Ikepri Cyran - Tumblr Posts
A gorgeous and creative moodboard 🥺💖 Praying for his sprite cybirb🙏🏻
shrine of red to manifest cyran's sprite
@thewitchofbooks pray with me
◆ this blog is Cyran-friendly but also 18+ so minors/ageless blogs please dni
Random Cyril/Cyran hairstyles
CYRAN x READER
...Are Red ...Are Blue
drabble . angst . blood mention . kissing
minors and ageless blogs please dni
° ° ° °
"Cyran. I don't think... I don't think last night was a mistake."
Cyran's hands register the words seconds before his placid mask ripples under moonlight and distorts, breaking, ruining and elevating his beautiful smile; and there, where you can't look away, like blood spatter, his clutched bouquet spills out over your bare, stone-scraped feet. Because maybe the ribbon around the stalks were bound in apology, and maybe each flower found its way into a sweaty grip writing goodbyes into garden air while a pretty red brow hung with reasons you have no right to know. Because that would be so like Cyran, to gently let you down into your tears so you wouldn't have to crash.
All falls are crashes. It's just sometimes you have the luxury of choosing which organs burst.
The roses you manage to save find a new bed in your arms, this shield wrought of self-solace years in the making without you ever knowing, but when you stand back up and dare to sight beyond your glistening lashes, Cyran's lips take you.
All falls are crashes.
And it's different from the night before. His kiss is proof that the person you are today is different from the person you were yesterday and the person you will be tomorrow. Beginnings get marked with kisses. Promises are immortalized in them. Cyran's kiss, crushing his roses between you, bending you into his clawing, beastly, cradling hand, is the birth of a hero come to claim his runaway.
When he pulls back into moonlight his hair is tousled and wild, his smile hangs draped in sensual shadow-shapes with glimpse of pearly teeth, and his only word is an invitation, awkward and a bit boyish, but written into the garden's ears in a language beyond those of any rose.
---
Once again heavily-inspired by gilbertvonobsidian and his heartwrenching, genius fic Lillian
CYRAN x READER
...Are Red ...Are Blue
drabble . angst . blood mention . kissing
minors and ageless blogs please dni
° ° ° °
"Cyran. I don't think... I don't think last night was a mistake."
Cyran's hands register the words seconds before his placid mask ripples under moonlight and distorts, breaking, ruining and elevating his beautiful smile; and there, where you can't look away, like blood spatter, his clutched bouquet spills out over your bare, stone-scraped feet. Because maybe the ribbon around the stalks were bound in apology, and maybe each flower found its way into a sweaty grip writing goodbyes into garden air while a pretty red brow hung with reasons you have no right to know. Because that would be so like Cyran, to gently let you down into your tears so you wouldn't have to crash.
All falls are crashes. It's just sometimes you have the luxury of choosing which organs burst.
The roses you manage to save find a new bed in your arms, this shield wrought of self-solace years in the making without you ever knowing, but when you stand back up and dare to sight beyond your glistening lashes, Cyran's lips take you.
All falls are crashes.
And it's different from the night before. His kiss is proof that the person you are today is different from the person you were yesterday and the person you will be tomorrow. Beginnings get marked with kisses. Promises are immortalized in them. Cyran's kiss, crushing his roses between you, bending you into his clawing, beastly, cradling hand, is the birth of a hero come to claim his runaway.
When he pulls back into moonlight his hair is tousled and wild, his smile hangs draped in sensual shadow-shapes with glimpse of pearly teeth, and his only word is an invitation, awkward and a bit boyish, but written into the garden's ears in a language beyond those of any rose.
---
Once again heavily-inspired by gilbertvonobsidian and his heartwrenching, genius fic Lillian
CYRAN x READER
More Questions Than Bodies Have Answers For
ONESHOT . SMUT . ANGST
minors/ageless blogs please do not read/like/reblog any of my works where this warning appears (you will be blocked)
x o x o x o
"Cyran... Rose... You are... the..." Your voice sounds strange to your ears.
That last moan from you, that hideously lewd mewling that no bookstore employee has ever made, echoes fresh in your memory, and fresh onto the slender, freckled hand between your quivering legs.
Has he done this before? You're certain now that Cyran is pressing shapes into you that very much do not exist in reality. And the way his low panting, at once dreamy and bestial, matches his strokes is nothing short of hypnotic.
But you can't let yourself runaway with it.
Cyran's not on break, exactly. What are the chances Clavis even remembers whatever errand he sent him on this time? The castle grounds are vast, and there are avenues galore to a particular destination. Detours are completely natural. Probably.
You happened to be in the wine cellar running an errand for Jin, and Cyran happened to... happen by... and...
The exact sequence of events has been lost to heady mouth-plundering, and most of it rattled from your train of thought when your back hit the side of some shelf in the damp dark.
"You're nervous." Cyran ends his sibilant consonants the way an Obsidianite does, but his terse half-lilt is through-and-through the mark of a Rhodolitian knight. And his voice--something you can no longer divorce from the tongue of an amorous kisser--is so terribly warm and balmy.
So why don't your nerves settle into its safety?
Cyran seems unsure of what to do for a moment. His gaze is drawn to your lips but he pulls it back to read your eyes every time he strays. With each flicker his irises catch the hanging lantern's rippling firelight, somehow making him even more bewitching to look at. And that does the complete opposite of putting your breathing into order.
Finally Cyran slides the hand he has over your breast under your arm to wrap around your back. His calloused fingertips run reassuring lines up and down between your shoulder-blades. His other hand pulls away from your center and begins massaging your leg in a similar rhythm. The feel is still hot and sensuous around the edges, but his intent is clear. He's even put some distance between you two, as you can no longer feel his ardor against your inner thigh. And of course that's upsetting too.
"I don't know why I'm being like this," you answer honestly. You pull him closer and rest your forehead against his disheveled collar. He'll be able to hide that love-bite easy enough.
Your eyelids feel heavy all of a sudden, with a false drowsiness that comes from overstimulation. It's Cyran's scent. It truly drives you mad.
Cyran's scent becomes more and more familiar to you with every encounter. Soldier's musk, sweat, but those are mere windfalls against the full-bodied bouquet of sunshine and summer that imbues his skin. Yet it's not wild like unchecked garden growth. Everything about Cyran feels ordered and disciplined. Like he's shopped through time and placed every new vial of himself into a gorgeous display for anyone to appreciate.
At their leisure. Even when princes linger in the same room.
Cyran is a wonder.
But that order and discipline seem shaken now. You don't know if you're projecting or if Cyran is every bit as nervous as you are. This is what, though, your third time doing this together? There is nothing forbidding you from having any sort of affair with...
Wait, is this just an affair? Is that what's bothering you?
