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A/N: Since I was not able to complete all the fic requests for the Fall Fluff Autumn Angst Content Creation Challenge, I thought I could still do the ones I had left as headcanons 🌟

I did them for Ikepri here, now its time for vamp!

Napoleon, Mozart, Leonardo x reader

Word Count: 1853

Ikemen Vampire Fall Fluff Headcanons 🍂

Napoleon - Hot Apple Cider 🍎

It is the middle of the night, an hour when everyone should be warm and snug in their beds, lost in the garden of their dreams. You should also be curled against the warm body of the man you love but said body is….not there. Your stretched out hand searches the bed but finds nothing. You wiggle closer to his side, still feeling around and still all you touch are cool, empty sheets. With a groan, you push yourself up, rubbing sleepily at your eyes. Napoleon is not in bed and you know exactly where he is.

When the kitchen door opens, you are greeted by the heavenly scent of warm apple cider. Allspice and cinnamon drift dreamily up from the pot that the man you love is stirring. He glances at you over his shoulder with a sheepish grin on his handsome face.

“I couldn’t help it, Nunuche. I had to.” The conversation you had in this very kitchen, not six hours ago, replays itself in your mind. He was determined to treat everyone to hot apple cider tomorrow. But as he made it, something……something was missing. And despite your insistence that it was perfect, you knew by the glint in those eyes, bright as peacock feathers, that he didn’t agree. And because he is who he is, wanting to do his absolute best at anything he undertakes, he snuck back to the kitchen to make it just right.

You sigh, the sound warm with equal parts affection and exasperation as you walk over to him, sliding one arm around his waist as you eye the dark orange liquid. “And?”

His smile could illuminate the darkest of nights as he reaches for another, smaller spoon and carefully dips it into the cider. He raises it to his lips, blowing softly until he is certain it won’t be too hot for you to sip and then leans close. You drink the warm cider from the spoon and the expression on your face tells him he was right.

“That….is amazing. Even better than earlier. What did you add?” When he holds up the small bowl with the magic ingredient, you don’t recognize it until you bring it closer to your nose. “Cardamom?” He nods, pleased you recognized it. “Oui. Now it is perfect.”

You slide your arms around his waist, expression soft. “Does this mean you are now coming to bed?” You reach up, running a hand over the soft strands of his hair. Napoleon wraps his arms around you, nodding as he drops a gentle kiss to your lips. “I will clean up here,” he murmurs, his voice soft and alluring, “And then….” He kisses you once more. “Nothing…..” Another kiss, this time one that lingers, full of tantalizing promise, “Absolutely nothing will stand in the way of my joining you.”

Mozart - Hot Apple Cider 🍎

The wet, chill fall weather has struck again, making you late to dinner. You had stepped out of the mansion to run an errand, but just before you left the bookstore, the gray clouds decided it was the perfect time to unleash a cold, lashing rain that would have had you soaked to the skin within minutes of walking through it.

Sebastian meets you at the door, taking your hurried explanation with a head shake and a smile. He helps you out of your coat and then directs you to the dining room where several of the men are gathered, playing cards. 

What greets you is the following scene: Arthur, Theodorus, Napoleon and Dazai playing some card game that moves too fast for you and has them all intently focused. Leonardo is literally asleep in the corner of the room, not bothered by the light or the noise. And there at the end of the table is Mozart, watching the others with a smile on his face, cheeks flushed. When he spots you, he beams. You know that face, that look in his eyes.

“Hallo, meine Liebe! I have missed you so.” He makes this announcement in a very loud, very not-sober Mozart voice and you put a hand on your hip as you saunter over to the card sharks. “Ok who did this?” You gesture to the man you love and the smile still plastered on his face. Arthur shakes his head, blue eyes bright as summer. “I swear, luv, I had nothing to do with it!” Theo looks annoyed you’ve interrupted their game. But Dazai’s golden eyes are bright as coins. Suspiciously so. “Dazai……” And then you notice all the mugs of cider. You glance at Mozart who is indeed drinking the last drops from his and already reaching for the jug with more. 

You quickly go to him, gently taking the mug from his hand, lifting it to your nose before you set it back down on the table. He blinks his beautiful violet eyes at you. “I’m thirsty.” You wrap your arm around his narrow waist, giving him a placating smile. “We can drink something upstairs. Come.” Mozart is not used to alcohol and you know if he keeps drinking, he will be cursing the cider, and Dazai’s generous and likely sneaky addition of bourbon. Together you navigate the steps and hallway until you reach his bedroom.

He humors you, allowing you to help him out of his waistcoat and vest. Your fingers undo the soft cravat at his throat. You’re about to suggest he lay down when his hands come up, catching yours. The spiked cider has melted any sign of his usually icy facade, any cool awkwardness he may still struggle with when he is alone with you. Now his expression is warm, inviting. His pale skin is flush with color, his eyes brilliant amethysts caught in sunlight. “I missed you,” he says simply, honestly. 

Those words are rays of sunshine, warming you as you squeeze his hands in response. “I’m here now.” He smiles earnestly and some part of you thinks it is for the best he doesn’t smile at you like this often. You would never be able to leave his side if he did. “Come,” you say for the second time that night. And this time you fall onto his soft bed together, Mozart’s arms wrapped around you. As his mouth finds yours and you taste the lingering flavor of apple cider on his lips and tongue, a small part of you smiles. You’ll have to tell Napoleon how good it tastes.

…….in the morning.

Leonardo - Cozy Sweater 🧶

Leonardo walks into his own bedroom with no idea what is awaiting him. You’re standing in the middle of the room, half undressed. He blinks, taking in the sight of you in your long skirts and only your thin chemise on top. “If I had known you were waiting…like this…, I would have come much sooner.” 

The expression on your face shrivels all the sensual ideas in his head before they even have a chance to blossom. You look….miserable. “Cara mia,” he says, voice now colored with concern as he reaches you, one warm hand touching the bare skin of your upper arm. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s silly….” but he can see it is anything but. “Tell me,” he says encouragingly, still rubbing your bare skin. You sigh, making a gesture toward the bed where he notices the soft, caramel-colored sweater you love wearing. “I was helping Sebastian trim some of the hedges and…” You walk over, lifting the sweater from the bed and offer it to him. He sees the problem. Along the shoulder, there is an ugly, jagged tear, right along the seam. He can also see that you have tried to mend it yourself, but the material is very tricky. It’s a stretchy, knit fabric. One that made it a very comfortable sweater and unfortunately, very difficult to fix.

You shake your head. “I tried to fix it but pulling or tugging causes it to keep puckering and it also just keeps clumping up where I need it to lay flat and why didn’t I think to change before going outside?” You look crestfallen and it tugs on his heartstrings, awakening the burning need to make you smile again. “Should I go and take a sword to the evil hedge that attacked you? Make it pay for what it has done?”

That gets a laugh. It’s a small one but it still counts. You sigh, turning away from him and open the wardrobe, reaching for a dark red blouse. He comes over, taking over the buttoning for you and then cups your face in his hand. “I’m sorry, tesoro.” You offer him a shrug and a small smile, half as bright as usual. “Thank you. Now I have to get over this and go with Sebastian and do the grocery shopping for this week. I’ll see you later.” You kiss him, a soft thank you on the plane of his cheek, and head out. It seems like such a small thing to be upset about, but it would be a lie if you tried to pretend you weren’t.

A few hours later, you make your way up the stairs toward the bedrooms, feeling better. The food stalls and vendors had helped you forget your torn sweater, distracting you with their vibrant wares and charming stories. You open the door to Leonardo’s bedroom, fully expecting to find him catnapping on the bed. He isn’t there, but what you find stops you in your tracks. Your sweater, your beautiful, soft, cozy sweater is folded neatly on the bed. You make your way over, lifting it up, your motion slow with the weight of shock. Sure enough, the ugly tear in the shoulder has been expertly mended.

“Welcome back.” You turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, his mouth curved in a satisfied grin. You look back down at the sweater. The kind of double stitching he did you’ve only ever seen done by a sewing machine, which certainly does not exist. “How….did you did this?” He offers you a nonchalant shrug. “You know me, cara mia. I sleep and I fix things. It’s what I do.”

You carefully set the sweater down on the desk chair, keeping it off the bed, before you cross the room to where he is standing. The look on your face has him straightening up, reaching back to close the door behind him, his own grin slowly growing. You lean against him, stretching up to lock your hands behind his neck as he slides his hands down over your hips. Oh he likes where this is going.

“So my knight in shining armor lifted a sewing needle instead of a sword and saved the day,” you murmur, your gaze bright and inviting. “How ever can I repay you for your kindness, cavaliere?” The Italian word for ‘knight’ falling from your lips nearly sends him over the edge of reason right then and there. 

“I have a few ideas,” he answers, voice husky with anticipation. And then he has you in his arms, his kiss claiming you as wholly and utterly his.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @leotoru @ariamichel @kpop-and-otome

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

Hello there Can I request a kiss fir Comte ? Thank you so much Have a nice day :D

A/N: Here you are, lovely Julie!

Word Count: 435

A kiss doesn't always end in fire and flames. It doesn’t always end in a body lit up by fireworks, then falling back to earth in a soft rain of fading sparks. Sometimes, a kiss is the careful touch of the ocean’s white foam on the sand or the sound of gentle rain against a window pane. You thrill for the moments when Comte reaches for you, full of golden fire. But the kisses that stay with you the longest are the ones that glow, not burn.

He notices when your mind is gray, clouded with sadness. He always notices and it shifts his priorities. You rise to the top of his mind like warm air, expanding until your happiness fills every corner of his thoughts.

Somehow, he is there. He slides his strong arms around you, pulling you toward the shelter of his body where you bend, leaning into his strength. One hand begins a soothing, rhythmic stroking of your back. You feel the way your breath steadies, the way the tension in your body unspools for him, as if he were reaching in and wrapping it around his hands like Clotho spinning the thread of human fate. His other hand cups your face, warm and tender. He does not demand you meet his gaze. He demands nothing of you.

The first kiss is placed on your forehead, a gesture of protection, of empathy. It can feel more intimate than if you were standing bare before him. It can feel as comforting as sinking into a warm bath. Without so much as a word he assures you that he is there for you. Your bastille against the slings and arrows of an outrageous world. Your oasis in the drought of uncertainty. You accept his kiss and, like a flower to the sun, tilt your face upwards towards him, silently asking for more.

The second kiss is his lips on yours in a gesture so tender it reverberates throughout the chambers of your heart like the deep resonance of church bells. It is the raindrop that clings to the petal. The gleam of sunshine off a hummingbird’s bright feathers. The press of his lips speaks so loudly of his love for you, his devotion to you now and forever. He loves you through the moments of high summer and the moments of darkest winter. He presses this promise against your lips again and again and again until you are breathless with understanding, with acceptance. 

He is here, right now. 

And he always will be.

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

Leonardo request: he and mc break up (he breaks up with her so she will go back to her time and she does), and now it is her time and she runs into him after she has been back in her time for a while and he has lived through the years until he has finally caught up with her

if it is a happy reunion or painful because she is with someone, I leave up to you!

A/N: Here you go, lovely Bellerose. Thank you for your request!

Leonardo x female Reader

I had to pick a hair color for the reader in this, which I usually don't, so I apologize if that bothers anyone.

