Cyril Rose - Tumblr Posts
Hello Violet🥺💖 This is my first time requesting to you, so I hope this is the right way
May I ask for Cyran + rainy days + 🌧? Thank you very much🥺💕 (feel free to ignore if this has been requested!)
A/N: here you are lovely @thewitchofbooks 💜
Cyran x reader, a continuation from his Kiss fic (Italics are excerpts from this fic)
WC: 682
The rain continues to fall, water droplets sliding down the window pane like fallen teardrops, obscuring the view outside of Cyran’s window. He sits at the wooden desk, in the small room above the armory that serves as his office. His red hair is still damp, despite the vigorous rubbing he gave it, the soft towel still hanging around his broad, bare shoulders. The candle on his desk does its best to fight the gray gloom, soft orange-yellow light falling across the parchment where the names of all new recruits are listed in his own neat handwriting. He should be organizing them into regiments, assigning them to the more experienced officers. It’s a task that should take hours, one that should keep him focused. But the thunderstorm in his mind, the one filled with the bright lightning of your kisses, the thunder of your sighs, will not quiet. Eventually he lays his silver-feathered quill down, his head now in his hands.
And then you’re running back towards him and his long legs are swallowing the distance between you until you meet like a clap of thunder, falling into one another’s arms.
He should have turned away, he should have torn his gaze away from the sight of you rushing towards him, surrender in your eyes. You are Belle, tasked with the important job of choosing the next ruler. You can afford no distractions. Especially not from the likes of him.
And yet he gave in, as unable to resist your pull as the ocean could the moon, and you fell into his arms like a star loosened from the sky, fit there so perfectly, felt so damn good.
A low groan escapes him as he reaches for the tumbler with its small volume of burnt amber liquid. The whiskey may be cheap but maybe...maybe it will get the job done. It burns as it goes down, but even if he were to walk through hellfire itself, he knows deep down nothing could burn away the memory of your kiss.
His kiss is devouring, determined to leave no part of you untasted. He steals your breath, swallows your gasps, drinks from your lips. Over and over he kisses you until your legs shake and your blood is a river of fire in your veins. Soon your mouth is not enough. He needs more. His lips scavenge your cheeks, your jawline, and then lower, following the line of your neck. Everywhere he kisses you burns and the raindrops that land there in his wake feel cold as ice.
The rain is forlorn as it continues to tap against the window, whispering at him that he is a fool. A fool for losing himself in your lips, the taste of your hot, slick skin mingled with cold rain. A fool for loving the rough pull of your fingers in his crimson hair, the restless feel of your hands over the wet linen of his tunic, the grip of your hand on his muscled arms.
A fool for leaving you there, dazed with the force of what just happened, your kiss-swollen lips parting as the word “Wait….” slipped past a throat tight with water-logged emotion.
That croaked word, that whisper on the wind, has buried itself in his heart, the points of it digging into his heart like barbed wire, tearing at him just a little more every time it replays itself in his mind.
The tumbler is now empty. The rain endless. Cyran pushes himself away from his desk with a growl, knowing that any attempt to work will be a fruitless endeavor. Best to head back to his quarters where he knows a sleepless night is licking its chops, waiting for him.
He snatches up his sodden tunic, flings open the heavy wooden door with the strength of his frustration……
….only to find you there, cheeks damp with rain or tears or both, your hand raised, hovering in the air as if searching for the courage to actually knock.
His heart lurches in his chest…that foolish, hopeful creature with bloody wings.
Before he can move a muscle, before a word can even form, you have found your mettle.
“We need to talk.”
Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @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
Hello Violet🥺💖 This is my first time requesting to you, so I hope this is the right way
May I ask for Cyran + rainy days + 🌧? Thank you very much🥺💕 (feel free to ignore if this has been requested!)
A/N: here you are lovely @thewitchofbooks 💜
Cyran x reader, a continuation from his Kiss fic (Italics are excerpts from this fic)
WC: 682
The rain continues to fall, water droplets sliding down the window pane like fallen teardrops, obscuring the view outside of Cyran’s window. He sits at the wooden desk, in the small room above the armory that serves as his office. His red hair is still damp, despite the vigorous rubbing he gave it, the soft towel still hanging around his broad, bare shoulders. The candle on his desk does its best to fight the gray gloom, soft orange-yellow light falling across the parchment where the names of all new recruits are listed in his own neat handwriting. He should be organizing them into regiments, assigning them to the more experienced officers. It’s a task that should take hours, one that should keep him focused. But the thunderstorm in his mind, the one filled with the bright lightning of your kisses, the thunder of your sighs, will not quiet. Eventually he lays his silver-feathered quill down, his head now in his hands.