...Is this the best time to have that conversation?
Should that conversation have been had three trysts ago?
You don't like that word, you think. You and Cyran are not that word.
Cyran is staring at you wide-eyed. "Why are you making that face?"
You bite your lip and tuck your head against his shoulder again. "What face? Don't read too much into it, please. ...What face?"
"I don't know!" Cyran panics, dropping both hands and surrendering you to the cold cellar. "I'm sorry, I should just-"
"No, please!" You wrap your arms around him. Your heartbeat seeks his out where your chests connect. "You feel so good." It's true but also not what you mean at all.
Cyran falls silent for a moment too long. You count three drops of water from a loose tap somewhere in the shadows. Then he sighs and gently unlatches your arms. "We should-"
"Talk?" Your voice is pulled taut. "Can we?"
"I really have to go soon."
"Cyran..." But hope springs to life when you notice his expression twist at his own words. Maybe he's saying the wrong words too, just like you are?
Still, he walks backward from you, boots strangely silent over the stone floor, until he hits the shelf opposite. "What happens when your month here ends?"
"I go back to town." No. No, you want to say so much more but the words are getting lost somewhere, because Cyran Rose is a knight, and Cyran Rose is kind and beautiful, and maybe you and Cyran Rose never should have happened and-
"And would you think of me?" A voice that vulnerable has no business being this far away from your listening ears. "Do you think of me?"
"Cyran, I wouldn't touch you like this if you weren't on my mind literally all the time."
"All the time?" You can hear the embers of a smile. "Even when... you're, um... alone?"
Your cheeks are a furnace. Certainly it's only natural for Cyran to ask this, and you'd be lying if you weren't immediately, presently, thoroughly occupied with what his answer would be to the same question. You wonder what his bedchambers look like, or if he has to stop himself and duck into some alcove between training, ashamed and cheeks burning, or even...
You blow out a mouthful of air and scuffle your toes against the ground. You were thinking of Cyran very intimately just this morning before Rio brought you your tea. "Would the truth make you uncomfortable?"
"If the truth is what I want it to be then I think it would make me incredibly..." He suddenly turns around and faces the shelf. "I'm sorry. This conversation has gotten so weird, and it's entirely my doing. I'm so sorry."
The sight of this usually so placid knight cowering from you in a cellar draws and quarters you between disbelief, adoration, confusion and a sudden desire to tease.
"Are you still in a rush to leave?"
"Honestly? I'd love to just evaporate away right now."
You wait. You wait an entire minute, not saying anything. And at no point does Cyran make any move to leave. In fact, he even looks over his shoulder, and the look in his eye...
Emboldened, you take several steps toward him and hug him from behind. Emboldened, you slide your hand over the front of his pants, hoping...
Cyran's unfiltered groan fills the entire cellar. Then he bonks his head against the shelf in front of him. "Fuck. Excuse me. Wow. That was loud."
"It was." You press your chest against his back and writhe upwards, finding it strangely easy to be coquettish. "It was really hot too."
Cyran clears his throat. "Shouldn't we be talking?"
"Shouldn't you be leaving?"
"I'm rather, uncomfortably comfortable right where I am, thanks."
Another two drops of water fill the silence. Then the tension bursts into mutual laughter.
If Cyran's voice is lovely with hellos and small-talk, it is pearls on a necklace with laughter. As rich as any prince.
And the way his laugh seems to dance perfectly around yours? How many couples can say that?
Couple. Now that's a word you like. But it's up to Cyran to pull that into his vocabulary for you two.
And there's still a chance that he...
You drop your hand but Cyran catches your wrist and guides you back.
"Cyran...?" You turn your head and rest your cheek against his back.
"Please. I like it when you think of me."
Your heart surges. "Can I take that to mean what I hope you mean?"
He cups your palm around him, rubbing slow, languorous strokes along the hardened length. "I wouldn't want to be touched like this unless you were the one touching me." His breathing is hypnotic with how controlled it is, how it compliments the movements of his and your hand.
You do, you really truly do. Want to runaway with him.
Again, and again, and again.
Lost in the moment, in Cyran, in his quiet beauty, you press a light kiss into his back. "Then maybe... you could show me your bedroom sometime?"
--
credit as always to thewitchofbooks for cyran info and inspiration
Cyran kiss? Please?
A/N: Here you go anon!
Word Count: 809
You blame it on the rain. It’s the reason you stop in your tracks. The reason you find yourself turning, your heart thundering in your chest, to face the armory you fled just seconds ago, leaving Cyran and all the sudden, tightly-strung feelings behind. You hadn’t wanted to go. Every cell in your body was screaming for you to stay, stay right where you were with his fingers touching yours as you handed over the letter Clavis sent you to bring him. It can’t wait, the prince had said, his eyes glittering like sunlight winking off gold. You had to go now to Cyran, despite the darkening sky. Despite the electric smell in the air. And so you had gone and found him in the stone armory, surrounded by weapons. He was stripped down to his unlaced, white linen tunic, damp with sweat, cleaning his sword after a particularly grueling training session. You think your heart might have raised the white flag then and there at the sight of him.
The next few moments were a blur: You had cleared your throat and he looked up, locking eyes with you. His beautiful eyes miss nothing. You’re certain he saw the faint blush of pink across your cheeks. The catch of your breath as you drank in the way his tunic clung in just the right places, teasing the sculpted muscle underneath. Unlaced just enough to ignite a shower of sparks through your body. He saw how you licked your lips unconsciously and how your hand tightened around the letter. And he certainly saw the way the faint pink across your cheeks deepend to a rich flush when you touched, his calloused fingers brushing yours.
With a loud whoosh those sparks inside turned into a roaring bonfire and you didn’t know what to do…..except run. Run from the overwhelming heat of desire you felt in your veins and saw painted across his usually stoic visage. You burst through the armory doors, barreling towards the path that would lead you back to the palace.
But you’re now only a few strides gone and the clouds have opened up the floodgates, soaking you through in just the few moments you’ve been outside. And so it is because of the rain you turn around.
And you see him.
He’s just stopped in his tracks but you know he was coming after you. The rain has darkened his red hair to a deep garnet and graciously revealed all the secrets his tunic had only been hinting at before. You stare at one another through the haze of water, neither one moving, frozen by one another’s gaze.
One heartbeat.
Then another.
And then you’re running back towards him and his long legs are swallowing the distance between you until you meet like a clap of thunder, falling into one another’s arms. His mouth is warm yet slick with cool rainwater and you are dizzy at the contrast. Your hands slide over his broad shoulders, over the soft, translucent material of his tunic. You feel the lines of muscle, the strength of them. How many times had you imagined touching him? How many nights did it haunt your dreams? You are determined to get your fill, here and now.
