Hi! I Hope It's Not Too Late But May I Request Chevalier/ 7/ Comfort/ 2nd POV Pelase?

Hi! I hope it's not too late but may I request Chevalier/ 7/ Comfort/ 2nd POV pelase?

Characters: Chevalier Michel, F!Reader

POV: 2nd person Genre: Comfort

Prompt #7: “Don't worry about winning. Worry about coming home.”

Wordcount: 1295

A/N: Ripping off the bandage quick with this one. I had two VERY different ideas for this prompt, but today we're going with a young Chevalier and a young reader set in the story event when Chevalier was supposed to attend a tea party with his brothers and the children of the nobility... but it didn't go so well. Thank you for the request!

You tucked the ends of your tulle skirt into the cuffs of your socks after they slipped out for the sixth time. The dress you wore was pretty, polished, and poofy, none of which was particularly pragmatic for your spontaneous stealth mission. As you spread your puffy-sock-covered legs across the luxurious rug in what you assumed was a study, you wondered how long it would take before someone noticed you were missing, when the sound of the door opening stiffened your limbs.

The velvet armchair you’d chosen as your hiding place was excellent for concealing your uncooperative skirt, but impractical for reconnaissance. Keeping as still as possible, you counted the seconds in your mind until the door shut again, and nearly stood to check that the coast was clear until the sound of footsteps froze you in your spot again.

The game’s up, you thought, patting your dress free from the dust and lint that accumulated over the morning. You would have to answer for slipping away, yes, but the least you could do was look presentable in your confession.

You craned your neck toward the door to catch a glimpse of your discoverer, fully expecting whoever it was to be visible even from your limited view, but found no one. 

How strange. Those footsteps were definitely coming from inside the room, and there’s no way anyone could conceal themself so quickly upon entering. Why, you had squeezed yourself into all the nooks and crannies before deciding upon the chair as your best option. The poofy skirt severely limited your options, so what of an adult twice your size? No, the only logical explanation was that this someone had been in this room before.

You repositioned yourself so that you were crouching, the skirt slipping out from your socks again, and popped your head over the armrest. Sure enough, there was nobody standing in the doorway, or by the window, or in front of the bookshelf, or at the desk, or next to the fireplace. But there was someone sitting in the armchair. A young boy with striking light hair and furrowed brows, looking straight down at you with his shining blue eyes.

You wanted to scream, but the moment you opened your mouth a hand roughly covered it and pushed you back down to sit. Then there was a thud as the boy landed beside you and crouched behind the chair.

“Mmguhmma!” you said from behind his hand, which you hoped would be interpreted as “Who are you?” or “Let me go!” or even “Go find your own hiding place, you boorish cur!” but the boy only scowled and brought the pointer finger of his free hand to his lips. 

Something about the way he faced you ticked you off the wrong way. Maybe it was the way he so seamlessly entered the room and cornered you, or how he effortlessly took control even though you’d been here first, or his stare that seemed to freeze and pierce deeper through your skull with every passing second. Regardless of what it was you wanted out, and you raised your arms to push him away when voices from the hall stopped you.

“I think he went through here,” said one voice.

“Don’t pull a muscle, I’ll bet he’s gone to the library,” sighed a second. “Oh, why did we get stuck with finding him? I wanted to spend my afternoon eating teacakes, not chasing down beasts!”

“Remember, you’re on duty,” warned the first voice. “You’re not supposed to be eating.”

“I’m not supposed to be hunting down Prince Chevalier either. I think I deserve a reward,” huffed the second.

Your arms dropped limply to your sides as you stared back at the boy. Was this the Prince Chevalier? The peerless prodigy who memorized libraries, commanded armies, and dominated Rhodolite’s elite?

“He’s only a child,” said the first voice, sounding less assured with each word.

“He’s no normal child,” said the second. “You’re still new here, but when it comes to Prince Chevalier, you never want to get involved. You saw what happened in the garden, even his own flesh and blood can’t bear to be around him.”