And then you’re running back towards him and his long legs are swallowing the distance between you until you meet like a clap of thunder, falling into one another’s arms.
He should have turned away, he should have torn his gaze away from the sight of you rushing towards him, surrender in your eyes. You are Belle, tasked with the important job of choosing the next ruler. You can afford no distractions. Especially not from the likes of him.
And yet he gave in, as unable to resist your pull as the ocean could the moon, and you fell into his arms like a star loosened from the sky, fit there so perfectly, felt so damn good.
A low groan escapes him as he reaches for the tumbler with its small volume of burnt amber liquid. The whiskey may be cheap but maybe...maybe it will get the job done. It burns as it goes down, but even if he were to walk through hellfire itself, he knows deep down nothing could burn away the memory of your kiss.
His kiss is devouring, determined to leave no part of you untasted. He steals your breath, swallows your gasps, drinks from your lips. Over and over he kisses you until your legs shake and your blood is a river of fire in your veins. Soon your mouth is not enough. He needs more. His lips scavenge your cheeks, your jawline, and then lower, following the line of your neck. Everywhere he kisses you burns and the raindrops that land there in his wake feel cold as ice.
The rain is forlorn as it continues to tap against the window, whispering at him that he is a fool. A fool for losing himself in your lips, the taste of your hot, slick skin mingled with cold rain. A fool for loving the rough pull of your fingers in his crimson hair, the restless feel of your hands over the wet linen of his tunic, the grip of your hand on his muscled arms.
A fool for leaving you there, dazed with the force of what just happened, your kiss-swollen lips parting as the word “Wait….” slipped past a throat tight with water-logged emotion.
That croaked word, that whisper on the wind, has buried itself in his heart, the points of it digging into his heart like barbed wire, tearing at him just a little more every time it replays itself in his mind.
The tumbler is now empty. The rain endless. Cyran pushes himself away from his desk with a growl, knowing that any attempt to work will be a fruitless endeavor. Best to head back to his quarters where he knows a sleepless night is licking its chops, waiting for him.
He snatches up his sodden tunic, flings open the heavy wooden door with the strength of his frustration……
….only to find you there, cheeks damp with rain or tears or both, your hand raised, hovering in the air as if searching for the courage to actually knock.
His heart lurches in his chest…that foolish, hopeful creature with bloody wings.
Before he can move a muscle, before a word can even form, you have found your mettle.
“We need to talk.”
Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @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
A/N: A little fic inspired by @vioisgoinginsane and her delightful Cyran in Pyjamas art
Cyran x Reader
WC: 638
Head librarian of the royal palace is a job that suits you to a tee, but it comes with long hours, especially when arranging the procurement of foreign titles. By the time you are done with all your correspondences, first to the librarian in Jade and then the royal library of Tanzanite, the moon is hanging high in the inky black sky, a perfect crescent of silvery light. You hurry, feet whispering over the tiled floor of the palace, then crunching over the straw and grass along the path to the armory and then scuffling over the coarse gray stone of the armory steps.
Above the collection of toothy weaponry is Cyran's bedroom: your destination on this warm, breezy night.
The oaken door, scarred and worn, opens on silent, well-oiled hinges. Cyran takes care of his things. One of the many admirable qualities about the Obsidian soldier that made you stumble and then fall for him.
"Cyran?"
You step into the room, lit only by the amber glow of the oil lamps. Your eyes need a moment to adjust before you spot him.
He's asleep at his desk, his check pillowed by strong forearms. Around him papers are neatly stacked. Quill and inkwell tidied away. Everything is ordered and structured, except…..
You smile softly. His hair falls messily across his forehead, a curtain of red, deeper than the blaze of the blacksmith's forge. It is the red of the sky on the tipping point of night. The dark crimson of the Scarlatta rose, whose petals have been singed by loving kisses of darkness.