Your restless fingers are not still. One hand grips the nape of his neck. The other travels upwards, pushing in the thick expanse of his hair. You gasp against his lips at the shocking thrill of curling your fingers into those crimson tresses, at the way his large hand grips your waist tighter when you do. The unflappable soldier is bending under your touch. What will he do when he tastes you? You part your lips, bold and unapologetic. The rough sound that escapes his throat tells you it was the right thing to do.
You’ve snapped the thin threads of self-control he was still holding onto, the very same self-control he has made a mantel of and armored himself with. Gone is the serious man from Obsidian with the somber eyes. Instead you hold a man incandescent with a hunger that only you can satiate. His kiss is devouring, determined to leave no part of you untasted. He steals your breath, swallows your gasps, drinks from your lips. Over and over he kisses you until your legs shake and your blood is a river of fire in your veins. Soon your mouth is not enough. He needs more. His lips scavenge your cheeks, your jawline, and then lower, following the line of your neck. Everywhere he kisses you burns and the raindrops that land there in his wake feel cold as ice.
Your head falls back, baring your throat to him, facing the gray clouds and falling rain with only one thought shining through the haze like the bright, blinding beam of a lighthouse:
More.
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
🍯Come on, honey. Bee nice and share a WIP for WIP Wednesday 🐝
The rain is forlorn as it continues to tap against the window, whispering at him that he is a fool. A fool for losing himself in your lips, the taste of your hot, slick skin mingled with cold rain. A fool for loving the rough pull of your fingers in his crimson hair, the restless feel of your hands over the wet linen of his tunic, the grip of your hand on his muscled arms.
Hello Violet🥺💖 This is my first time requesting to you, so I hope this is the right way
May I ask for Cyran + rainy days + 🌧? Thank you very much🥺💕 (feel free to ignore if this has been requested!)
A/N: here you are lovely @thewitchofbooks 💜
Cyran x reader, a continuation from his Kiss fic (Italics are excerpts from this fic)
WC: 682
The rain continues to fall, water droplets sliding down the window pane like fallen teardrops, obscuring the view outside of Cyran’s window. He sits at the wooden desk, in the small room above the armory that serves as his office. His red hair is still damp, despite the vigorous rubbing he gave it, the soft towel still hanging around his broad, bare shoulders. The candle on his desk does its best to fight the gray gloom, soft orange-yellow light falling across the parchment where the names of all new recruits are listed in his own neat handwriting. He should be organizing them into regiments, assigning them to the more experienced officers. It’s a task that should take hours, one that should keep him focused. But the thunderstorm in his mind, the one filled with the bright lightning of your kisses, the thunder of your sighs, will not quiet. Eventually he lays his silver-feathered quill down, his head now in his hands.
And then you’re running back towards him and his long legs are swallowing the distance between you until you meet like a clap of thunder, falling into one another’s arms.
He should have turned away, he should have torn his gaze away from the sight of you rushing towards him, surrender in your eyes. You are Belle, tasked with the important job of choosing the next ruler. You can afford no distractions. Especially not from the likes of him.
And yet he gave in, as unable to resist your pull as the ocean could the moon, and you fell into his arms like a star loosened from the sky, fit there so perfectly, felt so damn good.
A low groan escapes him as he reaches for the tumbler with its small volume of burnt amber liquid. The whiskey may be cheap but maybe...maybe it will get the job done. It burns as it goes down, but even if he were to walk through hellfire itself, he knows deep down nothing could burn away the memory of your kiss.
His kiss is devouring, determined to leave no part of you untasted. He steals your breath, swallows your gasps, drinks from your lips. Over and over he kisses you until your legs shake and your blood is a river of fire in your veins. Soon your mouth is not enough. He needs more. His lips scavenge your cheeks, your jawline, and then lower, following the line of your neck. Everywhere he kisses you burns and the raindrops that land there in his wake feel cold as ice.
The rain is forlorn as it continues to tap against the window, whispering at him that he is a fool. A fool for losing himself in your lips, the taste of your hot, slick skin mingled with cold rain. A fool for loving the rough pull of your fingers in his crimson hair, the restless feel of your hands over the wet linen of his tunic, the grip of your hand on his muscled arms.
A fool for leaving you there, dazed with the force of what just happened, your kiss-swollen lips parting as the word “Wait….” slipped past a throat tight with water-logged emotion.
That croaked word, that whisper on the wind, has buried itself in his heart, the points of it digging into his heart like barbed wire, tearing at him just a little more every time it replays itself in his mind.
The tumbler is now empty. The rain endless. Cyran pushes himself away from his desk with a growl, knowing that any attempt to work will be a fruitless endeavor. Best to head back to his quarters where he knows a sleepless night is licking its chops, waiting for him.
He snatches up his sodden tunic, flings open the heavy wooden door with the strength of his frustration……
….only to find you there, cheeks damp with rain or tears or both, your hand raised, hovering in the air as if searching for the courage to actually knock.
His heart lurches in his chest…that foolish, hopeful creature with bloody wings.
Before he can move a muscle, before a word can even form, you have found your mettle.
“We need to talk.”
Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly
Hello Violet🥺💖 This is my first time requesting to you, so I hope this is the right way
May I ask for Cyran + rainy days + 🌧? Thank you very much🥺💕 (feel free to ignore if this has been requested!)
A/N: here you are lovely @thewitchofbooks 💜
Cyran x reader, a continuation from his Kiss fic (Italics are excerpts from this fic)
WC: 682
The rain continues to fall, water droplets sliding down the window pane like fallen teardrops, obscuring the view outside of Cyran’s window. He sits at the wooden desk, in the small room above the armory that serves as his office. His red hair is still damp, despite the vigorous rubbing he gave it, the soft towel still hanging around his broad, bare shoulders. The candle on his desk does its best to fight the gray gloom, soft orange-yellow light falling across the parchment where the names of all new recruits are listed in his own neat handwriting. He should be organizing them into regiments, assigning them to the more experienced officers. It’s a task that should take hours, one that should keep him focused. But the thunderstorm in his mind, the one filled with the bright lightning of your kisses, the thunder of your sighs, will not quiet. Eventually he lays his silver-feathered quill down, his head now in his hands.
And then you’re running back towards him and his long legs are swallowing the distance between you until you meet like a clap of thunder, falling into one another’s arms.
He should have turned away, he should have torn his gaze away from the sight of you rushing towards him, surrender in your eyes. You are Belle, tasked with the important job of choosing the next ruler. You can afford no distractions. Especially not from the likes of him.
And yet he gave in, as unable to resist your pull as the ocean could the moon, and you fell into his arms like a star loosened from the sky, fit there so perfectly, felt so damn good.