Word Count: 3157

You would think there is nothing that can rival the beauty of a moonlit lake, a sky littered with silvery stars, the soft whisper of grass as it's ruffled by a gentle wind. But the enchanting scene surrounding you is nothing compared to the glow of Leonardo’s golden eyes, the softness in his smile, the feel of his hands as they hold yours. His gaze lights a warmth inside you that spreads slowly like honey, sweet and delicious. He leans down and you rise to meet him, lips already parted in anticipation. 

It is not what you imagined. 

It is so much more. 

He tastes vaguely smoky, evoking the comfort of a fire on a cold night. And sweet, but not excessively so. More like chocolate and hazelnuts, rich and earthy and absolutely decadent. As he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close to the shelter of his body, you find another word to describe what kissing him feels like: home.

Leonardo extends his hand, helping you up into the carriage. The door closes and soon you are rolling over the uneven cobblestone streets, away from the concert hall. He’s tucked you under the protection of his arm, unable to resist the urge to hold you close. Even at night, when you are curled up in his bed, he needs to touch you. Maybe it’s only his ankle over yours or his hand on your back, but you are his lifeline to finding joy in the endless, weary march of time and he wants every single moment possible to be filled with you. 

Your sigh pulls him out of his reverie and he turns to look at you. Your sparkling diamond earrings swing gently with the swaying of the carriage as you look out the window and at the darkened city that rolls by outside of it. 

“Cara mia? Is everything ok?”

It takes you a moment to tear your gaze away from the glass, shaking your head as if clearing away cobwebs. 

“I’m fine. It’s just….” You trail off and he frowns slightly, nudging you with his lips to your temple.

“It’s just?”

He feels the way you sigh again, with your whole body, a wave passing from you to him. Whatever you’re feeling weighs on you heavily.

“The song Mozart played. ‘Sonata facile.’ My mother taught me to play that on the piano. And she knew it because her mother taught her. And I just always thought….” You lift your shoulder in a small shrug, glancing at the darkness through the window again. “I just thought I would teach it to my children someday.”

His heart feels like it's been dropped with sudden speed into a frozen lake, splintering as it crashes through the ice. Grateful you’re not facing him, he takes a moment to compose himself before speaking, his tone deceptively casual. “Children were a part of the plan then, yeah?”

Your earrings swing, glittering even as you speak in a quiet voice, hushed like dusk as it settles across the sky. “I was an only child with parents that were often away on business. That could be….lonely, sometimes. So I promised myself that I would have lots of children so there would always be noise in the house. And so they would always have someone to play with.” 

It is impossible for him to miss the flash of sadness that crosses your features, subtle like lightning too distant to be bright but unmistakable nonetheless. Long fingers of cold wrap themselves around his heart. What you have dreamed of for yourself is something he cannot give you. Something he will never be able to give you.

Even as you sigh again, nestling closer to him, resting your sweet cheek against his shoulder, he can’t shake it. 

And spends the rest of the carriage ride avoiding the sight of the darkness outside the window. 

The dishrag hits the marble counter with a satisfying whack. Untying your apron, you bid Sebastian a good night as you make your way out of the kitchen, your steps hurried as you make your way towards Leonardo’s room. Worry had been gnawing at you ever since you returned home from the concert last night. 

He had been unusually quiet, almost distracted in a way you were not familiar with from him. You asked him to unhook your gown and there was no provocative curve of his lips, no low sensuous murmuring. He had simply undone your gown and then proceeded to undress himself, the motions perfunctory, almost careless. It was only when you had joined him in bed after removing your jewelry and unpinning your hair, when you had slid your arms around him and pulled him to you, stretching yourself under him like a cat in its favorite patch of sunshine, that he returned to you, lowering his head to claim your lips, his hands coming to life as they slid their way over the curve of your hips, across the span of your ribcage before finally sliding up into the expanse of your soft auburn hair.

And even then, when he made love to you, it had felt….different. He was slow, exploring the entire expanse of your body, deliberately lingering, as if committing every part of it to memory. True, you had only been intimate a handful of times, but the times before this were electric, your body feeling like it might overload and burst like lightning, illuminating the whole mansion with the force of your radiance. But last night you were embers, glowing with the warmth of his slow, tender attention. And when it was over, you lay with your cheek against his heart, its steady rhythm lulling you to sleep.

He’s not in his room. Or the library. Or the dining room. Or the salon. You pause at the bottom of the staircase, wondering if you should go knocking on the doors of some of the other residents when Arthur approaches, a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of dark fudge in the other.

“Hello luv. A bit late to be wandering ‘bout the place all alone. I’d offer you my company but….” His blue eyes are alight with mischief. “I’m afraid ol’ Leo might not be pleased with it.”

“Do you happen to know where he is? I’ve been looking everywhere for him.”

Arthur pauses, already a few steps up and gestures with the fudge to the top of the stairs. “Last I saw him he was visiting Comte.”

You thank him, pass him on the stairs and hurry towards the sitting room Comte uses on this floor. Your knocking gets no answer so you boldly enter. It’s empty. Disappointment shadows your heart and you are about to leave when you notice the door to the small balcony is open. 

He’s there, alone, forearms resting on the smooth stone of the balcony railing, a lit cigarillo between his fingers. The balcony faces the mansion’s gardens and he’s staring intently out into the dark as if he might be able to find some answers there.

“Leo?”

He turns, startled and then breathes out when he sees it’s you. “Cara mia.”

Frowning, you make your way to his side. “Is everything ok?”

He is silent, wrestling with a decision he needs to make. You wait, letting him battle it out internally, watching the thin plume of smoke from his cigarillo as it rises, twisting and turning as if anxious and unsettled.

“The door to your time will be opening again in two days. Maybe…..you should use it.”

His words are so unexpected you wonder for a moment if you understood them.

“What……why would you say that?” 

You can hear the tremor in your voice, the aftershock of his suggestion jolting you.

His jaw clenches, his gaze still searching the dark and silent gardens.

“Maybe you would be happier there. Could live the life you always dreamed for yourself. See your family again. Your hometown. There are a thousand reasons.”

You reach out, placing a firm hand on his arm. “And one very big, very stubborn one right here.” His breath shudders from his body as you pull, forcing him to turn towards you. “I made a commitment to you, Leonardo. We discussed this. I’m staying.”

He tosses his cigarillo over the railing, its small glow swallowed by the night. When he finally meets your gaze, the conflict in his beautiful eyes makes your heart ache. “Cara mia…..I cannot give you a family. I cannot promise you safety. I-”

Your hands reach up to cup his face, your grip determined. This is no time for gentleness. He needs to understand. You speak slowly, each word carefully weighed and measured.

“I want to stay with the wonderful, funny, intelligent, kind man that I have fallen in love with. For as long as I can. And there is nothing that can change my mind.”

He holds your gaze as you hold your breath, waiting. Finally he nods and you echo his gesture, nodding back in response. “Ok….” you whisper. “We’re ok.” You step into the circle of his arms, burying your face in the soft, rich fabric of his clothing. 

He holds you close, but his eyes remain open, once again returning to the impenetrable darkness of the gardens.

The next day he’s gone again but you try to keep yourself busy and ignore the uneasy feeling that keeps scratching at your heart. The sun sinks to its rest and the moon rises, cold and pale among its nest of stars, and still there is no Leonardo. No other residents have seen him and worry flashes in Comte’s golden eyes when you ask if he knows where Leo has been all day.

Your thoughts are heavy, each one hammering a different worry in your mind as you make your way up the stairs and to his room. He’s bound to come back from wherever he is and then you’ll be waiting.

It’s far into early morning when Leonardo returns, pushing his way through his bedroom door and stumbling inside. You sit up in bed instantly, sleep having only caressed you and never quite fully taken over.

“Where have you been?” You can’t keep the frustration out of your voice or block the sound of your thrashing heart in your ears. “I’ve been worried!”

His movements are slow, radiating something unusual. Something that slowly begins twisting your stomach into an uncomfortable knot. 

“A man can go out, yeah? Without a thousand questions.”

His voice is thick, perhaps with drink, perhaps with something else. Either way it sends a cold shudder through you as you slide out of bed.

“Leonardo…..what’s going on? This isn’t like you.”

He turns, his eyes liquid amber, unnaturally bright in the soft orange light of the lamp you left burning low.

“Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think. Maybe I’m not the warm, intelligent, kind man you have fooled yourself into believing I am.”

Hearing your own words thrown back at you like daggers nearly sends you staggering back to the bed. A hand reflexively rises to cover your heart as if you had really been pierced by some wicked blade.

“That’s not possible. I know you. I know who you are and–”

He growls, closing the distance between you quicker than you can draw a breath. He does not lay a hand on you, instead pinning you in place with the force of his heated glare.

“I am a pureblood.” His voice is low, the words dragging over your heart like plow teeth across the earth. “I am eternal. You are a minute, yeah? A second in an endless succession of days and nights. A blink of an eye.” Your lips part but before you can even see if you are capable of sound, he continues. “I am dangerous.”

“You would never hurt me.” The words slip out, small and unsteady, but born of the conviction that still lives in your aching heart.

His eyes close a moment, freeing you from the pain of his excruciating glare. And then with a snap of his head, his fangs protract and he growls, the sound more primal than anything you’ve ever heard from him. A primordial fear skitters down your spine, sends goosebumps across your skin. He’s changed the framework from lovers, to something much more sinister: predator and prey.

“Get out.” 

You don’t know if you sob or if you simply turn and run. The way back to your own room is a blur of shadows. It is only when you have closed your door, have turned the key in its lock, that your legs turn to water and you sink to the carpet, your breath coming in uneven, painful gasps.

He has never threatened you before. You never thought he would.

Now the only sound you hear is the cracking of your heart as it splinters into a thousand tiny pieces.

The next day, when the door to your world opens, you walk through it.

He is not there to say goodbye.

Epilogue:  21st century London

The vintage bookstore is a popular one. Some people are milling about the coffee bar, deciding how they want their caffeine intake today. A handful of children are sitting on large, oversized bean bags, excitedly flipping through colorful books. There is a low buzz of people’s talking, an undercurrent of appreciation for stories and writing and reading that he is happy to be around. He is somewhere between the New Releases and Staff Favourites bookshelves, thumbing his way through a copy of “Love in the Time of Cholera”, when the small bell above the bookstore chimes, announcing another patron exiting or entering. He still doesn’t know what exactly caused him to lift his gaze from the page. Perhaps the hand of Fate caught his chin and pulled. 

He is not prepared for the sight of you. He has not seen you in over one hundred and thirty years. But now, as if by magic, there you are. For the first time in a century his heart leaps with emotion, hurriedly and haphazardly clearing away the cobwebs of loneliness that had settled there, delicate yet incessant. He steps behind the bookshelf, forcing his eyes closed. They want nothing more than to drink in the sight of you, an oasis in the desert of desolation he himself had created when he pushed you away that nightmarish evening.

The one where he had made the decision that he would not destroy your dreams by selfishly keeping you all for himself, robbing you of the chance to build the life you imagined for yourself.

So he did what he deemed necessary to make you leave.

You had stepped through the door that led back, your heart broken. And he had been the one swinging the hammer.

Time is a merciless teacher. Its harshest lessons were taught in the black heart of night, that gaping pit of time when no one could hear the rattling sound of his remorse, the anguished cries of regret. It was then, before the relief of morning’s pale light, that he understood what he had done. While he had, at the time, seen his intentions as noble, all he had truly accomplished was to destroy the chance at happiness you had been so freely and adamantly offering him. 