“They’re only children, too! None of them even looked remotely interested in the tea party. Why did all those counts and dukes have to drag their children into their messed up politics?”

“It’s all a game to them, the world of the nobles. They’ll use their own kin as pawns to get even the tiniest bit ahead, because that’s how you play and that’s how you win. But when it comes to those noble beasts you don’t worry about winning. You worry about coming home.”

The room grew cold the longer Chevalier’s stared on you, and your jaw began to tremble. You wished you could at least turn away, but his grip never loosened as the conversation wore on, and his eyes never wavered from yours.

“It’s not right,” the first voice said after a long pause. “It’s just not right.”

“It doesn’t matter what we think’s right or wrong. We just do our job and pray we don’t cross the wrong path. The sooner you learn, the better,” said the second voice.

“Well, we still have to find him,” said the first.

“Don’t pull a muscle, the party’ll last all afternoon.”

It wasn’t until the footsteps completely died away that Chevalier finally released his hold on you, and as soon as he did, you quickly crawled backward, ripping the tulle in your haste, until you collided hard with the bookshelf, your chest galloping up and down like a sprinting horse. 

“If you’re going to cry, get it over with and go back outside,” Chevalier said sharply as he stood. The immense relief you felt when his eyes finally left yours was immeasurable, but as easily as the dread trickled away, sorrow was quick to take its place.

“What happened at the party?” you asked.

“If you weren’t hiding, you would know,” he said.

“I’m not h-hiding!” you stammered, getting to your feet. “I only got lost!”

“So lost that your first words when someone found you were ‘Go find your own hiding place, you boorish cur’?”

Your face grew hot. So hot that even Chevalier’s returned wintry stare couldn’t cool your flaming cheeks. “You startled me,” you said.

“You mean terrified. They all do,” he said.

“No— you don’t terrify me, Prince Chevalier!” you said quickly. 

“They always lie, too.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Then I will direct you back to the party and we can go our separate ways.”

Your lips trembled as he stood by the door and folded his arms. You wanted to crawl back behind the armchair and sink into the dark velvet, but you felt certain his eyes would pierce through the fabric undeterred no matter what. You stared at the ground, grabbing fistfulls of your skirt.

“I can’t go out there. My dress is ruined,” you said, not believing your own flimsy excuse. 

“Only teared. It can be easily mended,” he said. “A simple overhand or running stitch will suffice. There is a sewing kit in that desk.”

“But I don’t know how to sew,” you said.

“There are books in the library with pictures,” he said impatiently.

“Will you show me?”

“Haven’t I helped you enough?”

“Yes, so let me help you back.”

Chevalier’s brows furrowed, though unlike when he first found you, this time was out of confusion.

“Those people said they’ll be looking for you in the library, right? Tell me which shelf the books are, and I’ll bring them back here and we can fix my dress,” you said.

“And exactly how does that help me?” he asked.

“Because you don’t want to be alone as much as I don’t want to go out there," you said. "You came into this room knowing someone was here, right?”

When I attend social gatherings I didn't want to go to, I pass the time looking at the other guests and wondering who else didn't want to be there.

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🐹<- You are so sweet and supportive (also very funny)🥺💖

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No u!!

The King's Royal Guard (a Lucian snippet)

Hair a midnight black that shimmered with deep blue tones in the gentle light of a setting sun. You catch only a glimpse before it has disappeared from your sight again. Like a spectre in the night, you see him only in your peripherals, a shadow of a man, even more silent than his master. But in the moments you've stolen with him over the past several months, you know his handsome face is comprised of sharp lines and fiercely deep amber eyes. They can drown you in fire without a single word uttered from those perfect lips. His body is lean, and his muscles are pulled taut over fair, unblemished skin.

Each dip in his torso is accentuated by shadows, and although it looks cool to the touch, it burns hot when he presses down onto you, shrouded in the shadow of his long, straight locks. His breath scorches your neck as he sighs into your embrace, filling you to the brim while he works to release the tension from his body. A finger slips between your lips so you can suckle instead of moan; the silence must not be broken. You must not be found. Discovery would lead to a swift end to your midnight trysts, something you were not sure you could live without; not after sampling the sweetness of the forbidden fruit that is your king's royal guard.