You cross the creaky wooden floor as quietly as you can, soaking in the sight of the man who never shows exhaustion, who handles every challenge, from Clavis's wild whims to military training maneuvers, with a stoic sense of pride. Your touch is gentle, trailing the back of your fingers across his cheek, rough with several days worth of russet stubble.
The caress reaches him beyond the place where sleep reigns, his mind breaking from the soft cocoon it has woven around him. He stirs, his dark eyes blinking away the last strands of dreaming that cling to his consciousness like cobwebs.
"You're back," he murmurs in a voice sandpaper-rough with sleep.
"Mm hmm." His hair is one of the most luxurious textures you've ever touched. Soft and fine as spun silk. It flows through your fingers like water over stone. "Come on, Red. Bedtime."
He grumbles as you lean forward, taking his strong hands in yours and urging him up and away from his desk. It's only when he's standing you notice he's already changed for bed.
Running a hand down the soft linen of his sleep shirt, you raise your gaze, your smile curved with curiosity, soft with affection.
"If you already changed, why didn't you get in bed?" You know how long his day was, stretching from the early rosy-fingers of dawn brushing the sky until the first diamond-edged star cut its way through the dark sheet of night.
He yawns, his words slow and honey-thick with sleepiness.
"I didn't want to fall asleep without you so I went to my desk…." He yawns again and your heart feels like it might burst with the swell of affection that floods it. He went to his desk to stay awake, to wait for you.
Gently you lead him to bed where he falls back onto his pillow with a heavy thump. His eyes are already closing as you pull the thin woolen blanket up over his broad chest.
"You're coming?" His voice is foggy with another yawn.
You lean down, anointing his forehead with a petal-soft kiss.
"I'll be right there, my love." Your smile is lambent with affection as you drink in the sight of him, this wonderful man who shelters your heart so tenderly in his calloused hands. "I'll be right there."
Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly
Your surprise from the sudden hat descending on your head must have made physical work of your face; in the next second, Cyran's shapely lips pull away with a plush crackle and his breathy laugh somehow impresses you with more intimacy than that consummate kiss still rocking your heels. "Sun's a beast today," he remarks while bending the floppy brim into two ears beside your cheeks. The warmth and weight of his hands delights you through the scratchy tweed. "I don't want your head to get hot. You might faint, and while I don't mind carrying you..." He snatches up your hand with boldness that's almost gaudy coming from him. Of all the poems Cyran writes, not a one will ever be about his own dimpled smile, you think with the nonsensical grief of the lovestricken. You ferry your gaze between his lips and the still-shy invitation in his eyes. "...You haven't yet made it clear whether or not you enjoy being carried by me."
a/n: cyran running around while carrying you might be my favorite cyran fact that thewitchofbooks shared. also, a tiny nod to olivermorningstar's "missed connection" theme
Cyran gangster spice ^^
A/N: Here you go, anon! I hope you like it!
Cyran x Reader, Gangster AU/ Gangster x Doctor AU
TW: blood, injury, needles
WC:~2.2 k
The ringing cracks the silence of your darkened bedroom like a sledgehammer on ice. You push yourself up, still bleary with sleep, one hand fumbling through the gloom for your phone which should be sleeping too, well-behaved and quiet on your nightstand. It takes another second of angry ringing before you realize it’s not your personal phone. It’s the other phone. The one in the top drawer, rattling the items inside of it as it vibrates in time to the ringing, demanding attention. The phone you don’t want to hear going off, especially not in the heart of nighttime.
Sleep evaporates like frost on a sunny morning as you yank the drawer open and grab the small, nondescript black device. Caller unknown. But you know who it is. Only one person has this number.
“Hello?” Your voice is fuzzy with sleep.
“Good evening. Does your store sell copies of fairy tales? I’m looking for Little Red Riding Hood, the Rosenbrand edition. I hear there are only 10 copies left in circulation.”
Your heart sinks. Red Riding Hood means a serious injury, something bloody. Rosenbrand means the flower shop location. Ten copies means be there in 10 minutes.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong number.” The standard response. Your code for I’ll be there.
On the other end, the voice you know to be Nokto’s hangs up and you leap out of bed, changing into dark jeans and a black sweater, yanking open the closet to grab your medical kit and then you’re off, dashing out of your apartment and into the deceptively calm night.