He breathes out slowly.

He has been given a chance. A gift. He must not squander it.

His golden eyes open and he peers around the bookshelf. You look the way he remembers. A bit older, maybe, but it's the same face that has visited his dreams countless times, the one he has kissed every angle of and traced with devout fingertips. 

The cold of a London winter has left your cheeks tinged pink, your hair dotted with tiny snowflakes that are slowly melting, glistening even in the book store’s artificial light. You look enchanting, like a fairy tale character from one of the children’s books on display. 

A knot has formed in his throat and he swallows against it, trying to ignore the twisting of his stomach and the roaring of his heartbeat. Leonardo da Vinci, for the first time in centuries, is nervous.

He’s about to step forward, to say the name that hasn’t crossed his lips in ages except for anguished whispers in his sleep, when something brushes past him, lightly bumping into his leg, and then haphazardly carrying on, barreling forward towards its destination.

“Mummy!!”

You turn and your face is alight, as bright and warm as summer. Dropping down, you open your arms and catch the cannonball of a little girl, pulling her close to you.

A man with a sleeping baby strapped to his chest brushes past Leonardo, offering a polite “Pardon me” before he stops in front of you, his shoulders dropping in relief.

“I’m sorry, darling. She saw you and took off like a shot.” He sounds slightly exasperated as he approaches you and his wayward daughter who has now thrown her small arms around your neck.

She has your soft auburn hair and bright, intelligent eyes. 

Leonardo’s heart is quietly crumbling in his chest.

You stand, lifting the little girl up along with you, much to her delight. “Did you find a book for the plane ride, Cara?”

This is what he wanted for you. So why does it hurt so much?

She nods, brushing her hair away from her face enthusiastically. “Yes!” She turns. “Show her, Daddy.” Your husband smiles, his warm golden-brown eyes softening at the sight of you two. One hand absently pats the soft baby carrier and its sleeping passenger while the other holds out the book. Your daughter reaches over, taking it.

Your husband looks a bit like him. Same brown hair, same golden eyes. Leo’s heart continues to break.

“Oh, a children’s guide to the most famous paintings in the world. What a good choice.” You slowly set her down and she reaches for your hand. 

“It has all the best ones in it, Mummy. Including your very favorite, the Mona Lisa!”

There is now nothing but dust.

You smile, running a hand over her hair. “I can’t wait to look at it with you.” 

As you wait in line to pay for the book, the small bell above the bookstore chimes, announcing another patron exiting or entering. You don’t know why you glance up toward the door. There’s nothing to see except the receding figure of a man in a long brown duster as he crosses the street, arm raised to hail a taxi.

Your gaze lingers, inexplicably drawn to him, until your daughter tugs on your hand. 

“Mummy?”

Jolted back to the present, you shake your head to clear the strange, momentary fog, offering the woman at the register an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry. How much for the book?”

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

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

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.)

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

I noticed licht doesn't have a kiss fic yet. Sorry, I know you're busy with the broken heartstrings series rn but I'm gonna trow it in anyways for when you might have time, before i forget about it [again]

hugs ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ and Love, V

A/N: Thank you for the request @viohasgoneintothewoods 💜 Licht has been requested several times before (hello Licht kiss anons!) but I wasn't sure how to fulfill it without it being a bit darker than some of the other kiss fics. But now that I have thrown myself into writing angst, this request fits right into Broken Heartstrings (and is a lot faster to write)! So here you go!

Word Count: 568

His name means “light.”

And when he holds you in his arms, you believe the warmth that fills your heart rivals any bright ray of summer sunshine. Peace and contentment flood you at the feel of his strong embrace, a fortress that would withstand anything if it meant protecting you. He is a bastion of love, a bulwark you can hold on to in the face of any turbulent storm.....but what do you do when those very arms are what is shaking? When the light you know he possesses begins to dim?  

His name means “light."

But the man you love is haunted by shadows. The past has a dark grip over him, long tendrils that snake their way silently through his mind, that wrap around his heart like black, thorny vines and squeeze. 

He is a paradox: delicate strength. Mighty fragility. 

In the bright light of desire, when he allows that passion to overrule any other emotion, he is as powerful as Helios. But instead of driving four fiery steeds across the sky, he is blazing a trail of kisses across your body. His lips are fire, stoking the heat in your veins, bringing a sunset-colored flush to your skin. As sure as the sun burns a beaming path across the sky, so does Licht set you aflame. His mouth is sure, his hands are steady. He is a torch in the darkness, lighting the way, leading you higher and higher towards the heavens. His name escapes your lips, the sound a comet of radiant light across the night sky. He kisses you and you are a supernova on the verge of bursting. You are Sirius, the brightest star in the heavens. You are filled with the light of his love and his adoration and his fervent need and you are unstoppable.

His name means "light."

But sometimes desire and love and want are not enough to spark that glow. Sometimes the darkness wins. Sometimes his mouth is unsure. His hands unsteady. Sometimes he does not think to reach for you at all because he is afraid that he is something foul, something that will not empower you but rather taint your goodness with something less than. He shrinks into the shadows, prefers to wrap his arms around himself, storm clouds pelting him with a cold rain that screams, “You are unworthy. You do not deserve this.” It is then your turn to reach out, through the stinging gray fog and find him. To pull him into the warm circle of your embrace, to run a hand over his soft, silver hair and press kiss after loving kiss against his chilled skin. You kiss understanding against his cheek, cold and damp with tears. You kiss acceptance against his pale forehead. You kiss empathy into the curve of his jaw. And you kiss his lips, feeling the way they tremble against yours, and give him all of your love, tender and patient. Over and over your lips touch his. Over and over you tell him wordlessly how deeply you love him. Over and over and over until the tremors that wrack his scarred body cease. Until his war-torn heart finds a steady rhythm once again. Until the haunted shadow fades from his luminous eyes. Until the well of tears has run dry. 

His name means “light.” 

And you will always find him in the darkness.

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

Heyy can i please request clavis x fem reader with the prompt nightmare?

A/N: And we're back to angst. Hi @aceuuuuu here you go! I hope you like it 💜Thank you for the request!

Clavis x f! reader

Word Count: circa 1600

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 sleep.......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 is more insistent. 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.

Clavis Lelouch

When royalty marries, there are no limits. The already beautiful palace is transformed into something out of a dream: soft, romantic garlands made from only the most perfectly formed pink and white roses are hung from every archway. White drapery, sheer as a fairy’s wings and just as delicate, bedeck the walls. Everyone is gathered in the ballroom, now full of plush, navy blue and gold chairs for its guests. The ornate walls with their silken tapestries are illuminated by hundreds of white taper candles. The nobility is dressed in its very finest, a sea of sumptuous satin, soft velvet, and glittering jewels. Clavis spots the dark, hunter green of Jade. The stormy black of Obsidian. The sea blue of Benitoite. And even more exotic gems and nobles: the sunset orange of Tanzanite. The deep, cobalt blue of Ionite. The world has gathered to witness this event.

Chevalier stands under the arched trellis covered in blood-red roses. He is resplendent in crisp white and blue. His sword hangs at his side, but it will go thirsty today. It is there in an ornamental nature only. His expression is neutral. One who does not know him might even say he looks bored. But Clavis notices the way his white-gloved fingers clench and unclench, minute movements lost on the crowd. He also notes the quick, subtle glances at the ornate double-doors. 

And when those doors finally open, when the figure adorned in swathes of white silk and that heavily embroidered floral veil steps through and into the ballroom, he notices how Chevalier’s shoulders straighten even more. His hawk-like attention is solely focused on the woman in white gliding towards him. Some of the nobility holds its breath, some sigh at the romance of it all. But with each step she takes, Clavis feels his stomach twist. Could it be.....No.....you said you loved him. It can’t be....

She arrives at Chevalier’s side, taking his arm. That scent, the familiar mixture of lavender and roses, hits Clavis’s nose and nausea blossoms within his stomach. No. It can’t be. No. The wedding officiant speaks, unaware of the storm tearing through him, the wild winds of despair and disbelief ripping his rice-paper heart to shreds as Chevalier slowly lifts the opaque veil to reveal YOU. Your beloved face, flushed pink with pleasure, your bright eyes full of stars because they are fixed on him. Your smile, the Northern star guiding him to your boundless well of love and acceptance and desire. His hands take yours in his, his thumbs running lightly over your bare skin. 

The officiant’s words have no shape, no coherent form. Clavis barely registers what is being said as his brother’s face takes on a foreign softness, his head tilting down to gaze into the springtime of your smile. You continue to beam up at the king. Nausea overwhelms the third prince as the remains of his heart are tempest-tossed within his heaving chest. 

Music, discordant and jarring, begins playing as Chevalier leans down and you lean up and time seems to accelerate, everything rushing forward at breakneck speed: You are wrapping your arms around his neck and he’s pulling you against his body and your mouths are pressed together, opening and closing passionately as you kiss each other hungrily and his hands slide down, pulling you harder against him and you are gasping and eager and ready and not at all bothered that you are in front of a crowd that cheers and hollers and claps as if it is normal for the groom to begin ravishing his bride right then and there, his hands impatiently pulling on your dress to your excited, encouraging gasps, his mouth leaving a trail of rose-colored kisses as it travels down your neck, down your collarbones, down to the neckline of your dress which is falling with each passing second—

“Clavis....Clavis!” You repeat his name, hands on his shoulders to keep him from thrashing any further. You try his name one more time, this time louder than before, worry surpassing the concern of being too loud in the quiet of the midnight hour. His eyes fly open, his breath ragged as he adjusts from the shock of his dreams to the reality of your bedroom, enveloped in night’s shadows. You wait, your hands still on his shoulders, anchoring him. He blinks and then pulls away from you, rising and stumbling from your bed. His name is a question whispered to the dark but he does not answer. He makes his way to one of the large windows, reaching over and then flings it open, allowing in a burst of cool air. It is a balm to his overheated skin, to the wild drumming of his heart which feels like it may burst from his chest if he does not manage to claim a few steady lungsful of air.

Frowning, you reach for your dressing gown, wrapping the soft lavender velvet around yourself before walking over to where he is standing, bracing himself on the window sill. “Clavis?” Your voice sounds small even to your own ears. “Are you ok?” His eyes are closed. He’s breathing slowly. Normally he would turn, paint a smile on his face and ask why ever would you be concerned about someone as clever as him? But not this time. He is shaken. His hands tremble as they push his soft hair, damp with sweat, out of his face. You watch the muscles of his abdomen rise and fall with each tremulous breath, the play of soft moonlight over his skin, the way it adds a silvery sheen to his midnight hair. It feels like it is caressing him too, trying to comfort the man you love as much as you want to.

Finally his eyes open, seeking out the night sky. He has not turned to look at you yet. When he speaks, his voice sounds tight, as if there is an invisible hand wrapped around his throat, slowly squeezing. “You.....want this, right? Us?” The shock of his words stings, as if you have been slapped without a moment to brace yourself. Your feet are carrying you toward him before you can think about it. You reach out, taking his hands and turn him away from the window and towards you. Your grip is firm, forcing his mind to focus on it. On you. “Why would you even ask me that?” Shadows have chased the light from his eyes and your heart sinks as he lowers his gaze. He looks ashamed. He looks scared. “I dreamt.....you married the king.” He doesn’t need to say his name. Or what the weight of that kind of dream would have, and the way it would crush his heart.