Ugh. Darling. I literally typed these up immediately after your first post about angst/tension. My submissions for Broken Heartstrings:

One that would kill me is the build of MC working themselves sick. Only to find out it gave way for another, more serious illness. And if that was with Arthur or Sariel.

As for accidents, especially if it was MC protecting her love (and that if she hadn't, they would be in the same position as her), my brain dies a little at how Theo would react. Or Chev.

I'm so ready for the angst 😈

A/N: here you are, @yarnnerdally ! 💜

cw: sickness, injury, violence, blood

WC: 1421

Arthur

Why is getting out of bed so damn hard? Your bones feel like they are made of lead, your muscles barely able to lift them. You’ve been working so hard, but you always managed to push through. Until today. You’re tired, you admit to Arthur. Even those few words are difficult through a throat dry as the desert steppes. And they're thorny. This admission of weakness scrapes against your teeth, digs into your tongue. You don't want to worry him….

But his blue eyes are bright with worry, endless oceans of worry when he notices the lethargy of your movements, the hand pressed against your chest. His concern is chasms-deep because this is not the first time he's seen this, this deflated version of you. It's been happening over days, weeks. It's knocked at the window of his medical mind only to be shuttered and kept out by his apprehensive heart.

It’s nothing, you say. Your words are hollow. He hears the gray exhaustion that colors them, he sees the pallor in your cheeks, the dimming of your bright eyes. It’s nothing you repeat to his retreating form. He knows illness when he sees it and he can't deny it any longer. He wants a second opinion to quiet the riot of fear that flies through his mind.

It’s nothing, you say, shooting Arthur and Comte a weak look of annoyance even as the doctor they’ve brought around presses the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope against your back. He shushes you to silence and if you had the energy to glare, you would. He listens to your breathing, your heartbeat, his wrinkled fingers wrapping around your wrist, counting under his breath. He examines your body with astute eyes, his expression professionally inscrutable, chiseled in stone. And then he leaves the room, taking both vampires with him. 

You strain to hear what they are saying but the door is only open a few centimeters and their words float away from you like smoke.

When he re-enters the room, Arthur's face immediately tells you more than any of his words ever could: The lines of worry etched into the sides of his mouth, the press of his brows, the unnatural gleam in his eyes, a sky on fire. The way he sinks into the chair by your bedside like Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders. His two hands find yours, clasping that thin appendage, tenderly. Devoutly.

Words are delivered with a voice that does its best not to shake and often fails. Winding through affirmations of love you hear the soft, off-key clang of anxiety, you hear things like “blood sickness”, “Dr. Virchow”, “bruising”, “fatigue”, “rest”. He does not need to say it. There is an unmistakable undercurrent of sorrow, a whirlpool of abject uncertainty and misery in his voice. He brings your hand to his lips like a prayer. Anyone else could rise on a tide of false hope, could use their lack of medical knowledge, their ignorance, as a buoy to keep them hoping for a miracle. But not Arthur. He knows the truth, he sees its ugly maw in the distance, wide-open and waiting patiently while the disease runs its course and ultimately delivers you into its jaws, taking you from him forever.

Your eyes are closed. His voice, so beloved to you, has lulled you to sleep. The words you'll deal with another time. When you're not so tired. For now it's enough that he's with you, head bowed over you, a blade of grass yielding to the winds of an oncoming storm. Bending. But not breaking. As long as you draw breath, he will find the strength to stay whole, to hold the pieces of his soul together. For you. 

Theo

It starts like any other day. Another opulent mansion. Another patron looking to make it even more opulent by hanging an eye-catching painting. Theo in his smart business suit, strategically flashing his dazzling, white-toothed smile; you offering a gentler version of that smile whenever the patron you're persuading turns his curious gaze in your direction. 