A low groan escapes him as he reaches for the tumbler with its small volume of burnt amber liquid. The whiskey may be cheap but maybe...maybe it will get the job done. It burns as it goes down, but even if he were to walk through hellfire itself, he knows deep down nothing could burn away the memory of your kiss.
His kiss is devouring, determined to leave no part of you untasted. He steals your breath, swallows your gasps, drinks from your lips. Over and over he kisses you until your legs shake and your blood is a river of fire in your veins. Soon your mouth is not enough. He needs more. His lips scavenge your cheeks, your jawline, and then lower, following the line of your neck. Everywhere he kisses you burns and the raindrops that land there in his wake feel cold as ice.
The rain is forlorn as it continues to tap against the window, whispering at him that he is a fool. A fool for losing himself in your lips, the taste of your hot, slick skin mingled with cold rain. A fool for loving the rough pull of your fingers in his crimson hair, the restless feel of your hands over the wet linen of his tunic, the grip of your hand on his muscled arms.
A fool for leaving you there, dazed with the force of what just happened, your kiss-swollen lips parting as the word “Wait….” slipped past a throat tight with water-logged emotion.
That croaked word, that whisper on the wind, has buried itself in his heart, the points of it digging into his heart like barbed wire, tearing at him just a little more every time it replays itself in his mind.
The tumbler is now empty. The rain endless. Cyran pushes himself away from his desk with a growl, knowing that any attempt to work will be a fruitless endeavor. Best to head back to his quarters where he knows a sleepless night is licking its chops, waiting for him.
He snatches up his sodden tunic, flings open the heavy wooden door with the strength of his frustration……
….only to find you there, cheeks damp with rain or tears or both, your hand raised, hovering in the air as if searching for the courage to actually knock.
His heart lurches in his chest…that foolish, hopeful creature with bloody wings.
Before he can move a muscle, before a word can even form, you have found your mettle.
“We need to talk.”
Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly
Silvio: What the fuck is this?
src
Clavis: I thought you'd never ask! See, Cyran? Slapping pictures into peoples' faces works every time
Cyran: I would be concerned if it didn't...
Silvio: *rubbing his red forehead* You got five seconds to explain this bullshit before―
Clavis: Oop~ No need for threats. We're all friends here, hahaha!
Clavis: As you may have heard; my estate has started producing bottled spring water
Clavis: Because of how parched throats become at the sight of my unparalleled beauty
Clavis: I don't wish for anyone to succumb to dehydration on my account
Silvio: *scoffs* Seems like a 'you' problem from where I'm standin'. Ever thought of making yourself ugly? I got a boot primed for kicking the beauty out of every―
Clavis: Oop! *smacks Silvio with the picture again* Apologies, my hand slipped
Silvio: You're damned lucky I ain't got a kicking reflex like a horse
Cyran: Would you like to learn? I can teach―
Clavis: *smacks Cyran with another copy of the picture* Ahaha, silly me and my butterfingers
(twenty minutes later)
Clavis, drenched in lake water: Anyway, let me finish regaling you while Cyran fetches a towel and reflects on assisting a foreign prince in the public execution of his Beautiful Employer
Silvio: You ain't dead
Clavis: *smiling serenely* I'm dead inside from the betrayal
Clavis: So, as I was saying. We started manufacturing these water bottles, but we needed some way for people to understand how big they are
Clavis: Enter Brilliant Idea, stage left
Clavis: Have you ever wondered how many princes tall a thing is?
Clavis: Hahaha, I'm sure we've all wondered this at one point or another
Clavis: So I've done everyone the favor of mass-manufacturing our likenesses into an intricate set of clear, acrylic―
Silvio: I got just one question. Two, actually
Silvio: Is there one of me?
Clavis: Naturally!
Clavis: Ah. Cybird is a subsidiary of Lelouch Enterprises
Silvio: *struggling not to cry or kick Clavis back into the lake*
Silvio: And does that eyepatch bastard know you've sheared him in half?
Gilbert: *omniscient voiceover* Hehehe. What makes you so sure that all of you aren't having this conversation in the Afterlife?
Clavis: *serene smile* Told you I was dead
Emma: Ignore him. He doesn't care if you insult him, so long as you don't insult me
And that is why there is no Emma acrylic stand in the Nadema shop. The end.
A few things about Cyril Rose, Chevalier Michel and Lucian
I was always curious about Chevalier's behavior towards Cyril, especially after Lucian was introduced as the covert and the royal guard later on for Chevalier. The question in my mind was, if Chevalier really trust Cyril to become the lead knight of the foreign affairs faction, then would he ever call him by his name? The post is based on Chevalier's election promise party event
Spoilers and facts about Cyril (and a few about Lucian) under the cut!
After obtaining Chevalier's Early Clear Bonus from this party event (promise from 2nd anniversary/election):
The story was in his POV and fully voiced (meaning that his thoughts and dialog were voiced, except for a few lines of narration).
But from this story, we are able to see a few sides of Chevalier that we never saw before, nor did we hear him talk about. Including Cyril Rose.
The story starts with him training with the knights, before "killing them" as he said after knocking them out. And it ends with Cyril being the only one standing. From the Mc's POV, Cyril could keep up really well, but Chevalier kicked his sword. In Chevalier's POV, Cyril actually got distracted, else the battle would have continued.
This whole training thing was never something that Chevalier would have done, but he feels the need to show off in front of Emma.
Back to the topic, while training and inwardly praising all the knights, who were able to keep up so much longer against him, Chevalier thought of Cyril.
And while thinking of him as Clavis' knight, he also acknowledges his name!! The same way Lucian's name is acknowledged, meaning that it's written right on top of his job in the castle:
Translation:
Chevalier's thoughts: 'Usually, I leave the management of the knight's to Clavis and the red head (Cyril),'
So he does, indeed, acknowledge him with his name. Conclusion: Chevalier loves to "make fun" of others with these nicknames (more like he points out what describes them XD). Lucian is also called the long black haired royal guard (Since Chevalier is the king, Lucian is the royal guard).
A few things for Cyril:
In the party event story (previous discussion), it shows how much more familiar the knights are with Chevalier and how much more they are scared of Cyril (as their master in training). Chevalier told them to run 100 laps around the castle, making the knights complain about it (with no fear towards him). Translation of the moment:
Knights:"Hyahhhhhh.....100 laps!?"
Chevalier:"Even if I'm showing the losers mercy?"
Cyril:"Thank you for your mercy! Everyone, keep your mouth shut!"