You swallow hard against the instinct to say that that would never happen. That it was only a dream. Instead you gently use your grip on him to pull him closer. You release his hands only because yours slide around his waist, palms coming to rest against the small of his back. Your head is tilted up to look at him, refusing to look away until he finally meets your gaze.

“Where am I?” you ask quietly. He seems rather caught off guard, but even in his darkest moments, an intriguing question manages to snag his attention. “Your room,” he answers slowly. You nod encouragingly. “What time is it?” He now glances at the small wooden clock on your desk. “Half past one.” Again you nod, adjusting your embrace so that you can step even closer. “And who is in my arms?” He meets your gaze, his brilliant eyes so beautiful even in shadow. “I am,” he whispers. You nod once more. “That’s right. You are. You and only you. Right now. And ever more.” 

There is sunrise in his gaze, a light slowly returning as your words sink in, soothing the scratches across his heart, calming its panicked beat. Your hands slide over the bare skin of his back, warm and comforting and tender. Your gaze never leaves him. You hold him there, physically with your arms, emotionally with the echo of your words, the open love in your soft expression. Time is suspended, the space between the twinkle of stars, and then he leans down, gathering you against him, hoarsely whispering your name before he kisses you. You yield to his roughness, his urgency, your body curving into his, your lips parting. Anything he needs, he can take from you. You would give him the very breath from your lungs, the beat of your heart, if he asked for it. 

Anything, you think as you stumble with him back toward the bed, locked in his impassioned, desperate embrace, anything for the man you love.

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 @scorchieart @bubblexly

for the angst ask (thanks for opening them btw) vlad and illness? he waited so long for his mc (gn) just to watch them slowly dying in front of him, their last moments and what that entails? I want to be crushed haha

A/N: Hello anon! I took a little bit of artistic liberty here because I had an idea so its not illness, but rather an accident. The rest of the request is still honored.

CW: death, loss

Vlad x gn reader

Word Count: 1783

A Pureblood vampire has nothing but time. It becomes their only constant, the one fixed thing they can depend on as the world around them evolves and changes. The flow of time brings mighty mountains to their knees and changes the course of rivers. It has seen man crawl, then walk and now, in the late 19th century, begin to run as technology makes leaps and bounds within shorter and shorter time spans. And one sure thing about time: it never stops.

How does one bear the weight of years and decades and centuries? Vlad has found a way. Something that fascinates him. 

People. 

He has loved them with a ferocity sharp and deadly. That their lives are so fleeting, rising like sparks from a fire only to blink out of existence and return to darkness within mere decades, is what makes them precious. Worth fighting for. And he has never loved a human, or any other being, as much as he loves you.

You were the one he waited for. The one who imprinted yourself upon him like a brand, your essence burned into his soul with a heat that never subsided as he waited all those long years for you. And when the time came, when you understood who he was and what you meant to him, when you returned those extraordinary feelings of love and desire, he understood the words Shakespeare had penned when writing his greatest love story: 

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea 

My love as deep. 

The more I give to thee,

The more I have, 

for both are infinite.” 

You gave his world a beauty far beyond that field of roses he holds so dear. Vlad’s heart holds entire universes of love only for you. 

Which is why, when you told him you did not want to be turned, despite the consequence of death, he never once questioned it. He had simply raised your hands to his lips, his claret eyes closing as he pressed a kiss into your skin, accepting your decision. 

And decided then and there he would dedicate every moment you had together to bringing you joy. He would show you the world and in return, give the world the gift of your smile.

Which is why you were in London, exploring the world’s largest city and breathtaking capital of the British Empire. You were staying at Claridge’s, one of the grandest hotels London had to offer, and swept up in the whirlwind of pleasures Vlad had arranged: an outfit tailored just for you at London’s most exclusive boutique, high tea at one of the oldest tea houses in the city, a boat ride on the Thames. As you disembarked, hand in hand, a young boy was waiting with a message for Vlad. A mystery item he had commissioned was finished and would he care to come pick it up or have it delivered to the hotel? His rose-colored eyes had gleamed, his excitement dancing within their depths and along the curve of his lips. He would come right away. When you had asked what this mysterious item was, he had simply smiled softly. You would see soon, beloved. Go, the carriage that would take you back to the hotel was waiting just across the street. He would meet you in the hotel’s salon for supper.

You parted, his smile still warming your heart against the misty London air and you took the time to watch his tall figure grow smaller and smaller as he walked with the young boy down the street, eventually disappearing from view as they rounded a corner. Your heart could not be any fuller, your soul could not be more content. Vlad was the key that unlocked the truth about love: it mattered, more than anything. He mattered more than anything. Loving him had transformed your world into something so perfect it could be called heaven. You were so lost in your starry-eyed thoughts, your mind floating in the clouds on a breeze of affection and anticipation, you did not pay attention as you stepped onto the street.

You did not see the carriage with its spooked horse barreling towards you.

You did not hear the shout of warning.

You stepped out into the street.

And your world went black.

It’s tucked safely into the inside pocket of his jacket, carefully wrapped in the softest black velvet. One look at the pin, a detailed red rose made from the purest rubies with its emerald leaves and curving stem, made by one of the finest jewelers in Europe, and he knew it was worth every cent. It was a work of art and he was proud of the design he had created. He wanted something unique, something custom-made that no one else the world over could have, a symbol of his feelings for you and a sign to all who saw it that you, like the rose, are a rarity worth remembering, a beautiful spirit worth marveling at.

He turns the corner onto the street where you had gone ashore after your boat tour, his mind running through the way he imagines you will smile when he presents his gift, a smile that rivals the sun in all its brightness. All thought however screeches to a halt as he notices the crowd gathered, blocking most of the way. There are police wagons and officers doing their best to keep people away from something on the road. Vlad passes an elderly man sitting on the filthy flat pavement meant for pedestrians, his dirt-streaked face blanched with shock, hands shaking as he tries to drink from a flask. He hears the mumbled words, repeated over and over to no one in particular:

“The horse stepped on a nail. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t stop it. It stepped on a nail. I couldn’t stop it. They came out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop it-”

Uneasiness begins to slowly creep down Vlad’s spine like a spider descending on its silken thread. He was planning to walk around the crowd, his long legs swiftly taking him away from the buzzing and gawking of the crowd so he could get to you, his light, his love, and make sure you were ok. He will never be able to answer why he didn’t stick with this. Why instead of walking around the crowd, his feet begin taking him through it. 

Each step feels like the earth is trying to stop him, gravity is desperately pulling at his legs, trying to slow him. His feet feel like they are made of granite, dragging along as he shoulders his way through the dense, foul-smelling mass. Each beat of his heart becomes louder, the crowd’s murmuring becomes distorted. Fate has wrapped his heartstrings around her cruel fingers and pulls, forcing him to shamble his way toward a truth that will sunder his very soul.

He breaks through the throng. 

And sees you lying there, your soft hair touching the filth of the street, your head pillowed by hard, uneven cobblestones. 

Someone has thrown what looks like a shabby picnic blanket over your body, but Vlad can smell the blood through the fibers, through the grime of a London street. Your eyes are open, blinking rapidly, your lips trembling as you mouth one word. He recognizes the shape of his name.

“I’m here, beloved.” How he manages to speak through a throat full of thorns is a miracle, another question with no answer. He sinks to his knees beside you, feeling the dampness soak through his trousers, the hard stone biting at him. “I’m here.” You turn your head and the effort that costs you is evident in the flickering light of your beautiful eyes. He reaches out with a shaking hand, the movement slow as if underwater, and manages to brush your hair off of your forehead with infinite tenderness. His fingers are stained red with the blood trickling down your temple. He repeats the motion anyway.

Your breathing is labored and erratic but you refuse to look away, holding his gaze for as long as you can.

“I’m…..sorry.” Your voice wheezes, rough with strain.

His heart shatters into a thousand pieces. Tiny shards that embed themselves into his own lungs, that twist his stomach into a Gordian knot, that pierce his very soul and cling, barb-like and heavy.

“No, my love. My dearest one. No.” He smiles. It is a reflex, a gesture of comfort. His lips shift without him even conscious of it. Words continue to find a way through his blocked throat. Because he knows you need them. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” His hand, still trembling lightly, slides down, cupping your face, the one he has loved for ages, the one white as bone and red with blood. “I love you.”

A shudder wracks your body and your eyes close. For a moment you don’t breathe and panic seizes him, gripping his mind with hands of steel. No, no. Just another moment. No.

And then you manage another breath. Your eyes open again, seeking his. Your lips part and he leans down to catch your labored, whispered words.

“I’m….scared.”

The truth of it bears down on him. He has seen death so often that it had become as innocuous as the changing of the seasons. Spring follows winter, autumn follows summer. People are born, live out the time they are given, and then die. 

And yet your words have turned the world upside down. Death is no longer an abstract, cyclical idea. It is real. It is on that grimy cobblestone street, leaning over you, reaching down, seconds away from taking you away from him forever. Stealing every place you never went. Every kiss you haven’t shared. Every declaration of love yet to be spoken.

Vlad presses his lips to your cold forehead, his hand still cupping your face.

“I’m here, beloved. I promise, it will be okay. I’m with you.”

Your eyes are on him, but they are no longer focused. The flame of life inside of them is sputtering as the curtains slowly close on your mortality. Your breathing becomes rapid, uneven, louder. The sound forever burns itself into his memory. 

You draw one breath.

His soul quakes. Don’t go, beloved.

And then another.

Beloved……I’m scared.

And then you are still, sightless eyes gazing into nothingness.

……..beloved?......

And his world goes black.

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

Leon and this prompt: laughing at their messy hair in the morning

He has the perfect hair for this 😉

A/N: Ok no, its not angst but I saw @leonscape feeling so down about there being not a lot of Leon content and I remember when I said the same thing and asked for requests and wrote like, 2 of them 🙈 So I decided to set Silvio aside for a moment and give Leon some love.

For you, Sui 💜

Fluff/ a tiny bit of angst, Leon x f reader

💥Spoiler warning for Leon's route 💥

WC: 941

Sunday mornings are made for lounging in a cozy bed, surrounded by bed sheets that are still warm with the night’s body heat. They are made for flagrantly ignoring the sunlight peeking through the curtains of the arched palace windows and for pretending that if you don’t get up, the day will wait for you. Sunday mornings are for sleepy smiles, warm embraces, softly-spoken words. For gathering the energy you’ll need when facing an austere, humorless Monday.

He’s usually the one who wakes up first. Leon has always been a light sleeper and an early riser, a survival tool built into the very bones of his character, carved there by his nightmare of an early childhood. If you woke first, you weren't kicked awake by a slaver’s heavy boot. Or worse, by the sting of their whip. A light sleeper would hear when another slave, creeping slowly to keep their chains from rattling, was trying to sneak up and steal his treasured items: a small metal coin, a bootstring, a leathery piece of jerky. Waking easily and early is just one more scar courtesy of the sharp claws of his past.

But Sundays….there is something about the safety of a Sunday morning that allows him to sleep, to let leisure and peace sink into his mind and keep him dreaming. You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. His golden eyes are closed, fringed by lashes dark as pitch. His mouth, always ready with a smile, is relaxed, more serious in sleep. And then there is his hair…..

It is a jungle of dark locks, a wild cacophony of brown spikes that sits upon his head, reminding you of….you consider a moment….reminding you of a fluffy, self-righteous hedgehog, daring you to just try and tame it. The image makes you laugh out loud and one golden eye slowly opens.