You slip into the dark flower shop via the backdoor and immediately the velvet scent of roses overwhelms you. It is their specialty after all. And their symbol. Anywhere the Rhodolite Mafia goes, roses follow in their wake, their dark red petals scattered across crime scenes like little calling cards. Their members all bear the same rose tattoo on their bodies. You don’t have a tattoo. You’re not a member, officially but you are on their payroll and under their protection. So says the delicate golden rose and chain that hangs around your neck, resting against your heart.
You punch in the security code and a door at the back slides open, revealing a set of cement steps that lead down, down, down until you reach the bottom and step into the large room that the mafia uses for all medical emergencies. Your own private little examination room. And if necessary, OR.
For the second time that night, your heart stops. Laying back on the examination table is the one person whose name flashed through your mind like a neon sign the entire moonlit dash here, the one who you were silently hoping wouldn’t be your patient.
Cyran.
His shirt has been unbuttoned and he has bloodied gauze pressed against his arm, his dark eyes closed as he focuses on keeping pressure on his own wound. Clavis turns, golden eyes bright as an owl’s in the dim light.
“What happened?” Your tone is short, brisk. Every nerve in your body is on high alert as you pull on your latex gloves, moving towards Cyran.
“Blade, not a bullet.” Clavis steps back as you move in, the next steps of assessment as automatic to you as breathing. Cyran’s eyes open, only now aware you are there and you notice the flash of something across his features, some light in the depths of the fog of pain that he’s in. Your name passes his lips, a rough whisper.
“Altercation at the docks. Obsidian thugs thought they would be able to disrupt an important shipment.” Clavis’s phone chirps and he turns away from where you are working, removing Cyran’s shirt, cleaning up the bloody mess so you can get a better idea of what you’re dealing with.
You glance over your shoulder at him, the slight frown on his face as he reads whatever message he’s received.
“You ok, Lelouch?”
He fixes a bright smile on his face, but the light never reaches his eyes.
“I have to go.” No explanation. You are too low on the food chain for those. “Take good care of my right-hand man. I need him back in action soon and in one piece.”
You flick him a two-fingered salute and he nods, knowing Cyran is in good hands. As he jogs up the stairs, you hear him on his phone.
“....On my way, Chev….” The door at the top of the stairs closes with a heavy thunk and you are left alone with somewhat less bloody, very tense Cyran.
His shirt has been cast away, banished to a red and white heap on the floor which you casually kick to one side as you lean in to get a better look at his upper arm, where an ugly gash cuts across his deltoid. Reaching up to adjust the overhead lamp, you open your medical kit and begin the careful process of stitching the taunt skin back together. He hasn’t said a word since Clavis left, stoically staring straight ahead, intensely focused on the concrete wall opposite him.
Your head is bowed down, gaze following the rise and fall of your curved needle, the rational, medical part of your mind tightening its grip on the reins of your imagination. After all, there is an entire landscape of shirtless Cyran laid out in front of you. Curves of hard muscle that dip and bulge, secret places usually hidden by austere suits or leather jackets.
You’re close enough to hear the coarse sound of his inhale as you grip his arm. Clearing your throat you make an attempt to pierce the thick fog of tension that has settled over the room.
“Why is it always blades with you? Other members have the decency to just get shot.”
Your comment is so unexpected and honestly, so intentionally ludicrous that he turns his head involuntarily. Now his face is mere inches away from yours and you can feel his gaze on you as strongly as sunshine on a summer’s morning. And just like the sun, it brings a warmth to your cheeks that you hope he doesn’t notice.
He grunts as you finish suturing the injury, glancing down to take in your handiwork. You straighten up, adjusting your weight on the small padded stool you’ve been sitting on.
“And? Do I pass inspection, Mr. Rose?”
Something about the tone of your voice, an attempt at lightheartedness that skims over the jagged peaks of anxiety, has him finally meet your gaze and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile.
“You always do, doc.”
Those words settle across your mind like a silken sheet across a bed. You’re about to pull off your gloves, searching for something to say when you notice the blood staining the top of his gray slacks.
“What’s this…..?” You lean forward, glancing at him for permission to reach into the hem of his pants and take a look. An expression you don’t expect crosses his face: he looks almost sheepish.
“I….I was involved in a scuffle last week.”
You motion for him to lower his pants, trying to ignore what the sight of Cyran’s large, rough hands pulling down his zipper does to your body temperature. He slides his pants down slowly, just low enough for you to be given a tantalizing glimpse of that alluring line where the obliques meet the transversus abdominis muscle.