When Cyril told them to shut their mouth, they all stopped complaining and run out to train
Before that, Chevalier admitted to Cyril that out of all of the knights, he would be the only one standing at the battlefield. And not only that, but he told him to make sure to withdraw if something goes wrong and return to the castle before he dies. He also said that he should help and save as many of those around him, leaving Cyril at a loss but he was quick to agree with Chevalier.
Thank you for reading this far! This event was truly enjoyable and definitely worth to get the ECB. A small flashback of Chevalier and Clavis is also in there, but in Chevalier's thoughts.
Chevalier was drawing Benitoite in huge detail and Emma was watching in amazement, before she complimented him. Chevalier thought that he never payed attention to drawing before, but he once tried it, because Clavis made him draw to find a weakness, but Chevalier knew how, so Clavis threw a tantrum when he saw the finished project.
And of course, after he finished drawing Benitoite, he drew Jade and gave attention to the huge greenhouse, because it looked like it came out of a fairy-tale, so he knew Emma would love this the most.
Although he finished with the drawings, gave them to Emma after she asked to keep them, knowing that all he was doing was useless and had nothing to do with their lessons, he still asked her to draw something for him.
(Keep in mind that Sariel doesn't give Emma lessons as much anymore, it's mostly Chevalier when he is off of work).
Emma drew roses, books (Chevalier's thoughts were that this was a rose garden with her favourite things), and in the end, she added added tiger! And Chevalier took the quill pen from her hands to draw a little rabbit too. He started praising Emma a lot and her expressions changed a lot, so he laughed very hard at her (his thoughts were that he never laughed this hard in his whole life).
Hello everyone! This is my first poll! I decided to make 2 posts with facts about Cyril and Lucian (separate posts for each character), so I wanted to ask:
Seeing the Cyril/Cyran love going around was motivation for me to finally (lazily) color the sketch of him and my OC, Fei (platonic)
A break from herb foraging
Cyril Rose ~ Facts
AN: I'm finally done with the important facts we know so far for both Cyril and Lucian, and since Cyril won, I'll post him first! Thank you very much to everyone who voted and to everyone reading this!
Warnings: All of the information is from the jp version of the game! Spoilers from Clavis' main Story, GW story sale bonus (detective), Clavis' 2nd birthday, Clavis' story events, Chevalier's 2nd anniversary winner party event story. Everything will be put under the cut:
The starting fact is his name. Cyril Rose was raised in a village in Obsidian, but when he joined the military, many said his last name sounded like he came from the country of roses.
Cyril and Clavis used to call each other "loser" when they first met during the war. Cyril did because he couldn't believe how someone can be like Clavis (putting his life on the line to save others, accepting everyone no matter what and a lot more), as well as how he could stay so calm during everything (but it turned more to teasing between them). Clavis was calling him a loser, because he didn't like how Cyril was ready to give up at that time and was able to help him regain his spirits and join Rhodolite's side.
Cyril is a very gentle and kind guy, but can also be funny with his snarky comments towards Clavis (something between two great friends)
Cyril calls Clavis an "idiot prince"
He has very bright red hair that are very noticeable and mentioned by other characters, (Chevalier, Sariel and more), including Emma.
Cyril doesn't have a lover (and Clavis made sure to remind him in the "Bittersweet Valentine" story event). Cyril told him to stop pretending as if he wasn't in the same position only a whole ago (Since Clavis' route released)
As confirmed in Clavis' 2nd birthday story, Cyril is a very fast runner and a very strong knight. He was able to run to the other side of the town with Emma in his arms (bridal style) and didn't stop at all (<- Emma was described "as light as a feather) and it was all to prank Clavis.) In Chevalier's 2nd anniversary No.1 story, we saw that he can match Chevalier in a sword fight, with fast and strong moves.
He knows how to help a woman get dressed and he can style hair buns, that look elegant and simple (Also from Clavis' 2nd birthday)
Him and Lucian are rumored as really good friends. It was said by Clavis, but he added that when they go out to drink, they're never seen sitting together on the same table. Also, Cyril was seen drinking grape juice while complaining to Rio and Emma about Clavis, while Luciam was most likely drinking alcohol (<-From the GW story sale bonus)
When that happened, he wasn't wearing any gloves (so he either took off his gloves because he wasn't working, or he doesn't wear any). He held Emma and Rio's hands in each of his, to guide them away from Clavis and he took them to Lucian's table.
According to Emma, his hands are rough from training, but very warm and safe.
Apparently, he tries every kind of new juice Clavis comes up with and that time, it was a new herbal juice (as punishment for sneaking from work). He didn't like it at all, yet he still drank it all.
They started bickering and while Emma was thinking that it looked like as if Cyril and Clavis were having fun, Lucian, after he used the mind reading skills he learned from Chevalier, nodded and agreed with her.
He is also very honest and loyal towards Clavis and the other princes (especially Chevalier)
He used to be just a third rate soldier in Obsidian, along with his friends Kai and Hugo. Hugo seems to be the youngest, since he uses honorifics to address Cyril (in the Japanese version). Cyril is probably the oldest of the three, or similar with Kai.
Gilbert wants him back to Obsidian, but Cyril refuses to betray Clavis, leaving Gilbert heartbroken.
The village where Cyril used to love was poor, but the situation wasn't as bad as the parts on the borders between Obsidian and Rhodolite, due to the corrupted nobles.
He is greatly respected by Chevalier, who saw his value. Chevalier knows his name, but prefers to use the nickname "Red head". Same with the others. Even Clavis understands that. Cyril also respects Chevalier, but he thinks he is scary.
He is the lead knight of the foreign affairs faction and he is the one training the knew knights (not the soldiers).
Chevalier trusts him enough to let him in his room and also casually speaks to him. Even though they were trying to keep it secret (them leaving their duties for the day and going for drinks), he somewhat talked about it to Chevalier. But Clavis was hiding in Chevalier's room, so he exposed them. That's why he made him drink that "juice" (<-GW bonus story)
In the "propose to you" story event (Clavis', which is coming soon in EN), Clavis and Emma were getting engaged with Chevalier as the witness. Chevalier didn't look up at them at all and only when they left, he looked at Cyril to answer that he wasn't staying and he was going home with a smirk (Clavis was sad/mad at Chevalier who wouldn't look at how beautifully dressed Emma was). Cyril called him a troublesome brother after he left.
Originally, he was mostly hanging out with Rio for said drinks, but when Emma is free, they let her tag along (<- The bar they go to is only for the court's servants, I'm pretty sure it's to talk about their employees at this point🤣)
Cyril knows that many little boys dream of becoming knights when they grow up, but he, himself, felt like the job he was doing doesn't have a purpose, because lately, he had only been collecting banana peels and cleaning after Clavis.
Just for this reason, Emma and Rio were thanking him for his hard work and looked at him as if he was their savior.
