between recent events and the possible reason behind all of this.

Just a couple of days ago, some white haired guy with a half-up hairstyle started coming to the mansion.

"Pizza delivery! Miss, that's for you. You don't owe anything. Enjoy! Bye!"

Wait, pizza delivery in the 19th century? It was strange the first time, and it's still strange the tenth time it happened. Some of the residents advised she don't eat it, but in the course of events (and hunger) she found out that's some damn good pizza. The best she had ever since she came here. And it was addressed to her. Is this a secret admirer situation?! Very strange.

Of course she suspected Leonardo. With his pizza hype recently it only made sense, but also that would be too easy. Placing the box on the nightstand, she sighs and goes over the possible leads in her head one more time.

***

The next day she takes Napoleon's pizza cooking class and conveniently stays behind until everyone else leaves the kitchen - namely Vincent, Mozart, and Jean. Napoleon takes the bait and praises her efforts at perfecting her pizza-cooking skills, being more than willing to give her some extra lessons.

Then they have clichéd and intimate dough kneading moment where he stands behind her and guides her hands; she pokes her nose into some private topics as carefully as she could, taking the conversation in the direction of love and cooking a meal full of love. Still, nothing she samples for the sake of learning tastes nearly the same as that same pizza delivered to the mansion's door every night.

***

Looking out of the window up at the moon that is nearly full, MC can't help but remember about a recent encounter with a strange man. It happened when she had to deliver some Blanc to Isaac who was working late at the university. In one classroom there was a white haired man with beautiful purple eyes looking through an old-fashioned telescope. There was something intriguing about him; about the shooting star they saw together, the timing, his comment about "still looking at the stars even in this day and age". The name he introduced himself with. All of it, full of mystery.

And yet the biggest mystery of her life currently revolves around pizza.

***

The man with white half-up hair approaches the merchant brig ship has recently docked at the Seine. Night has long fallen but the light inside is unmistakable; of course it's his friend baking pizza again. On his ship, nonetheless.

"Again, Galileo? That's the sixth time this week. I'm not going out this time. And please be careful not to burn down the ship, okay?"

The other whitehaired man doesn't as much as acknowledge the other's presence, too absorbed in his craft. The parmesan falls from between his fingers like a snowstorm over a tomato-red sea; in the next second he's at the cutting board; going left and right like a madman. Or like someone inlove.

The other sighs.

"I'm hearing something about a pizza charity in town. Basically everyone's gonna cook a giant pizza together and then give pieces away. Sounds like your thing, eh?"

Galileo's eyes dart towards his friend for a mere second, his hands never pausing.

"Where are you taking all my pizzas to, anyway? And I'm not participating."

"As you wish."

He exits the kitchen, opting for the company of the moon outside instead. The gentle lull of the waves make him crave a nap ever if it's technically close to his sleeping time. He notices the telescope nearby, unused by his friend in some time, which is awfully unusual of him.

"Man, this stress-cooking is going to ruin him."

***

The day finally arrives. The masses are buzzing around the square where Leonardo shows his invention that aims to leave everyone with a stomach full of delicious pizza, so long as there are enough hands to help. And they are. Soon the place gets overcrowded, the air smells like heaven, and the chilly February day gets as hot as a midsummer one.

All MC can think about is her secret admirer. With all the pizza being passed around and under her nose, she swears she's not crazy when she claims she didn't catch a whiff of That One Pizza. Will the whitehaired man be here today? Is it him, after all, stating that all he does is deliver it to her door, yet lying? No, there was no trace of such feelings in his demeanor; not the thrill of seeing her, nor the hope of learning something more about her in those short encounters. He was merely a proxy. But whose?

Defeated, the reason why the smile hasn't already left her face is solely the fact that she saw a lot of happy people today. Pizza really does bring people together; Leonardo was right all along. He was excellent at what he did, but he did it only with the people in mind; not a lover, much less her. She liked helping him today. And Napoleon too, who thankfully didn't think anything about her strange behavior the other day.