“I know what you’re doing.” His voice is thick with sleep, sandpaper-rough.

“Me?” You press a hand to your heart, eyes wide with feigned innocence, bright with amusement. “I don’t know what you mean, your highness.”

“Hmm.” He stretches his body languidly, the bed sheets sliding off of his bare shoulder. You resist the urge to keep pulling it down since you know for a fact he sleeps without a stitch of clothing. “You….,” he murmurs, stifling a yawn, “are…..” And then he moves with a speed that his sleepy stretching left you unprepared for, rolling until he has you pinned underneath him, caging you in as he supports his weight on his strong forearms. “...a terrible liar, love.”

Laughter, bright as sunshine on water, escapes you. You meet his beautiful gaze with a grin.

"I have no idea what you mean." 

There it is. The radiant chord of connection slowly winding itself around both your hearts, binding you to each other. You feel it in the thrill of his skin against yours. You see it in the twinkling of tenderness in his eyes.

“Fess up. What have you decided my hair looks like this morning?”

Sunday mornings are a time for tradition and you two have fallen into this one completely by accident. Maybe because you have the time to linger in bed or because for once he isn’t up and dressed before you, but somehow Sunday mornings have become a time for you to affectionately laugh at the tornado of bedhead that he never fails to wake up with and tease him for it.

You slide your palms, one right next to the other, over the hard planes of his chest, the feel of the muscle and sinew a delight to the touch. Up over his broad shoulders, your fingers curling over the rounded edges. Eventually you reach his neck where they interlock and you glance up at him.

“Maybe….I thought this morning’s hair….resembles…an indignant hedgehog.”

There is no sound as musical to your ears as when he laughs and you are rewarded with an entire concert. The initial burst of surprised laughter and then he lowers his body, covering you entirely with it as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his shoulders still shaking with every chuckle. You join him, his amusement contagious as your laughter intertwines with his.

He lifts his head, a wide grin lighting up his handsome face.

“You do know you’re speaking to a Prince of Rhodolite, yes?” His voice wraps itself around you, flows over you like warm water.

You return his grin, one hand brushing the rowdy locks of hair away from his forehead. “Oh dear. I’ve insulted the crown. Whatever will become of me?”

His smile turns wicked, as does the press of his body against yours. In the space of a heartbeat the morning mood has shifted from something warm and soft to something sharp with heated potential. He turns his head, pressing a kiss into the corner of your mouth.

“For the crime of mocking a member of the royal family, I hereby sentence you to a lifetime of kisses, to be delivered by you to the offended prince.”

You would laugh but he’s shifted, his head dropping to leave a soft line of kisses down your neck and your breath has quite rapidly abandoned you.

“A whole lifetime. huh?…..I suppose….” You reach for him, gently urging him to raise his head. “I better get started.”

He leans down and you angle your head to meet in a kiss that glows with the heat of desire and the brightness of affection. 

As you wrap your arms around this man who owns your whole heart, you know else Sunday mornings are for.

Love.

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

Violet, I have no words to describe this, yet I'll find as many as possible to speak about my favourite parts (all of it).

For a start, I just adore how you didn't make Silvio a mindless rich man. He is someone who has intelligence over the weather because of what he does as work and it's amazing how it's not overlooked! The glances of the weather and the thunder are also described so beautifully and even if scary, you put them down in a gentle way that flows with the story. Making it all that more realistic and really setting the mood.

I was able to grasp the "fragrance" of the wooden in, the gorgeous yet simple place that sounded like it came straight out of a history. And I was once again reminded of how dangerous, yet amusing everything could be. Silvio's story, it sounded like those urban legends you hear and feel the adrenaline pulsing through you, as the haunted, huge waves pulse through the sea. When he said that it took men with it, I felt a sudden chill.

But not only that. The 'romance' was teasing the readers, creating a tension between both of the characters throughout the whole night they had to spend together. And Silvio lending his shirt was the cherry on top!

As for his companion, he said his harsh words but in the end, he knew how to keep her warm and happy, until the morning cracked.

Now then, how do I know this is the perfect story? It's because you were able to make me, and I'm pretty sure many others if not all, absolutely love the side characters. They were like fresh air, putting their own little touches of understanding towards the lady, but in the end, they also showed their appreciation towards Silvio. Truly a masterpiece, that I will be thinking for a long time😭🥺💖

A/N: @dear-mrs-otome your request has taken me on quite the journey. I hope I've managed to do your Prince right and that you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it. 💜

Technically, this is part of my Broken Heartstrings series under the prompt: Only One Bed which I have been dying to write and was really excited to do with Silvio, demanding as he is.

Silvio x f! reader

Word Count: 5093

Of all the people to share a carriage ride back to the palace with, Silvio Ricci is the last one you would have chosen. You glance at him, sitting there across from you in the darkened carriage as it sways over the uneven country roads. His face is currently set to a sharp scowl, his impossibly blue eyes staring out the glass window. Not that he can see much. The world outside is black, streaked with shots of gray as the rain continues to fall, pelting the carriage’s roof and windows with a loud rat-a-tat-tat sound. 

Only his occasional annoyed sighs interrupt the steady drumming of the rain. You pull your thin, black silk shawl tighter around your bare shoulders, turning to stare out your own darkened window. You’ll be grateful when you reach the palace and can change out of your tightly corseted ball gown. As enchanting as it is with its ivory-colored satin and black lace trimming, you are looking forward to being able to breathe again. And bend properly. 

“Only Rhodolite would have a ball way out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”

Your jaw clenches and the rolling sound of thunder echoes the irritation you feel at his snide tone.

“The Count holds this ball once a year at his country estate which is one of the most elegant–”

The Prince of Benitoite scoffs loudly. “Elegant my ass.” 

You are really beginning to question Sariel’s decree that you ride back to the palace with this pompous royal. You’re more likely to lodge your heeled shoe in his temple than make pleasant small talk. 

“Prince Silvio, do you have to be so-” You’re interrupted by another boom of thunder, this one loud enough to rattle the carriage. You hear the frightened whine of the horse over the continued sound of heavy rain. Some part of you is not surprised when it rolls to a stop. A moment later there is a rapping at the window and you lean over, opening the carriage door. A rush of wet, cold air invades the dry interior.

“The hell we stopped for?” Silvio yells above the din of the downpour.

The driver, battling the gusting wind to keep his hat on his head and the rain out of his eyes, has to yell back in order to be heard. “‘Storm has gotten too bad, your highness! We can’t keep traveling in this weather!” He glances over his shoulder, blinking against the water pelting his face.. “We passed an inn just a short ways back! We should head there for shelter!”

You expect him to argue and for a half a moment, his lips part and it looks like he might. But then the sky explodes into a sheet of white as lightning bares its teeth. Silvio’s gaze shifts from the sky back to the driver and you’re given a glimpse of a man who understands and respects the power of a storm. He nods once in affirmation.

The driver looks relieved that he won’t have to argue with the haughty prince and closes the carriage door. A moment later you feel it turn, heading back in the direction it came. You wonder whether or not you should comment on the prince’s amenability when he snorts in disgust, moving his expensive leather boots away from a puddle of water that the rain had blown onto the carriage floor.

Nope, still an ass, you think with a sigh and ride the rest of the way to the inn in silence, with only the turbulent sound of the storm echoing through the carriage.

“Whaddaya mean there’s only one room left?” Silvio’s jewelry and the many gold adornments on his ocean-blue jacket gleam in the light of the hearth fire inside the common room of the inn. “You’re talking to a Prince of Benitoite! I could buy this whole place out from under ya in a day.”

The beleaguered innkeeper crosses his burly arms, glaring at the prince from under bushy white eyebrows. 

“As I said already, Your Highness, I got one room left. You can take it or leave it.” He turns to the driver who has returned from securing the horse, safe and sound in the barn. “It’s not much, sir, but you can have a spot in front of the hearth. It’ll warm you up, dry you off.”

Silvio’s booted foot hits the wooden planks of the inn’s floor. “And your room? What if I demand to commandeer your bed?”

The innkeeper grins through his full, white beard. “You’d certainly give my wife the thrill of her life, Your Highness.”

You would laugh at the startled look on Silvio’s face but you have another pressing problem. “So I have a choice between the floor and….sharing a room with him?”

Genuinely sorry, the innkeeper nods, his gaze darting to the prince. “I apologize, my lady. Truly.”

You turn to face Silvio and his scowl. With a jangle, he snatches the room key from the counter where the innkeeper left it and marches off toward the narrow, winding staircase that leads to the second story of the inn.

You follow with one last glance at the common room.

Maybe the floor wouldn’t be that bad.

The room is at the very end of the hallway, nestled under the slanted inn roof. You notice several things right away when you step inside: There is one round glass window through which you can watch the way the rain is being flung through the night by a restless, howling wind. A small oil lamp is lit, resting on the nightstand of the lone bed. It is larger than you expected, taking up close to half of the small room. A tiny, worn table and single chair are tucked into a narrow corner. And there is absolutely nothing else in the room except a Prince of Benitoite, whose pale head almost brushes the rafters, standing in the middle with his arms crossed, glowering in disdain.

“What a dump.”

Irritation trumps politeness and you hear yourself snap at him. “You’re welcome to take your royal ass back down to the common room and sleep with the driver. Or perhaps the barn with the horses is more to your liking.”

He turns sharply, his clothing and jewelry jingling softly under the sounds of the storm. His gaze, the blue of a midsummer sky, lingers and you wonder if he’s going to snap at you for speaking to him that way. Or comment on your language. Instead he surprises you by doing neither. His lips curve into a grin and you are utterly unprepared for the way a smile changes his face. What was begrudgingly handsome transforms into blindingly beautiful. Butterflies are born, fluttering their wings in your stomach, sending up a breeze that comes out as a huff of air as you march over to the side of the bed closest to the window and sit, leaning down to undo the straps of your shoes.

He watches you, crossing his arms. “Whatcha doin’?”

You keep your back to him as you pull off one shoe and begin undoing the other. “Getting ready for bed.”

He glances at the bed with its single, quilted blanket and two pillows. Then he begins unbuttoning his dress jacket. “Fine. You can have the blanket. Maybe it’ll make the chair or floor more comfortable.”

Standing, you turn around to face him. He’s carefully removed his jacket and has folded it so all its golden ornaments are wrapped inside of it. 

“What do you mean ‘the chair or floor’? The bed is big enough for us both. I refuse to–What on earth are you doing?” You watch, brows raised as he begins tucking his jacket underneath his pillow.

“My clothes are worth more than everything in this room. Hell, one of my rings probably more than this whole fucking inn.” He steps back, satisfied that you can’t see the jacket anymore and then faces his next bothersome obstacle, the one shaking her head with her hands on her hips. Hips, he notices, that are temptingly accented by the flair of her ballgown. His gaze follows the stiff waistline up the strapless bodice where he can’t help but notice other things the gown accents. How had he not noticed your–

Your voice snaps him out of it.

“Prince or not, that’s ridiculous.” 

Aaaaaand you’re yappin’ again. He ignores your comment, kicking off his expensive leather boots in a move so casually effortless it stirs those annoying butterflies again and then with a sigh, lays down on the bed. He’s left all of his jewelry on, his golden rings and earrings and necklaces which strikes you as very uncomfortable but he seems right at home, stretching out his long limbs in a way that seems to swallow all that space the bed seemed to have at first glance.