He also complains that the knights have to eat bananas all the time, but they don't keep them very full. He doesn't want to even mention the reason why they do that.
He has more than once said to Emma to use Clavis' wallet for expensive things.
Cyril actually gets very offended when he gets told that he is like a natural born knight. Clavis was the one who told him, when he was being "too sweet" towards Emma. Cyril warned him to never say that again.
He is picking up Clavis' lines. While I don't remember it being translated in the EN version of the game, in the JP this happened: (<- Clavis' route, when they met with the rebels at the borders)
Clavis:"I don't understand why they don't want to welcome such a beautiful man"
Cyril:"Please, stop saying that. It's not fashionable"
(The fashionable comment)
He is the same age as Clavis, so he is 29 years old!
AN: Thank you very much for reading until the end! I hope these facts were helpful! I personally recommend reading both ends of Clavis' upcoming proposal event for more Cyril content!
Happy Hour w/ Cyran and Lucian
Cyran: I just realized something
Lucian: Don't say it
Cyran: Why not?
Lucian: I don't know. I just have a bad feeling
Cyran: But you've realized it too, yeah?
Cyran: That your outfit looks a lot like my boss's, and my outfit looks more like your boss's?
Cyran: I wonder what that means
Lucian: It means nothing. It means that we go to the same tailor. I need tight pants to do my job
Cyran: What about all those belts?
Lucian: I don't have that many
Lucian: Like 7 or 8
Lucian: That's normal
--- credit to @thewitchofbooks for all the info about these two (oh, and i think it was alt or vio who had the idea about all the aides having group therapy together, but apparently that's sort of canon too XD)
A/N: A little fic inspired by @vioisgoinginsane and her delightful Cyran in Pyjamas art
Cyran x Reader
WC: 638
Head librarian of the royal palace is a job that suits you to a tee, but it comes with long hours, especially when arranging the procurement of foreign titles. By the time you are done with all your correspondences, first to the librarian in Jade and then the royal library of Tanzanite, the moon is hanging high in the inky black sky, a perfect crescent of silvery light. You hurry, feet whispering over the tiled floor of the palace, then crunching over the straw and grass along the path to the armory and then scuffling over the coarse gray stone of the armory steps.
Above the collection of toothy weaponry is Cyran's bedroom: your destination on this warm, breezy night.
The oaken door, scarred and worn, opens on silent, well-oiled hinges. Cyran takes care of his things. One of the many admirable qualities about the Obsidian soldier that made you stumble and then fall for him.
"Cyran?"
You step into the room, lit only by the amber glow of the oil lamps. Your eyes need a moment to adjust before you spot him.
He's asleep at his desk, his check pillowed by strong forearms. Around him papers are neatly stacked. Quill and inkwell tidied away. Everything is ordered and structured, except…..
You smile softly. His hair falls messily across his forehead, a curtain of red, deeper than the blaze of the blacksmith's forge. It is the red of the sky on the tipping point of night. The dark crimson of the Scarlatta rose, whose petals have been singed by loving kisses of darkness.
You cross the creaky wooden floor as quietly as you can, soaking in the sight of the man who never shows exhaustion, who handles every challenge, from Clavis's wild whims to military training maneuvers, with a stoic sense of pride. Your touch is gentle, trailing the back of your fingers across his cheek, rough with several days worth of russet stubble.
The caress reaches him beyond the place where sleep reigns, his mind breaking from the soft cocoon it has woven around him. He stirs, his dark eyes blinking away the last strands of dreaming that cling to his consciousness like cobwebs.
"You're back," he murmurs in a voice sandpaper-rough with sleep.
"Mm hmm." His hair is one of the most luxurious textures you've ever touched. Soft and fine as spun silk. It flows through your fingers like water over stone. "Come on, Red. Bedtime."
He grumbles as you lean forward, taking his strong hands in yours and urging him up and away from his desk. It's only when he's standing you notice he's already changed for bed.
Running a hand down the soft linen of his sleep shirt, you raise your gaze, your smile curved with curiosity, soft with affection.
"If you already changed, why didn't you get in bed?" You know how long his day was, stretching from the early rosy-fingers of dawn brushing the sky until the first diamond-edged star cut its way through the dark sheet of night.
He yawns, his words slow and honey-thick with sleepiness.
"I didn't want to fall asleep without you so I went to my desk…." He yawns again and your heart feels like it might burst with the swell of affection that floods it. He went to his desk to stay awake, to wait for you.
Gently you lead him to bed where he falls back onto his pillow with a heavy thump. His eyes are already closing as you pull the thin woolen blanket up over his broad chest.
"You're coming?" His voice is foggy with another yawn.
You lean down, anointing his forehead with a petal-soft kiss.
"I'll be right there, my love." Your smile is lambent with affection as you drink in the sight of him, this wonderful man who shelters your heart so tenderly in his calloused hands. "I'll be right there."
Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly
A/N: A little fic inspired by @vioisgoinginsane and her delightful Cyran in Pyjamas art
Cyran x Reader
WC: 638
Head librarian of the royal palace is a job that suits you to a tee, but it comes with long hours, especially when arranging the procurement of foreign titles. By the time you are done with all your correspondences, first to the librarian in Jade and then the royal library of Tanzanite, the moon is hanging high in the inky black sky, a perfect crescent of silvery light. You hurry, feet whispering over the tiled floor of the palace, then crunching over the straw and grass along the path to the armory and then scuffling over the coarse gray stone of the armory steps.
Above the collection of toothy weaponry is Cyran's bedroom: your destination on this warm, breezy night.
The oaken door, scarred and worn, opens on silent, well-oiled hinges. Cyran takes care of his things. One of the many admirable qualities about the Obsidian soldier that made you stumble and then fall for him.
"Cyran?"
You step into the room, lit only by the amber glow of the oil lamps. Your eyes need a moment to adjust before you spot him.
He's asleep at his desk, his check pillowed by strong forearms. Around him papers are neatly stacked. Quill and inkwell tidied away. Everything is ordered and structured, except…..
You smile softly. His hair falls messily across his forehead, a curtain of red, deeper than the blaze of the blacksmith's forge. It is the red of the sky on the tipping point of night. The dark crimson of the Scarlatta rose, whose petals have been singed by loving kisses of darkness.
You cross the creaky wooden floor as quietly as you can, soaking in the sight of the man who never shows exhaustion, who handles every challenge, from Clavis's wild whims to military training maneuvers, with a stoic sense of pride. Your touch is gentle, trailing the back of your fingers across his cheek, rough with several days worth of russet stubble.
The caress reaches him beyond the place where sleep reigns, his mind breaking from the soft cocoon it has woven around him. He stirs, his dark eyes blinking away the last strands of dreaming that cling to his consciousness like cobwebs.