***

With the sound of street musicians who joined the celebration drifting in the distance, MC walks along the Seine, admiring the moonlight dancing on the surface. The noise and the hustle had gotten to her, so this little walk was welcomed, and it matched the feeling in her heart. The emptiness wasn't only there, though.

"Haha… I made so much pizza yet it seems like I didn't eat anything all day."

"I can see that. The growling of this belly of yours could be heard all the way here."

Eyes widening at the sound of that voice, she looks at the direction of a docked ship. The man exiting it seemed familiar, along with the voice, and it took just a couple of seconds to remember.

"Ahh, you're the…"

"The man with the telescope. I didn't think we'd meet again."

Right, this is the man who introduced himself as Galileo. The silence was awkward, his earlier comment not helping much, but she still felt good about seeing a familiar face. Though, they're barely more than strangers. Or maybe after having their second encounter, they're not strangers anymore?

MC stares at the fullmoon high in the sky, and surprisingly, so does Galileo. She giggles and breaks the silence.

"It's like a big pizza pie."

That's the single most absurd thing Galileo Galilei has ever heard in his life, being a person who devoted himself to astrology.

He scuffs at her remark, too taken aback to even say anything that won't ridicule her. He decides to spare her.

"So? Are you hungry? I've got some pizza on the ship."

Ah, pizza again.

"Sounds great."

Hoping for a distraction, she followed him on the ship. If anything, with all the pizza flavors she tasted recently, her palate would hopefully forget about the one that her secret admirer makes for her. What a silly story. She's sure it all ends tonight, the person likely pranking the whole of Comte's mansion in relation to the whole pizza cooking event or something.

"What a yummy smell. I must be really hungry. Did you make this yourself, Galileo?"

The man visibly tenses a little, possibly at the fact that she remembers his name. He should've given her a different one, after all.

"Yes."

MC bites into the piece, mind elsewhere. She wonders if she'll be sick of pizza ever since today.

Wait.

The flavors clash in her receptors and realization hits all at once; she looks at Galileo.

This taste!

"It's you."

The man with the beautiful purple eyes hums at her, without a clue what she is talking about. He hasn't shared his pizza recipe with everyone other than Francis, the look of recognition on MC's face not making sense to him.

He would soon come to know; but not tonight.

With the assurance that she must be mistaking him for someone else; and with the need to help her get home due to the late hour, their second encounter soon comes to an end.

And for Galileo, who barely kept his composure in the face of the one he strangely fell hopelessly inlove with, he swears he'll make sure this time it truly would be their last.

Unless the stars have other plans for him.

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran   @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @animeworldsposts @randomanimatedhusbandoseeker @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @pro-cat-stination @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @keen19thcenturygoatsstudent @lordsister @ikemen-banshou  @themysticalbeing @canaria-blackwell @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 ​ @ikemenlover24 @violettduchess @mcofthemansion @tiny-wooden-robot @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

*hugs you real tight*would you please send this to the first ten people on your dash? Make sure someone gets a hug today, and stay safe 💖🦋🌸✨

Thank you so so much for this sweet message🥺💖 It definitely made my evening better🙈

Sending the hug right back at you!!

OMG OMG OMG I JUST THAT THIS IS THE LAST DAY TO REQUEST TvT. I hope I'm not too late. I wanted to ask for Sariel, Litch, Chevalier and Clavis. Secret lovers. Pairing with MC ofc. Again I hope I'm not too late. Lots of love from me. I love you. AAAAAAH I LOVE YOU😩 YOU'RE AMAZING

Ok tq sorry for the sudden love declaration but I still love you💅

A/N: Here you are, @ludivineikewolf 💜 Thank you for the kind words and for the request!