Medical professionalism trumps lust as you take in the shoddy stitching at his hip.
“What quack did this?” You’re already preparing another needle and thread, brow furrowed in annoyance.
“I did it myself.”
You glance up sharply, hands pausing for a moment.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
You return to the work of fixing his on-the-fly patch job. He’s silent a moment and you wait, knowing he heard you. It takes him until you’re nearly done to answer.
“You know I couldn’t.”
Your work is finished and yet somehow you can’t move you away, one hand resting on the hard plane of his lower stomach, the other pressed lightly under the wound you’ve just finished re-stitching. Slowly you tilt your head up to look at him. He’s backlit by the overhead lamplight, his red hair almost black because of it. Shadow falls across the angles of his face and all you can see clearly is the brightness of his eyes. As if pulled by a magnet, your upper body rises slowly, your face coming closer to his. Carefully, with every other part of you crystallized in place, you remove your gloves, then return your hands to where they were, touching the now warm skin of his body.
Your lips are scant inches apart and your heart slams into your breastbone as if urging you forward to close the gap.
Cyran’s beautiful eyes close and his head turns ever so slightly away from you.
“We can’t.”
The words are tight in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to say them, that he’s forcing them out between clenched teeth.
Still so close, you breathe outward and you know he feels the warmth on his cheek. Your nose brushes his, your lips ache at how close they are to the paradise of his kiss.
“We already have,” you whisper in return, forgetting everything: the phone calls in the dead of night. The hiding in secret rooms tricked out with medical equipment. The heart-stopping anxiety every time you think you hear gunshots. All that you know right now is that he’s here, warm to your touch, so close you can count every individual eyelash.
His eyes flutter open and he meets your gaze.
“And it can never happen again.”
It’s there, in the depths of his soulful eyes. The memory of….
….that night, the one where he escorted you home under a black sky, raging with thunder and pent up clouds. Your skirt was stained with blood that wasn’t yours, your fingers trembling with a fear that definitely was. Your car, several streets away, gasping with bullet holes. Cyran had been there, had whisked you away in an armored vehicle and insisted on seeing you to your apartment, on coming inside and making sure everything was secure.
When he turned to go, every nerve in your body screamed at once at the loss. You launched yourself towards him, a wild bird in flight, and he had welcomed you into the sky of his arms, pulling you against the safety of his hard body. He held you until the trembling stopped.
And then the world exploded as the clouds released their pent-up rain and you had lifted yourself up to press your mouth to his. Cyran pushed his fingers into your hair with a groan, allowing himself to fall, a raindrop from heaven, a soul giving in, into you and your sweetness, your want, your heated kisses.
The wild storm had nothing on the two of you, that night.
You see the way the memory is reaching for you both at once, has you both angling your heads so that only the slightest movement will have your mouths touch once again. Your lips actually hurt with need. Your body practically thrums with the desire to taste him again.
He shifts and suddenly the metal pan holding the needle and thread and gauze clatters to the ground, his thigh having bumped it off the table’s edge. The loud crash shatters the moment and you both jump apart, hearts racing. Cyran clears his throat, his head shaking as if waking himself from a dream. When he speaks, the same words you have heard too many times since that night fall from his lips.
His life is dangerous.
You are already way too involved.
The reality of being with him is nothing but heartache and worry.
You need to remain as innocent and ignorant as possible, for plausibility, deniability, for your own damn safety.
He could never live with himself if anything happened to you…..
The flow of words stops as you press your finger to his lips. A sigh like the storm-buffeted waves of the ocean escapes him, shaky and uninhibited. The touch turns into the kiss you’ve been hungering for, except it's not the crush of his mouth on yours, the stampede of desire come to call, but rather the softest press to your fingertip, the fleeting caress of a butterfly’s wing.
Your heart both sinks and lifts, a paradox of emotion flowing through you.
He turns his face into your hand, his usual stoicism bled out by the force of his feelings for you. Pain, longing, tenderness bow his shoulders, pull kiss after kiss from his lips to your palm. You slide your hand across the line of his cheekbone, thumb stroking the rough stubble there. And then you lean down, pressing a petal-soft kiss to his forehead.
Cyran is still as a winter’s night, frozen despite the thundering of his heart. He knows this is for the best….but how much longer can he continue to do the right thing?