"You're back," he murmurs in a voice sandpaper-rough with sleep.
"Mm hmm." His hair is one of the most luxurious textures you've ever touched. Soft and fine as spun silk. It flows through your fingers like water over stone. "Come on, Red. Bedtime."
He grumbles as you lean forward, taking his strong hands in yours and urging him up and away from his desk. It's only when he's standing you notice he's already changed for bed.
Running a hand down the soft linen of his sleep shirt, you raise your gaze, your smile curved with curiosity, soft with affection.
"If you already changed, why didn't you get in bed?" You know how long his day was, stretching from the early rosy-fingers of dawn brushing the sky until the first diamond-edged star cut its way through the dark sheet of night.
He yawns, his words slow and honey-thick with sleepiness.
"I didn't want to fall asleep without you so I went to my desk…." He yawns again and your heart feels like it might burst with the swell of affection that floods it. He went to his desk to stay awake, to wait for you.
Gently you lead him to bed where he falls back onto his pillow with a heavy thump. His eyes are already closing as you pull the thin woolen blanket up over his broad chest.
"You're coming?" His voice is foggy with another yawn.
You lean down, anointing his forehead with a petal-soft kiss.
"I'll be right there, my love." Your smile is lambent with affection as you drink in the sight of him, this wonderful man who shelters your heart so tenderly in his calloused hands. "I'll be right there."
Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly
Your surprise from the sudden hat descending on your head must have made physical work of your face; in the next second, Cyran's shapely lips pull away with a plush crackle and his breathy laugh somehow impresses you with more intimacy than that consummate kiss still rocking your heels. "Sun's a beast today," he remarks while bending the floppy brim into two ears beside your cheeks. The warmth and weight of his hands delights you through the scratchy tweed. "I don't want your head to get hot. You might faint, and while I don't mind carrying you..." He snatches up your hand with boldness that's almost gaudy coming from him. Of all the poems Cyran writes, not a one will ever be about his own dimpled smile, you think with the nonsensical grief of the lovestricken. You ferry your gaze between his lips and the still-shy invitation in his eyes. "...You haven't yet made it clear whether or not you enjoy being carried by me."
a/n: cyran running around while carrying you might be my favorite cyran fact that thewitchofbooks shared. also, a tiny nod to olivermorningstar's "missed connection" theme
Cyran gangster spice ^^
A/N: Here you go, anon! I hope you like it!
Cyran x Reader, Gangster AU/ Gangster x Doctor AU
TW: blood, injury, needles
WC:~2.2 k
The ringing cracks the silence of your darkened bedroom like a sledgehammer on ice. You push yourself up, still bleary with sleep, one hand fumbling through the gloom for your phone which should be sleeping too, well-behaved and quiet on your nightstand. It takes another second of angry ringing before you realize it’s not your personal phone. It’s the other phone. The one in the top drawer, rattling the items inside of it as it vibrates in time to the ringing, demanding attention. The phone you don’t want to hear going off, especially not in the heart of nighttime.
Sleep evaporates like frost on a sunny morning as you yank the drawer open and grab the small, nondescript black device. Caller unknown. But you know who it is. Only one person has this number.
“Hello?” Your voice is fuzzy with sleep.
“Good evening. Does your store sell copies of fairy tales? I’m looking for Little Red Riding Hood, the Rosenbrand edition. I hear there are only 10 copies left in circulation.”
Your heart sinks. Red Riding Hood means a serious injury, something bloody. Rosenbrand means the flower shop location. Ten copies means be there in 10 minutes.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong number.” The standard response. Your code for I’ll be there.
On the other end, the voice you know to be Nokto’s hangs up and you leap out of bed, changing into dark jeans and a black sweater, yanking open the closet to grab your medical kit and then you’re off, dashing out of your apartment and into the deceptively calm night.
You slip into the dark flower shop via the backdoor and immediately the velvet scent of roses overwhelms you. It is their specialty after all. And their symbol. Anywhere the Rhodolite Mafia goes, roses follow in their wake, their dark red petals scattered across crime scenes like little calling cards. Their members all bear the same rose tattoo on their bodies. You don’t have a tattoo. You’re not a member, officially but you are on their payroll and under their protection. So says the delicate golden rose and chain that hangs around your neck, resting against your heart.
You punch in the security code and a door at the back slides open, revealing a set of cement steps that lead down, down, down until you reach the bottom and step into the large room that the mafia uses for all medical emergencies. Your own private little examination room. And if necessary, OR.
For the second time that night, your heart stops. Laying back on the examination table is the one person whose name flashed through your mind like a neon sign the entire moonlit dash here, the one who you were silently hoping wouldn’t be your patient.
Cyran.
His shirt has been unbuttoned and he has bloodied gauze pressed against his arm, his dark eyes closed as he focuses on keeping pressure on his own wound. Clavis turns, golden eyes bright as an owl’s in the dim light.
“What happened?” Your tone is short, brisk. Every nerve in your body is on high alert as you pull on your latex gloves, moving towards Cyran.
“Blade, not a bullet.” Clavis steps back as you move in, the next steps of assessment as automatic to you as breathing. Cyran’s eyes open, only now aware you are there and you notice the flash of something across his features, some light in the depths of the fog of pain that he’s in. Your name passes his lips, a rough whisper.
“Altercation at the docks. Obsidian thugs thought they would be able to disrupt an important shipment.” Clavis’s phone chirps and he turns away from where you are working, removing Cyran’s shirt, cleaning up the bloody mess so you can get a better idea of what you’re dealing with.
You glance over your shoulder at him, the slight frown on his face as he reads whatever message he’s received.
“You ok, Lelouch?”
He fixes a bright smile on his face, but the light never reaches his eyes.
“I have to go.” No explanation. You are too low on the food chain for those. “Take good care of my right-hand man. I need him back in action soon and in one piece.”
You flick him a two-fingered salute and he nods, knowing Cyran is in good hands. As he jogs up the stairs, you hear him on his phone.
“....On my way, Chev….” The door at the top of the stairs closes with a heavy thunk and you are left alone with somewhat less bloody, very tense Cyran.
His shirt has been cast away, banished to a red and white heap on the floor which you casually kick to one side as you lean in to get a better look at his upper arm, where an ugly gash cuts across his deltoid. Reaching up to adjust the overhead lamp, you open your medical kit and begin the careful process of stitching the taunt skin back together. He hasn’t said a word since Clavis left, stoically staring straight ahead, intensely focused on the concrete wall opposite him.
Your head is bowed down, gaze following the rise and fall of your curved needle, the rational, medical part of your mind tightening its grip on the reins of your imagination. After all, there is an entire landscape of shirtless Cyran laid out in front of you. Curves of hard muscle that dip and bulge, secret places usually hidden by austere suits or leather jackets.