In a wood-paneled office surrounded by rich furnishings and a massive mahogany desk, with sunset's warm colors washing over all of you through crown glass windows, you do not hear the sound of the heavy front door opening, the thud as the butler falls to the Italian marble floor, the dull footsteps heading straight towards the office.

The embellished wooden door to said office is ajar and opens with a wild swing, slamming into the thick walnut bookcase with a heartstopping bang. You jump and then your mind goes blank as the sight of an armed gunman strikes your brain like lightning. 

And then time slows. The world blurs like a hand swiping across a freshly painted canvas. The gunman demands money. However he's not staring at the patron but Theo. He's mistakenly assumed Theo, in his expensive suit, is the wealthy owner of this villa. The gun shakes in his hand, aimless, not focused on anyone but rather acting as a threat of what could be. His voice trembles when he demands money. Sweat drips down his temple, soaking into the frayed edges of the worn rag tied around his lower face.

Suddenly your patron makes a run for the door and chaos explodes. All you see is the gunman turning, the gun now steadily pointing at Theo, a target in his addled mind. 

And you fly, wings on your feet, body reacting automatically. The gun spits out its bullet from a mouth full of sound and fury, and what would have lodged itself in Theo's stomach strikes your back instead. A blossom of red. A spray of crimson droplets. And then your world narrows, darkness closing in until it has taken you completely.

……….Theodorus……..

He refuses to leave your bedside. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t changed out of his bloodstained clothing. Whose blood it is, he isn’t sure. Yours, when he cradled your limp body against his chest, heavy with the anvil of disbelief and shock. The gunman’s when he turned, a monster born of fury and pain, and exacted the toll for daring to hurt you. 

Never has he moved so quickly, never have his legs swallowed the earth as fast as when he brought you to the mansion, his deep voice ringing throughout the vast rooms, singed with panic, raspy with fear. Comte goes to remove you from his arms but he will not let go. His blue eyes are nebulous, bright with the force of every shaking breath, every shuddering heartbeat. Arthur motions for him to follow and he does, only letting you go when Vincent’s gentle voice, in the softly spoken language of their homeland, breaks through the fog: Het is oké, broer. Laat haar gaan. Laat Arthur werken.

Never has Theo been more grateful for his friend. Arthur has done his best, assessing the injury, cleaning it, sewing it closed with steady, razor-sharp precision. Now those hands clamp down on Theo’s shoulder. There is nothing more he can do. Theo reaches up, his hand covering one of Arthur’s for a moment, the gesture saying more than any words could. Arthur nods, subdued and then quietly leaves you both..

And now Theo is alone with you, you so pale and small in your bed. Even the warm light of the oil lanterns cannot bring color to your cheeks.

He falls forward in his chair, runs his hands through his hair, elbows resting on his knees. It is because of him. He should have been the one to take the bullet. He would heal just fine. Why didn’t you just let him? Why did you have to throw yourself in the way, you a mortal, whose life is the delicate dance of a spider’s web in the wind. There was no reason….no reason….his breath quakes within his broad chest. He would close his eyes, he would let the tears burning behind them fall but then……then he would miss looking at you. The tears would blur his vision of you and that, nee….that is not acceptable. 

He will sit here, keeping vigil, searching your face for any signs of life. All night if need be. And all day. He will not move. Because it isn’t just your life hanging there in balance…..it is his as well. 

Because, he thinks as he raises his gaze, presses his lips to your cold hand, without you…..Ik heb niets. I have nothing.

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Two more hours and almost 13 minutes left! I'll make sure to start on the winner as soon as possible! Thank you for voting!

Hello everyone! This is my first poll! I decided to make 2 posts with facts about Cyril and Lucian (separate posts for each character), so I wanted to ask:

Special delivery from Cyran pls sign here. Thank you. Enjoy!

Thank you very much for the delivery @atelier-the-atelier , I'll be more than happy to sign and accept it😌

If you could, someone has been getting jealous and asking (begging) for your attention (Please hold him tightly and away from the crown carrots of Rhodolite! 😌 He comes with a warning: Either hold him or be made to😏)