Word Count: 1706

Licht Klein

There is something fearful in Licht that still has its claws sunk deep in his heart. Something that still breathes hot worry through its chamber like Dust Bowl wind across a faded prairie. He knows he is not a faction leader, but his prowess on the field of battle is known. He is renowned for his military mind, for his expertly trained soldiers. Licht Klein is a name that would make most men think twice. And it is because of this, he says, that he wants to keep your relationship secret. He has enemies and they must not know how close you are to him.

Night has fallen over Rhodolite and deep within the heart of the palace, you lay in his arms. Though his skin is warm against yours, though you are safe within the circle of his embrace, though your limbs are heavy with the exhaustion of your lovemaking, you can’t help but tilt your head up to look at him in profile, wakefulness buzzing in your mind like a swarm of insects. Thankfully, Licht is asleep. His rubine eyes are closed, his breathing is slow and even. His face holds a peace in it that almost breaks your heart at how rare the sight is. 

You love him with the strength of your whole heart, with the force of every breath you take, with a ferocity that could bring a mountain to its knees. And all of that is held tight, locked inside yourself, but threatening to burst free at any moment. Because how can you keep your gaze from finding him across a room? How can his voice, the one you know can be soft and cloying and whisper its desperate need and gentlest love for you, how can it not turn your head? A boot presses down on your heart every time you force those feelings down and away, back into the shadows. 

He is uneasy, afraid of what loving him may cost you. But you ask yourself, as your gaze wanders his sleeping visage, could the cost of hiding it be even greater?

Sariel Noir

You know it’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong. There are so many reasons why it is simply wrong. He is your tutor. He is an important member of the administrative arm of the palace, if not the most important person aside from the princes themselves. You are his student, learning all you can about your role as Belle. You are a commoner, unfamiliar with the palace aside from it being some distant entity that has always loomed over your life like a star in the night sky. Far away, untouchable, yet ever-present. All this and more should be enough to keep each other at arm’s length, to maintain those boundaries between you as solidly as a stone wall of propriety. 

And yet....even now....your feet are carrying you down darkened hallways, up winding steps within narrow tower walls, dusty with disuse. At the top your hand finds the dull, worn brass door handle and pulls, the wood creaking a testament to age and dereliction. You shouldn’t be here, sneaking around like a thief in the night...but there. There is his figure silhouetted by moonlight. He stands at the small window, looking down on the distant, empty courtyard. Your breath catches in your throat. The moon is a loving artist, painting his pale skin with radiant silver, his dark hair in glistening argent light. For once, he is not moving, not writing, not reading, not hurrying from one meeting to the next. He is perfectly still, his dark violet gaze never leaving the glass. Maybe you should leave. Some part of you, some tiny thorn that has dug its way into your mind, is telling you that would be the right thing to do.

You step backwards and the floorboards creak underfoot. He turns and you are lost. One look at his face, at the way his breath caught at the sight of you, at the sudden flash of light in those amethyst eyes, and you know that backwards was never an option. It will always be forwards, always towards him.

You meet in the middle, mouths finding one another, bodies pressed tightly together, held that way by strong arms and blazing hearts. As you drink him in, as you stumble together over the wooden floor toward the bed of this long-forgotten guest suite, the one whose sheets have been unobtrusively replaced with clean, soft linens, you know in the deepest part of your heart and quietest part of your soul that for him, for this, the risk is worth everything.

Clavis Lelouch

You and Clavis have been through many obstacles during your time as Belle. And while that time has come to end, the challenges haven’t. Because of all the things Clavis may be, he is still a prince. And you are still a commoner. And in the eyes of the nobility, your worlds are as incompatible as oil and water. But you love him, this one-of-a-kind man of yours, this golden-eyed song your heart can’t stop singing. And he loves you. Of all the people in all of Rhodolite, you have captured his affection and devotion and passion and there is no way you are ever going to let it go.