You’re close enough to hear the coarse sound of his inhale as you grip his arm. Clearing your throat you make an attempt to pierce the thick fog of tension that has settled over the room.
“Why is it always blades with you? Other members have the decency to just get shot.”
Your comment is so unexpected and honestly, so intentionally ludicrous that he turns his head involuntarily. Now his face is mere inches away from yours and you can feel his gaze on you as strongly as sunshine on a summer’s morning. And just like the sun, it brings a warmth to your cheeks that you hope he doesn’t notice.
He grunts as you finish suturing the injury, glancing down to take in your handiwork. You straighten up, adjusting your weight on the small padded stool you’ve been sitting on.
“And? Do I pass inspection, Mr. Rose?”
Something about the tone of your voice, an attempt at lightheartedness that skims over the jagged peaks of anxiety, has him finally meet your gaze and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile.
“You always do, doc.”
Those words settle across your mind like a silken sheet across a bed. You’re about to pull off your gloves, searching for something to say when you notice the blood staining the top of his gray slacks.
“What’s this…..?” You lean forward, glancing at him for permission to reach into the hem of his pants and take a look. An expression you don’t expect crosses his face: he looks almost sheepish.
“I….I was involved in a scuffle last week.”
You motion for him to lower his pants, trying to ignore what the sight of Cyran’s large, rough hands pulling down his zipper does to your body temperature. He slides his pants down slowly, just low enough for you to be given a tantalizing glimpse of that alluring line where the obliques meet the transversus abdominis muscle.
Medical professionalism trumps lust as you take in the shoddy stitching at his hip.
“What quack did this?” You’re already preparing another needle and thread, brow furrowed in annoyance.
“I did it myself.”
You glance up sharply, hands pausing for a moment.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
You return to the work of fixing his on-the-fly patch job. He’s silent a moment and you wait, knowing he heard you. It takes him until you’re nearly done to answer.
“You know I couldn’t.”
Your work is finished and yet somehow you can’t move you away, one hand resting on the hard plane of his lower stomach, the other pressed lightly under the wound you’ve just finished re-stitching. Slowly you tilt your head up to look at him. He’s backlit by the overhead lamplight, his red hair almost black because of it. Shadow falls across the angles of his face and all you can see clearly is the brightness of his eyes. As if pulled by a magnet, your upper body rises slowly, your face coming closer to his. Carefully, with every other part of you crystallized in place, you remove your gloves, then return your hands to where they were, touching the now warm skin of his body.
Your lips are scant inches apart and your heart slams into your breastbone as if urging you forward to close the gap.
Cyran’s beautiful eyes close and his head turns ever so slightly away from you.
“We can’t.”
The words are tight in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to say them, that he’s forcing them out between clenched teeth.
Still so close, you breathe outward and you know he feels the warmth on his cheek. Your nose brushes his, your lips ache at how close they are to the paradise of his kiss.
“We already have,” you whisper in return, forgetting everything: the phone calls in the dead of night. The hiding in secret rooms tricked out with medical equipment. The heart-stopping anxiety every time you think you hear gunshots. All that you know right now is that he’s here, warm to your touch, so close you can count every individual eyelash.
His eyes flutter open and he meets your gaze.
“And it can never happen again.”
It’s there, in the depths of his soulful eyes. The memory of….
….that night, the one where he escorted you home under a black sky, raging with thunder and pent up clouds. Your skirt was stained with blood that wasn’t yours, your fingers trembling with a fear that definitely was. Your car, several streets away, gasping with bullet holes. Cyran had been there, had whisked you away in an armored vehicle and insisted on seeing you to your apartment, on coming inside and making sure everything was secure.
When he turned to go, every nerve in your body screamed at once at the loss. You launched yourself towards him, a wild bird in flight, and he had welcomed you into the sky of his arms, pulling you against the safety of his hard body. He held you until the trembling stopped.
And then the world exploded as the clouds released their pent-up rain and you had lifted yourself up to press your mouth to his. Cyran pushed his fingers into your hair with a groan, allowing himself to fall, a raindrop from heaven, a soul giving in, into you and your sweetness, your want, your heated kisses.
The wild storm had nothing on the two of you, that night.
You see the way the memory is reaching for you both at once, has you both angling your heads so that only the slightest movement will have your mouths touch once again. Your lips actually hurt with need. Your body practically thrums with the desire to taste him again.
He shifts and suddenly the metal pan holding the needle and thread and gauze clatters to the ground, his thigh having bumped it off the table’s edge. The loud crash shatters the moment and you both jump apart, hearts racing. Cyran clears his throat, his head shaking as if waking himself from a dream. When he speaks, the same words you have heard too many times since that night fall from his lips.
His life is dangerous.
You are already way too involved.
The reality of being with him is nothing but heartache and worry.
You need to remain as innocent and ignorant as possible, for plausibility, deniability, for your own damn safety.
He could never live with himself if anything happened to you…..
The flow of words stops as you press your finger to his lips. A sigh like the storm-buffeted waves of the ocean escapes him, shaky and uninhibited. The touch turns into the kiss you’ve been hungering for, except it's not the crush of his mouth on yours, the stampede of desire come to call, but rather the softest press to your fingertip, the fleeting caress of a butterfly’s wing.
Your heart both sinks and lifts, a paradox of emotion flowing through you.
He turns his face into your hand, his usual stoicism bled out by the force of his feelings for you. Pain, longing, tenderness bow his shoulders, pull kiss after kiss from his lips to your palm. You slide your hand across the line of his cheekbone, thumb stroking the rough stubble there. And then you lean down, pressing a petal-soft kiss to his forehead.
Cyran is still as a winter’s night, frozen despite the thundering of his heart. He knows this is for the best….but how much longer can he continue to do the right thing?
You start to pull away, turning towards the stairs that lead up and away, back into the night and its bright, cold stars, when something clamps around your wrist, stopping you.
You turn to see him, eyes flashing with something hot and bright, his strong fingers wrapped around you, holding you. He whispers your name, an echo of the rough whisper from earlier, when he first realized you were there, and you capitulate, crumbling into the shelter of his embrace even as your mouths seek and find each other.
If not doing this, if not kissing you desperately, touching you, claiming you, if not doing these things is the right thing…..then Cyran is tired of it.
Forget the right thing. He lives a life that blossoms in the shadows of right and wrong anyway. Right and wrong are shades of gray in his world. And now as he drags his mouth down the smooth line of your neck, revels in the sting of your fingernails digging into his shoulder, he knows that he can deny this, and you, no longer.
He sinks into dark temptation, caring for nothing other than right here and now.
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