Best to get ready and go to sleep immediately. 

With that thought, you realize something-and the raucous storm outside has nothing on the roar of panic flooding your body.

Your ivory and black ball gown is beautiful. And you were laced into this beautiful ivory and black ball gown by a trusted female servant. Laced into it wearing nothing but a pair of soft silken drawers which stop mid-thigh. 

You consider trying to sleep in the gown. No. You wouldn’t be able to move. It’s too tight at the waist and chest and too voluminous in the skirt. 

Which means…..you turn slowly to see Silvio has rolled over, his back to you. Great. He’s gone to sleep already.

You clear your throat. 

No response. 

You do it again louder. 

He doesn’t move.

“Silvio!”

His name does it. “The fuck you want, lady?!” He’s rolled halfway around, glaring at you over his shoulder.

“I….” This hurts to admit and you wish you were in the room with anyone else. “I can’t undo my gown.”

“So sleep in it,” he says, each word drawn out slowly like he’s talking to a small child. He mutters something in the language of Benitoite you can just tell is rude and insulting.

You grit your teeth. He starts to roll back over.

“I can’t. It’s too tight to sleep in and the skirt is big.”

Outside the thunder rolls, low and foreboding. Silence swallows the room and you know your cheeks are warm. Maybe he won’t notice in the dim light.

He jangles as he pushes himself up now, hair pale as moonlight falling across his forehead and cheek as he tilts his head. And then slowly, oh so slowly, he grins in a way that corkscrews a blaze of heat right through you.

“So lemme make sure I got this. You’re askin’ me to undress you?”

You steel yourself. “And to give me your shirt.”

That wipes the grin right off his face. “Whaddaya mean ‘give you my shirt’? Do you know-”

“I’m sure it’s more expensive than all the buildings in Rhodolite but I am going to sleep in that bed and I am not going to do it in just my undergarment!”

Your tone is firm, much more confident than you actually feel. Again the thunder outside is the only sound as he stares, those cobalt blue eyes fixed on you with the intensity and depth of a storm-tossed ocean.

“Please.” It comes out small, a tiny crack in the wall of confidence you’ve been presenting him with. The word has slipped out, unbidden and the heat in your face feels unbearable. Have you lost your mind, asking him to do this? “N-Nevermind, I’ll-”

Your stammering drops off as he stands, his elegant fingers reaching under soft white ruffles to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He does not meet your gaze and you wonder if that darkness in his face is a blush to match your own. Then the white shirt is off and he’s standing before you, his upper body surprisingly sculpted and shockingly bare. His necklaces lay against his fair skin and there is something so intimate about the sight your breath catches.

“So the lady likes what she sees.” Dragging your gaze away from all the exposed skin and corded muscle, you see that grin has returned to those lips and you draw a quick breath, spinning around and presenting him with your back (which happens to conveniently hide a blush so fierce it must be glowing.)

“Just get on with it.” 

The wooden floorboards creak underfoot as he crosses to where you are standing. You’re not sure you’ve ever been this close to him before. You didn’t dance together at the ball and as far as you can remember the only time you’ve ever touched was when you first met and he offered you his hand, a sharp thrust in your direction that felt more like he was going to stab you with an invisible dagger than an introduction.

But now he is so close you can smell his cologne, something unexpectedly soft that vaguely reminds you of the sea on a dark, clear night. Your body is electric with an awareness that ripples across your skin with every inhale and exhale he makes. Outside, the rain is endless, the thunder unflagging. But their sounds are drowned out by the sudden pounding of your heart, by the beat of a thousand butterfly wings sending your blood rushing through your veins like the current of a wild river. He begins pulling on the satin bow of your gown, undoing the careful knot.

“The laces can be tricky,” you say just to say something, anything. Is that really your voice, so breathy and soft?

You realize your mistake instantly because he answers you and his voice is right by your ear, curling around the shell of it.

“I got more than enough experience with knots,” he murmurs.

“Because of all the people you’ve bedded,” you mutter. Why did you say that? And why does the thought of Silvio in bed with anyone make your fingers curl into your palms?

He’s released the knot and begins loosening the stays, tucking those nimble fingers underneath each crisscross and tugging, not roughly as you would have imagined but with precision, loosening each section deliberately, skillfully.

“Because I’m a sailor,” he says matter-of-factly, surprising you yet again. He tugs again and the bodice of your gown suddenly slips, sending you scrambling to keep the whole thing up. He leans closer still, his lips mere centimeters from your ear. “And because of all the people I’ve bedded.” He’s undone your gown but you’re being wrapped up again, this time in his silken, serpentine words..

Your heart leaps in your chest and you stumble away, holding up your dress with both arms, swallowing against the unexplainable tightness in your throat.

“Your shirt.” You hold the ivory satin to your chest with one arm and hold out your free hand, palm up. He practically strolls back to the bed (how he manages to do that in such a small space is a mystery), picks up his shirt and with a shameless grin, throws it at you.

You don’t reach for it with both hands as he may have hoped, instead catching it one-handed and there is a flash of something in his eyes. Disappointment? Admiration? Both?

“Turn around.” 

He lifts his hand, jeweled rings on nearly every finger and covers his eyes. 

“Silvio.” Consternation swells his name. It looks like he’s peeking.

“What? I ain’t lookin’!”

There is too much running wildly through your mind, too many blurry thoughts twisting in incomprehensible circles to worry about whether or not the man is going to sneak a look at you or not. You turn your back to him and let your gown drop to the floor with a whoosh.

He didn’t plan to look. But the rings on his fingers don’t allow him to hold them together completely and when your dress makes that sound, his eyes open of their own accord and through the narrow space between his fingers he catches a glimpse of your naked back. The curve of your hip and dip of your waist. The shapely line of your legs. 

The thunder rumbles a warning and he quickly closes his eyes again, alarmed at the sharp, hot pang of want slicing its way through his body. You? No. He doesn’t want–

One blue eye slowly opens, this time without any excuse. You’re wearing his shirt. It falls to the back of your knees and somehow looks better than any dress ever would. There is a tension slowly winding its way across his neck, his shoulders, a tightening in his gut at the sight. And then you turn, buttoning the final few buttons and his mouth goes dry at the fleeting glimpse of your décolleté. . 

What the fuck…..He forces his eyes closed again, his jaw clenched against the swift desire you unknowingly provoked.

You scramble towards the bed and dive under the blanket, pulling it up and over your chest.

“Okay,” you murmur. “You can look now.”

He mumbles something that sounds like “Finally”, his voice oddly hoarse, as he lays back down but on top of the covers. 

“You can get under the covers. You’ll get cold if–”

“I’m fine, lady,” he snaps, a dog snarling at the hand offering it a pet.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You have no shirt on and it’s not all that warm in here. You’ll get sick.”

“I don’t get sick,” he says haughtily and for a moment, your exasperation overrules the awkwardness. 

“Fine. Whatever you say.” You pointedly roll away from him, trying to ignore how soft his shirt is, how good it smells, how comforting it is against your skin as the world outside rages with wind and water.

“This bed sucks.” His voice is rough, irritated. You glance over your shoulder. He’s laying on his back, his hands behind his head, staring at the slanted wooden beams of the ceiling. Despite the bareness of his upper body, it’s his profile that captures your attention. The fall of his pale hair. The slant of his cheekbones. The straight, aristocratic nose. His perfectly sculpted lips. A sudden, wild thought bursts through the chaos of your mind: what would they feel like on your lips? On your skin?

Outside the thunder booms, a furious sound so powerful it shakes the window, like a giant quaking the earth with its powerful steps. A small cry of surprise and trepidation escapes you.

He turns his head. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

You roll onto your back, not wanting to face the window and the darkness outside. An uncontrollable shiver rolls through you and you tug the covers up, closer to your chin.

“Rhodolite doesn’t have storms like this often." Your heart is hammering because of the deafening clap of thunder, right? It has nothing to do with the preposterous thoughts spinning like coins through your head just before. 

“Benitoite does.” He returns his gaze to the dark wooden beams above. “Be grateful you’re not on the deck of a ship durin’ a storm like this.”

You glance at the window, illuminated by a burst of lightning and then turn, rolling completely away from it to face him. 

“What was it like?”

Silvio glances at you, then quickly back to the ceiling. “This little rain shower’s got nothin’ on a storm that crept up on us while we were out to sea, sailin’ back from Tanzanite…..”

He speaks and you listen, each word a small fairy light blinking into existence, leading you down a path, away from the storm outside the small guesthouse in the middle of the Rhodolite countryside, and into the eye of a hurricane. One that rocks the carrack Silvio is on, homeward bound from far-away Tanzanite. 

He paints the picture so well, his voice low, blending in with the unrelenting barrage of rain on the darkened window pane. You can see him in your mind’s eye, soaked through, swallowing salt water and his fear as he clings to wet, stinging ropes, his boots sliding across the slick deck. Men’s shouts fade into the roar of the wind. A body is plucked from the ship and tossed like a ragdoll through the howling wind, lost forever to the churning, briny depths. The ocean is enraged, a wild beast bucking and kicking blindly. The ship groans and tilts, battered by the winds, tossed by the wild waves. Silvio’s vision is blurred as he seeks out the helmsman, valiantly still at the massive wooden wheel and makes his way across the dangerously open deck. A wall of water slams into him and he knows if he doesn’t fight, he will be washed out to sea. Dogged determination fills him. Out here he isn’t a prince, fighting for his father’s approval, fighting to be seen as someone worthy. Out here in the elements he is a man, fighting for his very survival, all his gold and jewels and titles worn down to nothing by the wild storm, like mighty mountains that have been reduced to pebbles by the persistence of rain over centuries. He roars in the face of the wind and the rain, clawing his way up to the petrified helmsman. “Insieme!!” Together.. His ringed fingers wrap around the wooden handles, between those of the helmsman. Their gazes meet and as lightning blanches the sky, they both turn with all their might……

“The sea claimed four men that night. Ain’t small, the price of lovin’ her.” He trails off, the experience slowly fading back into the mist of his memory. His blue eyes, darker and softer than you’ve ever seen them, blink as he returns to the small room at the top of the inn and the woman lying next to him.

You’re still on your side, facing him, your gaze held completely at attention by his face, his voice. His story not only distracted you from the storm outside, but had pulled you in, had you inching closer, heart hammering in your chest as you hung on every word. 

But he’s run out of words, that barrier now gone, and there is nothing between you. Just your gaze locked with his, your chest rising and falling as you stare into those azure depths, wondering if the tempest outside will be what causes you to helplessly fall into all that blue, another voyager lost in the ocean of his eyes.

You may be balancing on attraction’s razor-thin edge, but he is no better off. All he can think about is the softness in your expression, the part of your lips, and how he wants nothing more than to capture them and steal the taste of your mouth for himself, hoard it along with the other treasures he already has of you from tonight. The line of your bare back, the light in your eyes, the whisper of your breathing. Just a few centimeters and he would touch you. A few more and he could-

A loud clap of thunder breaks the moment, snapping it in two. You jump, shaken from the hold his gaze had on you, a loud gasp escaping your throat. He jerks back, suddenly aware of just how close the two of you were. There is a faint flush across his cheekbones as he runs a hand through his soft, silvery hair.

“Stop bein’ such a baby. I just told ya how this is nothin’.”

That imperious tone feels like an affront after hearing him speak so softly before. You pull away as if stung and then gather yourself together so he won’t see the glimmer of hurt in your eyes.