You start to pull away, turning towards the stairs that lead up and away, back into the night and its bright, cold stars, when something clamps around your wrist, stopping you.
You turn to see him, eyes flashing with something hot and bright, his strong fingers wrapped around you, holding you. He whispers your name, an echo of the rough whisper from earlier, when he first realized you were there, and you capitulate, crumbling into the shelter of his embrace even as your mouths seek and find each other.
If not doing this, if not kissing you desperately, touching you, claiming you, if not doing these things is the right thing…..then Cyran is tired of it.
Forget the right thing. He lives a life that blossoms in the shadows of right and wrong anyway. Right and wrong are shades of gray in his world. And now as he drags his mouth down the smooth line of your neck, revels in the sting of your fingernails digging into his shoulder, he knows that he can deny this, and you, no longer.
He sinks into dark temptation, caring for nothing other than right here and now.
Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @mastering-procrastinating @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @bubblexly @wordycheesecake
A/N: Last but not least: Cyran tied with Gilbert right behind Clavis and so he gets my final entry for Aqua and my Summer Days Sultry Nights CCC.
Suitor: Cyran, Prompt: Starry Night
WC: ~560
You think you are alone, here in the open heart of the forest, but you are wrong. Above, swimming in the inky darkness of a night sky, the stars themselves blink at the sight of you two, together. They watch, curious, as you fall, heavy with relief, into the fortress of Cyran’s arms and press yourself against the hard stonework of his body. Your eyes close as you hold him, as you breathe in the comforting, earthy scent of his skin. Here you are safe, far away from the palace with its many doors and many windows where even an idle gaze might happen upon something it shouldn’t. Something that is forbidden.
You hurried here, fighting through the grasping branches of the forest, the ones that plucked at your clothing and passed on the whispering wind’s warning. You were fleet-footed over winding paths littered with sharp twigs and leaves that hid dangerous inclines and threatening stones which punched the bottom of your leather boots as you ran. The forest watched closely as you cut your way through the darkness, no light but the pale slants of a crescent moon filtered through the trees to guide you. Finally you finally reached the clearing, the clandestine oasis in the middle of the forest, where the moon can shine unhindered and crickets sing a love song to the starry sky.
He is already there, having arrived earlier than planned. His usually bright hair is a burnished garnet in the darkness. He has his broad back turned to where you emerge from the trees, one hand at the pommel of sword, always at the ready, always dutiful. Always on guard.
Until he met you. You are the one that penetrated his rigid armor of order with your kindness, your intelligence, your warmth, your beauty. The one who reached through all those layers of loyalty, uncertainty, propriety, apprehension to take his heart in your hands, and remold it into a vessel capable of holding more than just those iron emotions.
Now, as he holds you in his strong arms, your hands cradle his face and fill his heart with tenderness; your body presses against his, electric, filling his heart with desire. Your throat passes along sighs and whispered words of devotion, filling his heart with a sense of calm, of safety. Because of you, his heart is full, those once locked-up chambers unfolding like a lunar blossom in the starlight.
He undoes his alabaster cape in one elegant movement and lays it down, a rectangle of light surrounded by dark green grass. He pulls you back in his arms, even a second apart too much, and locked together, you slowly sink to your knees. The world tilts and for a moment, only the star-crossed sky fills your vision, those glowing pinpoints of heavenly brilliance scattered across the velvet black of night. And then Cyran is above you and you close your eyes to the sky, sight unnecessary, as you run your hands through the silk of his hair, taste the hunger of his kiss.
The stars continue to shine, but you have found a source of something divine, right here on earth. Devotion in the caress of his rough fingers, benediction in the sound of your name on his lips, revelation in every heated kiss. You sink into the pure light of his affection, your heart alight with a love brighter than any nightborne star.
Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly
With the newest (ongoing) party event in ikepri jp, that was all I could think about with those rabbit cakes 🥲 (very very old doodle)
Adding to the Cyril Rose facts:
🌹 There is a certain wedding sword dance that the only the Knights of Rhodolite know. Chevalier knows the dance too, so does Licht (who already did it for his Mc as a Valentine gift). I will guess that Cyril knows it, as he is the lead knight of foreign affairs faction and he has been in Rhodolite for many years. As for Chevalier, he comes from a family of Knights, so he definitely would have learned it