And so your love for one another has become good at sliding through shadows. A visit for tea with the princes that ends in a dark alcove, exchanging kisses sweeter than any baked treat. A stroll through the palace gardens in palest moonlight, arm in arm, whispered laughter drifting across roses as dark as pomegranate seeds. Nights in your small bedroom, in your cozy cottage, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops on your roof while nestled together safe and warm under your patched bed quilt. 

Now the sun is just readying itself for its daily climb, the first rosy-fingers of dawn testing their grip on the dusky, pre-dawn sky. Clavis groans, his hands clasped tightly over yours, whispered curses at the sunrise already falling from his lips. You burrow closer against him, your body wrapped around his from behind. As much as you love feeling sheltered in his arms, you can’t deny there is a satisfaction in being the one to hold him like this, to press your forehead against the bare skin between his shoulder blades, as if willing all your thoughts of love and lust to sink into his skin, to become a part of him. 

“I have to go, my love.” If ever a man sounded like he disliked the feel of words in his mouth, it is Clavis right now. With a groan to emphasize how much he hates what he said, he rolls over, turning to face you. “Oh no,” he murmurs as his gaze locks with yours. “This is so much worse. Now I won’t be able to leave at all.” He reaches out, his fingers pushing your loose hair away from your bare shoulder, then drops his hand to the soft skin there, his touch lingering. A sigh is torn from your chest and he shakes his head. “I know that sound. You’re going to be cruel.”

“It isn’t Chevalier you’re meeting with today. And you were late last time.” If it were Chevalier, Clavis may very well stay in your arms for another few hours. The King never once said a word about his brother’s more frequent absences or tardiness. You know Clavis has been pushing himself even harder, getting all his work done and then some so Chevalier would have no reason to complain. But you also suspect the king already knows and does not care. Maybe some part of that cool heart is even happy for Clavis. But the men he is meeting with this morning would not be happy if they knew. Not at all. They are nobility of the old guard, the kind who look down their noses at anyone without a title and would certainly file official complaints if they even suspected a prince of Rhodolite was acting so callously as to have an affair with a commoner. Even if it was one who had been chosen as Belle. 

He knows you are right and it hurts to see the way his eyes dim. His hand slides across your shoulder to the back of your neck. Leaning forward, he pulls you close for one last kiss. He tastes like the sweetness of adoration tinged with the bitterness of necessary departure.

There is a knock at your front door. Two short raps, then one final, stronger one. Cyran’s code for “Get moving.” The kiss breaks as another soft curse leaves his lips before he summons all the willpower he has to pull away from you. You slide out of bed, not one to linger there when he has spent the night. His absence only makes it feel empty and cold. You dress, neither one looking at the other. The lightening sky brings misery along with it. Not wanting him to see the pain in your eyes, you keep your back to him, a hand pressed over your mouth to stifle any soft cry that escapes the tight back of your throat.

He knows anyway. He feels the same noose tightening around his heart. There are no jokes, no quips. He slides one arm around you from behind, pressing a kiss just behind your ear. “Just a few days. Then you’re coming to the palace to deliver those books for Chev.” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to stop the flow of tears that threaten to spill over. “That’s the weekend of the Diplomat’s Ball. I can’t stay.” Too many nobles, too many unfamiliar servants, too many eyes and ears. His moment of silence speaks louder than any words. A heartbeat. Two. Then he speaks. “We’ll find a way, little bunny. We always do.”

Cyran knocks again, irritation practically traveling along the soundwaves. Clavis kisses your cheek, the tenderness almost rendering your heart in two. He whispers against your soft skin: “Remember who loves you.” And then he is nothing but the sound of boots as they leave your bedroom, hurry down the short hallway and turn into the slamming of the door. Closing your eyes tightly is a failure. The tears streaming down your cheeks have triumphed, once again.

Chevalier Michel

He does not see the point in hiding your relationship. Anyone who does not like it, be damned. Or meet the end of his sword. 

(They are very likely the same thing.)

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