“I’m not a baby. I was just startled and–” The way he’s tilting his head, a derisive smirk on his lips sends a flare of annoyance through you. “You know what? Just forget it.” Angrily you roll away from him, yanking the covers up over your shoulder. You don’t see the flash of disappointment in his eyes, the way his fingers reflexively uncurled when you turned away, his body knowing what it wants long before his mind. 

You don’t see how long his gaze lingers on you before he finally forces himself to look away.

Sleep does not find you. You lay there as the oil lamp sputters out and the room is filled with dark shadows that scatter briefly when bright bursts of lightning illuminate the sky, a sky that continues to rampage with gusts of wind and cries of thunder.

Every single inch of you is aware of how close he is. You feel when he shifts his body, the movement disturbing the bedding. You’re still wrapped in the softness of his shirt, surrounded by his scent. And now you can hear the even sounds of his breathing. 

Taking a chance, you glance over your shoulder.

He’s asleep on his side, still facing you, his pillow tucked between his arm and his head. You should turn away and continue your battle with wakefulness. You should stop staring at the locks of argent hair across his forehead. The curve of his arm. The graceful line of his torso.

Outside the thunder rolls. Your heart echoes its tremor.

You do eventually turn away from him but find yourself very slowly inching your way backwards, moving towards him until your body is touching his, the blanket still between you. Despite the coolness of the room, he has stayed on top of it. There is an almost palpable relief in the feeling of his form, the solidness of his body. The storm feels less angry, less destructive. Being this close to him feels right in a way you don’t want to explore, a nebulous thing on the horizon of your heart that you want to keep at bay. 

And then he shifts in his sleep, throwing his arm around you and pulls you even closer against him.

You’re grateful he’s asleep or else the sudden galloping of your heart would surely wake him. It takes several breaths to calm the storm of butterflies in your chest, kicked up by your heart’s sudden racing. They settle down, wings still opening and closing at the feel of his strong arm, the curve of his body around yours. But there is also something warm slowly washing over you. A cocoon, a safe haven where you can finally close your eyes, finally feel the storm’s energy not as an enemy but as a companion, accompanying you as you drift off to sleep at last.

Silvio feels the way your body relaxes, the tension seeping from your muscles as you fall asleep, soft and trusting in his embrace.

If you only knew he has been awake throughout.

He stays awake for a long time, loath to move even a centimeter, feeling the warmth of your body through the blanket and listening to the sound of the rain.

Epilogue:

“Get up, lady. I need my shirt back.”

That voice falls into the still waters of sleep, hooking itself into your consciousness and drags you slowly to the surface.

Sleepily you push yourself up, raising a hand against the bright beam of sunlight spilling into the room.

Pushing your tousled hair out of your face, you find the Prince of Benitoite standing beside the bed, his jacket flung over his bare shoulder, one hand on his hip as he stares down at you. “Let’s go. We’re gettin’ out of this dump. Driver’s already waitin’.” 

Irritation rears its little horned head and your eyes narrow.

“Good morning to you too.”

He ignores that and stretches out his hand. “My shirt.”

And we’re back to this. You sigh.

“Go wait outside the door.”

He regards you a moment and then turns on his boot heel and leaves the room. With a grimace you climb out of the warm bed, padding barefoot across the wooden floor until you’re by the entrance. As quickly as you can, you unbutton his white shirt and then stick your hand out the door with it dangling from two fingers.

He mutters something that you cut off with a slam, eyes closing for a moment as you catch your breath.

Did last night really happen? Was he….kind? And….warm? Did you really sleep in his arms?

A bang on the door jerks you out of your thoughts. “Move it or lose it!”

Oh for fuck’s sake. “Go already! I’ll be there!”

Somehow you are able to wrangle yourself back into your ball gown. Tying the back is tricky but you manage to get it closed enough to avoid any indecency. A quick re-pinning of your hair and buckling of your shoes and you're making your way down the wooden staircase. The innkeeper is at the counter, smiling through his fuzzy white beard in greeting.

“Morning, my lady,” he calls cheerfully. 

The door to the inn is open and you can see the driver loading a few things back onto the carriage. Silvio is already inside.

“Thank you again for your hospitality, sir. I’m afraid I don’t have any coin for our stay, but I’ll be sure to return as soon as possible to pay-”

The older man shakes his head, waving you to a stop with his hand. “Oh no, no need for that my lady. Your…er…roommate already took care of it.”

You’re unable to hold back the surprise in your voice as you glance at the carriage and then back to the innkeeper. “He did?”

His eyes gleam as he reaches into the pocket of his worn vest and again, shock squeezes a silent gasp from your lips. In his work-worn, calloused hand, he’s holding two of Silvio’s bejeweled rings. His words from last night flash through your mind.

—“My clothes are worth more than everything in this room. Hell one of my rings probably more than this whole fucking inn.” –

The innkeep is oblivious to your stunned expression. “These’ll pay for any damage the storm caused and then some. I told that young man, he's welcome here anytime.”

You finally find your voice. “I….I’m glad to hear that. Thank you again.”

He bids you farewell as you walk outside into the startlingly bright sunlight. The smell of petrichor fills the air, the ground still damp as you walk towards the carriage.

The hazy feeling of something born in the fury of the storm….

Something nameless.

Something undeniable.

Something Silvio has awoken.

….is rising on delicate butterfly wings, inching its way closer to the realm of your heart. 

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

Chevalier+ flower crown + 🌷

thank you!

A/N: He won the poll so his fic is first. I remembered how much I really enjoy writing him 💜

This is a contribution to the Spring Showers Spring Flowers CCC hosted by @aquagirl1978 and myself 🌷

Chevalier x child

WC: 785

Two horses stand on the edge of a field not too far from the palace. One is tall, the color of freshly fallen slow, with a mane and tail that ripple like liquid silver in the spring sun. The other is smaller, a warm chestnut brown with a bright, friendly gaze. Together they graze on the tall meadow grass, both keeping a watchful eye on their respective owners.

Chevalier is sitting at the broad base of a tall birch tree on the edge of the meadow, reading through the correspondence he brought with him. So far, nothing that requires immediate attention although he has several more letters to go. 

“Papa!”

He raises his eyes, the ones that mirror the rich blue sky above, to see his daughter picking her way through the green grass back to him. A few pale strands of wayward hair have escaped her long braid and he notices several grass stains on her white stockings. Her royal blue dress is likely hiding several more. He sets aside his work without hesitation as she drops down onto the red and green picnic blanket she had insisted they bring along on their ride. A practical idea and one that had paid off, he mused with the shadow of a smile on his lips. They had ridden further than usual and both she and the horses were happy for a break. Chevalier was pleased with her progress. She was becoming quite the equestrian, handling her small horse with calm certainty and aplomb.

“Look, Papa.” 

In her hands she holds what she has spent the last hour laboring over: a simple flower crown made of interwoven yellow and white meadow flowers. She turns it around in her small hands, the tips of her usually clean fingers stained yellow from the small, pigmented petals, as if she had been finger painting with sunshine. Chevalier points to the fluffy yellow flowers that make up the majority of the crown. 

“What are these?” He knows the answer, of course. And he is sure she does too.

“Dandelion,” she answers confidently. “It’s a common field flower.” She pauses, thinking back to the botany book she borrowed from her father’s library a few days ago. “They are perennials with a short life-span that grow in most soil conditions. They can withstand frost and freezing temperatures.” She raises her gaze to him, having exhausted the information she absorbed from reading. Now she’s ready to give him the practical information she’s procured from the field. “Their stems are good for flower crowns because they’re quite long and sturdy. I tried a different yellow flower, but there were not enough and their stems were too thin.” 

He nods, listening intently before pointing to the smaller, white flowers. “A keen observation. And what are these?”

Her brow furrows as she thinks, a trait that is so clearly her mother that Chevalier finds himself biting back a smile.

“I know they're daisies. And they’re also perennials.” A moment of quiet as she considers and he allows her the time to think without interruption or guidance. Then she remembers and when she looks up at him, her smile is brighter than any flower he can recall seeing. “They are very common but also welcome because they help crowd out weeds that can pose a danger to other plants or even animals.”

He nods, allowing the pride in her determination and intellect to curve his mouth in a gentle smile. “Well done.” 

She leans back, clearly pleased with herself and the praise from the man who means everything to her, then looks up.

“Would you like to wear it, Papa? I made an estimate when picking them and it should be large enough to fit your head.”

In another lifetime, Chevalier Michel would have snorted in derision at the very thought. A waste of time. A waste of flowers. But that was before he had met you, the person who brought color into his world of black and white. Before he had stumbled his way into the realm of truly and deeply caring for another person. But most of all, before the little girl sitting in front of him, looking back at him with his own eyes, eyes bright with something he had long been unfamiliar with, had never thought he would ever experience: the light of unconditional love.

And so the King of Rhodolite bows his pale head, allowing small, flower-smudged hands to place a crown of yellow and white flowers there. 

Because she made it, just for him.

Because it makes her laugh with childish delight. 

Because he loves her, with a love as bright and beautiful as a field of spring flowers, swaying in the breeze.

Tagging: @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

Hello! I don't know if you're still taking kisses requests but I'd love one for Isaac bc he's baby and I wanna give him all the smooches<3 thank you!!

A/N: Here you go @akitsuneswife 💜

Isaac x Reader

Word Count: 454

His eyes, the soft pink of cherry blossoms in springtime, light up when he sees you waiting on the university steps. The sky above is already darkening, an ombré of blues from the last, light vestiges of day to the halcyon, inky darkness of night. After a long day of classes and conferences, you are the last person he expects to see and somehow, the only one he wants to. It’s late enough that students and faculty are scarce, the usually bustling entrance of the science building all but deserted. He lowers his worn leather satchel and opens his arms to welcome you as you bound up the alabaster stairs and step into his arms.

Like magnets, your faces tilt and your lips find each other, drawn to one another with a force as natural as it is undeniable. His words, spoken not all that long ago, echo through your mind as your lips touch: “You’re the first person I’ve ever laughed with…felt peace with…the first one I’ve ever felt possessive of…”

Sometimes when Isaac kisses you, he burns as brightly as a comet, his mouth leaving a fiery trail of kisses across the firmament of your body. You're lambent with want, glowing with need. He leaves the world of rational thinking behind and with you, sinks into the wonder of just being. Of feeling. Of letting go and allowing the primal, uralt desire that spins in our cores to drive his actions, his touches, his soft, half-growled whispers. Sometimes he leaves you, deliciously broken, deliriously spent, your mind unable to form a single thought, capable of nothing other than listening to the throb of your heart as it drums how much you love him.

But sometimes, like this velveteen moment on the white marbled steps of academia, there are no chaotic explosions. His lips on yours don’t burn, but rather soothe. It is the gentle, peaceful twinkle of starlight, the silver beam of moonlight as it brightens the night. The kiss of someone who cherishes you, protects you, will always shelter you with every atom of his being.

His kiss sends a warm ripple of satisfaction through your veins as you lean into his arms, feel them tighten around you. You love how you fit into his embrace, how your bodies feel like matching puzzle pieces that lock together perfectly to create a picture of pure happiness. He slides his hands upward until he cradles your face, allowing himself the luxury of using only his sense of feel (your skin under his palms), of taste (your lips, sweeter than apples), of sound (your hushed sighs of contentment). You transcend his need to analyze, to tinker, to figure out. 

You allow him to exist, just like this.

And you love him, just as he is.

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

Leon, baby animals, 🌷

A/N: Here you go, my favorite world traveler! @bellerose-arcana I hope you like it, whenever you get a chance to read 💜

Leon x Reader

Part of the Spring Showers, Spring Flower CCC hosted by @aquagirl1978 and myself

Word Count: 792

As much as you love your work at the palace as Royal Librarian, a title bestowed upon you by King Chevalier and seconded by all the other princes, when you get the chance to leave it all behind and go back into town, the place you grew up, the place that will always feel like home, you jump at it.

Today’s excursion is visiting a childhood friend’s new home on the outskirts of town. She and her wife bought a derelict farm, and with a lot of love and hard work, breathed life back into it. It sounded so charming in her letter that you had run straight to Leon's office, excitedly telling him how that you hoped to go as soon as possible. That day has finally arrived and the hour-long trip out to the country at it's end. The carriage rolls to a stop on the narrow dirt road and you eagerly squeeze Leon’s hand.

“We’re here!”

He can’t help but grin at your excitement as you jump down from the carriage without needing a helping hand from him or the driver. Holding the large, white wicker basket full of presents you have prepared for your friend, Leon nods a thank you and slips the driver a small pouch of gold coins so he can return to town and enjoy himself while you two are away. He balances the heavy basket in the crook of his arm, careful because he knows how much trouble you went through to procure everything in there: smoked venison from the royal hunting grounds, various sausages and herbs, several jars of Luke’s pick for the best honey of that year as well as jams and jellies from the royal orchards. You and Yves had spent several days baking all kinds of treats which you carefully wrapped in wax paper and tied with colored twine. You even managed to convince the king to part with one edition of a rare book on Benitoite ship masonry because you knew her wife is a fan.

Now, with the sun shining down in greeting, you hold Leon’s free arm as you walk up the pathway to the large white farmhouse. The scene is as picturesque as they come: a white farmhouse nestled into rolling green fields. A pasture with sturdy, slow-moving cows lazily grazing. In the distance a barn with a red roof, an enclosure with a chicken coop and numerous fluffy white hens and one very self-assured rooster strutting his way around the ladies.

You glance at Leon to see him looking around, admiration in his expression and it warms your heart. He may be a royal but he has never once lost his appreciation of the simpler things, hence your many, clandestine strolls through town together, cloaked and hooded as you simply mingled with the townspeople, enjoying the time away from watchful eyes and palace intrigue.

The front door to the farm house swings open and your friend emerges, her smile as wide and friendly as you remember. She waves, calling your name. Suddenly from behind her, a loud commotion, another woman’s voice yelling something incomprehensible as several small, brown, furry bundles of pure energy escape the confines of the house, charging down the wooden steps and outside to FREEDOM and NEW PEOPLE!!!

And they make a beeline not for you, but for the tall human carrying the basket full of such INTERESTING SMELLS!!!!

Your friend covers her mouth in horror, you cover yours in amusement as the mass of puppies charge him, whimpering and barking, tails wagging manically. Their oversized paws like unwieldy door knockers thump against his legs. Some are bold and bark, some seem to be attempting to scale him like a tower.

“Oh, I am so sorry-“ Your friend’s words are cut off as Leon grins, holding out the SMELLS SO GOOD!!! basket which you take from him, before he sinks down onto the grass, his eyes bright with delight as he reaches out, trying to pet all the puppies at once.

“Aren’t you a handsome little fellow?” He turns as another happily jumps, both paws leaving uneven dusty paw prints on his white shirt. “Hello love, what a sweet girl you are!” One heftier, roly-poly puppy wiggles his way under Leon’s arm, determined to get pets and he laughs. “You’re a proper lad now, look at you!” The onslaught of puppy love continues, their enthusiasm growing like a tidal wave of happy whimpering, jumping bodies shaking with excitement. Leon, unable to maintain balance, topples over, surrendering fully, his arms full of soft, brown fur, his cheeks wet with puppy kisses and sniffs.

With a smile and a sigh you turn, offering your friend the basket.

“Congratulations on your beautiful home. This is from us. Me and--” You glance back at Leon whose laughter is audible over the excited puppy sounds coming from the horde that’s swallowed him.

Your smile is tender, shaped by love. “My husband.”

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chevalier and ex-lovers for the angst promt? that seems like it would be really interesting considering his route. thank you for reading this ask

A/N: With some encouragement and brainstorming (thank you @lorei-writes 💜) I finished this!

An addition to my Broken Heartstrings series

Chevalier x Reader

WC: 1.3k

The crowds that have gathered in the streets are humming like a hive full of excited bees. Some small children are pushing their way beneath elbows and through knees, trying to get to the front. Others are being hoisted up onto the shoulders of grown ups who shift their weight from foot to foot, as eager as the children to get a glimpse.

You can see them all from your spot, perched on the wide windowsill of your bedroom. Precarious as it may be, you’ve pushed open the window, leaving nothing between you and the view of the street below. It’s a joyful scene, one of breathless anticipation as the townsfolk wait for their king to ride through on this, the anniversary of his coronation. The king that you chose a year ago. The man who had challenged your spirit and won your heart.

But instead of sitting by his side, proudly looking down at all the beaming faces, you’re alone at your window, stomach in knots at the thought of seeing Chevalier Michel again, even from a distance.

Just thinking his name sends your mind down well-trodden paths of anguish and heartbreak....

What had seemed so solid, so strong, had unraveled in a single moment. You didn’t even have the chance to anticipate something was wrong. He had gone to investigate suspicious activity at the border. He had returned, white clothing running red with blood that was not his. Still, you had run to him, concern an engine that spurred you forward at lightning speed….and he had turned away, turned his shoulder towards you. And then he had told you, in a voice as chilled as winter’s edge, to leave. 

Leave, he repeated at the palace gates, his hand gesturing for you to move away.

Leave, he repeated as you stood in his bedroom, questions shooting from your mouth like wayward fireworks, bright and burning and frantic. 

Leave was all he said, his voice a blade as dangerous and final as his sword.

His betrayal of your trust was a sudden cracking of ice, a fall into freezing water that left you speechless, breathless, and utterly broken. All the possibilities for the future, all the countless daydreams. All the nights spent talking, sharing, weaving a relationship from the threads of your heartstrings snapped in a blink by silver shears, cold as the blue of his eyes when all your wild thoughts boiled down to a single question, your voice trembling like a leaf in a cruel, sudden wind: 

Why?

Leave was his only reply.

And so you fled the palace, the beautiful rose gardens, the confused and concerned questions in the eyes of his brothers. You fled the place that had become home to return to the life you had known before, except it didn’t fit as it once did. Something was missing, something that ached in the night, that chased sleep away from the spinning hurricane of your mind. A longing for someone that you shouldn’t want, someone who was willing to drive a stake into the beating heart of your love without hesitation. Or explanation.

A combined gasp and cheer rises up from the crowd as the royal caravan approaches and tugs you back to the present. The other princes ride upon their horses, smiling and waving. Well, Licht isn’t exactly smiling and something about his somber expression is so familiar, a constant in a world turned upside down, that it actually brings a smile to your lips, a sad, watery thing but a smile nonetheless. Jin and Nokto beam brightly, waving and nodding, especially to the women who meet their gazes with excited hands pressed to their hearts. Leon is every inch the prince, flawlessly dividing his attention between both sides of the street, his smile open and wide. He was always so kind.  A wave of bittersweet emotion washes through you as you remember the time he would take to explain things to you, to help you find your way, to listen,

But he is not the one your heart chose. 

And behind Leon and his black stallion rides the King on his destrier of purest snow white. The sight of him, tall and proud, one gloved hand on the reins, the other casually on the pommel of his sword freezes the breath in your lungs. Your fingers curl into your palm unbidden, nails biting deep into flesh gone numb. Beside him, Clavis is all flashy smiles and waves, golden eyes scanning the crowd to award a nod or tilt of the head to anyone he wants to feel special. His head tilts up as his gaze sweeps across the many open windows and people waving handkerchiefs, some embroidered roses, some embroidered with tigers in honor of the king’s crest.

You, still as a beam of moonlight, stand out amid the riotous cheering.

Of course Clavis notices you. In a heartbeat, your eyes lock with his and something inside you shifts as you are flooded with the memories of the many laughs, the teasing, but most of all, the way he supported you through loving his brother. He knows what a difficult path that is to walk. He has been walking it his whole life.

He offers you something no one else in the crowd gets. His face, always adept at schooling itself into whatever mask it need be, is filled with genuine emotion at the sight of you. He offers you a smile, soft and sad and real.

Somehow, even from a distance, he has still found a way to comfort you.

Your spirit is bolstered, just a little, and you manage a smile in return, raising a hand in greeting.

And then Chevalier notices his brother’s upturned face and his own head moves, his gaze rising to see what has Clavis’s attention.

There you are, up in the window, framed like a beautiful portrait, smiling, but even he can see it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, like a garden dappled in shadows. Your hand is raised, that hand he knows intimately. He knows the motion of your fingers as they delicately turn the page of a book. He knows the strength in them when you grip a horse’s reins. And he knows their softness, the tenderness with which they can touch, the feel of your fingertips as they trace the line of his jaw. The eagerness with which they press into the back of his neck when he kisses you-

Kissed you.

When he kissed you.

Because he will never know their touch again. Nor your kiss. Nor your smile. Even now, as your gaze meets his, that smile fades, your hand slowly lowers, curling against your heart like a wounded animal, seeking shelter.

And he knows he did that. He killed the warmth of you, the joy, the whispering sunshine of your love.

And he would do it again.

Because as pained as you look now, somehow he knows it would never compare to the pain of being in love with someone who could so deeply disappoint you. He learned that lesson the day he rode to the border, when he killed as mechanically as clockwork, without remorse, without regard. How easily his blade drank the blood of young and old. He saw only red, felt only the jolt of sword through flesh and turned to seek it again and again.

You claimed there was good in him, there was mercy and the capacity to love.

And for a brief moment in time, he had believed you. Until that day.

And rather than watch your love for him slowly wither as you learned you were wrong, that he was nothing more than a brutal beast, he made a clean cut. Sharp, painful but without a doubt in his mind the correct thing to do.

He could not watch the light in your eyes go out. Because he loved you.

Loves you.

Because he still loves you.

Chevalier’s pale head turns away from you and the procession continues.

Slowly, breathing against the burning ache in your chest, the broken pieces of your heart slicing into wounds that have never fully healed, you lean forward and pull the window closed. 

There is nothing left to see.

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Bohumil Hrabal: Bambini di Praga 1947

“there are stains which cannot be cleaned without disrupting the structure of the fabric”

This quote demonstrates Hrabal’s art of aestheticization of banal phrases. The phrase is a a quote from an advertisement for a laundry detergent, but he gives it a completely different context and revives latent meanings in it, thus allowing it to come alive.

nahým a bosým posléze a oblečeným v cárech zlosti ve chvíli čiré beztesknosti zasteskne se nám po něze

then, dressed only in our anger naked, barefoot, penniless in moments of pure longinglessness we will long for something tender

Jan Skácel in Naděje s bukovými křídly (1983)

Virginia Woolf: To the Lighthouse (1927)

"It partook, she felt, carefully helping Mr Bankes to a specially tender piece, of eternity."

Jan Skácel: Podobný sýkorkám; čtyřverší XVIII