Ikepri Silvio - Tumblr Posts

Exactly what I was thinking while I was reading this 🫠 I love his event route sm

In a meeting

Gilbert:"My deer friend Keith"

Keith:"....."

Silvio:"I'm not a fawn of his either"

Keith:"...Please stop"

Clavis's echo from Rhodolite:"Oh deer ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)"

"𝓐 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓲𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾" Silvio Ricci x fem. Reader (smut)

AN: Hello everyone! I want to thank you for your support all this time, I really appreciate it! I decided to write a Silvio Ricci smutfic since the boys are officially in the game! I hope you enjoy it~

Fandom: Ikemen Prince

Character: Silvio Ricci

Warnings: Smut, nsfw, Rubbing, thigh fucking, character eating his cum and the reader's, (probably bad English)

Silvio scowled at nothing, but the quiet of the night, that almost lulled him to sleep. His luscious locks fell on his forehead as he listlessly skimmed over the piles of paperwork that were gathered and sighed deeply. From the outside, he looked calm in a gentlemanly manner, but his heart and body yearned for more. The unearthly silence of the room made him uncomfortable, he didn't want to be alone. Especially now that he got so used to your loving company.

His blue eyes took in his surroundings, trailing from hundreds of study books, maps and candles on the table, and yet, he still found you. They fell on your lovely figure that came from the bath and watched as you sat right on the side of the king sized bed.

You were always able to wake up the fire inside him, a different "beast side" of his, that many didn't know. It was a fire that he couldn't calm down, not like he had any reason to want to. But it made him feel like he belonged to you, as much as you did to him. His heartbeat, like a storming wave in the sea, it only beats fast for you.

He hungrily checked over your body, which was covered only by one of his shirts. The soft looking, exposed skin made his imagination run wild and his cock to harden through his now tight pants.

"Silvio?" Your voice, as sweet and lovely as honey, smoothly reached him and he shut his eyes. You were so enticing, although it wasn't something he would tell you so easily. He always made you work for it.

Silvio hummed deeply and set his quill aside, on a blank parchment sheet, not caring about it getting dirty with ink, since his mind was elsewhere. With a simple move, he motioned you with a long, elegant finger to walk over and you obediently followed.

With a small move, he pushed the armchair and leaned back on the velvet fabric and waited for you. The moment you reached him, he turned you around and pulled you on his lap, each of your thighs widely spread on top of him and your back to his strong, muscular chest.

"What is it?" He hasn't said a word yet, so you questioned in a hushed tone, while nuzzling him and Silvio closed his eyes.

"Shut up." His rude comment made you giggle, since you were used to him.

Silvio leaned forward and let his head on your shoulder, his light colored hair tickling the side of your face and his arms circled around your middle. You took it upon you to calm him down and reassure him by threading your fingers in his strands.

One arm left your waist and the man behind you used it to open a small, nicely decorated wooden box. The inside was a rich, royal blue color and in it, there was a necklace with a delicate design. The prince always said that he preferred smaller jewelry, so he could enjoy more of you.

Your train of thoughts was quickly stopped when he gazed up and with the other hand, he gently clasped the accessory around your neck.

He hummed in satisfaction and delicately kissed your neck, before reaching up and behind your ear. He groaned lowly and moved your body enough for you to feel his dick poking your behind, to which you responded by grinding on him.

"Fuck…." You moaned when he caught your earlobe in his teeth and harshly sucked on it. The hand left your neck snf the other your waist. One went to play with your new necklace's sparkly chain, while the other unbuttoned the shirt and groped your chest and nipples. You moaned and started grinding on him faster.

"What do you want? If you don't tell me, then I won't know." He grunted as you pushed your own hand between your legs and touched his noticeable bulge. You then took it away and thrusted a finger inside your dripping wet pussy.

"Ahh, Silvio!" Your voice was shaky and broken as you fingered yourself on him, you wetness traveling from your thighs to his pants. Silvio wasn't used to you teasing him back and he was already intrigued by your moves.

"Put more in." He ordered and you did as you were told, a second digit joining the first that was already stretching you nicely  but it was nowhere close to what your lover could do to you.

"A fee moments of you pleasuring yourself, you regretfully took your fingers out and out them on his now dirty pants, that you unbuttoned and fished his cock out. Silvio sighed in relief and you stroked him before slipping him between the glistening folds of your slit.

You rubbed the head there with one hand and the other went straight to his heavy, cum filled balls. Silvio's breath hitched and he moved his hips upwards, matching your speed and urging you to continue with your 'mischief'. You stood up a bit from his lap to rub his cockhead on your sensitive clit. A bit later, you shouted his name and squirted your juices all over him. Silvio's eyes closed and with your help, he fucked between your thighs before he followed your steps and stained them in hot cum.

He shakily stood up from the armchair and let you sit on it. He kept your legs spread and he fell on his knees in front of you. His eyes found yours and held them there, as he lapped at the cum collected by the two of you.

You affectionately petted his head, asked him to show you his mouth before he swallowed and praised him for the rest of the night.

The End~

Gilbert:"Hey Keith, have you ever wondered what kind of dinosaur Silvio is?"

Keith:"Please don't-"

Gilbert:"-A Tyrantnosaurus, ahaha!"

Silvio:"I only hear compliments and stay Gucci"

Keith:"Do you....do you think different paints have different tastes?"

Gilbert: flashback to 10 years ago

Gilbert: nods

Gilbert:"They do"

Silvio:"....Why the fuck did you say that with such certainty?"

HAPPY BIRTHDAY silvio 💝

I almost forgot its his bday

Violet, that was so beautiful and poetic!! In Silvio's, you didn't only describe a kiss, but a whole tales and legends of the darkness that lurks in the depths of Benitoite. Silvio hesitation was so accurate and him not knowing what to do first thing when he is woken up feels so real!

Keith's was so sweet! His lover anticipating his return for so long (or that was how she saw it), to the point of hoping (it sounds like an adorable rabbit🥺) towards the entrance of the castle! Their need for each other just makes it saccharine sweet!

Gilbert's is very precious, yet bittersweet🥺 The feelings of his lover much have been on his mind and him making something for her, to remember her hometown, to make sure she doesn't regret it even? Is splendid 🥺! Your writing puts a charm to the imagination, the images are so clear and vivid (even in the dull Obsidian). The candied kiss shared between the two is definitely enchanting! Thank you very much for writing this! I'm looking forward to your works🥺💖

please may i ask for 3 different types of kisses with the 3 new princes

A/N: This is an older request. Sorry anon that it took so long! Thank you for your patience 💜

all the princes are with a f!reader

Word Count: 1618

These are long so the writing is posted below 💋

Silvio: Comforting Kiss

A dream of drowning in rushing black water has you waking with a strangled gasp. You swallow lungfuls of air too quickly, your heart racing like a swimmer stretching for the choppy surface. Your muscles ache and your forehead is damp, not with ocean water, but sweat. A shudder shakes you further and you whimper, the sound soft and sad.

He sits up slowly, pushing his seafoam hair out of his face, your gasping breaths having cut through his sleep like a burning blade. In the dim light of the bedroom, he can see the way your knees are hugged up against your chest, the tremble in your body as you struggle to regain control, to shake the last clinging drops of the horrific dream off. His hand rises and hovers just a moment above your back, split-second uncertainty paralyzing it. Then, slowly, he lowers it, pushing through the haze of leftover sleep and hesitation, and begins rubbing the space between your shoulders. The small, comforting circles his palm makes are gentle for a man often associated with brusqueness. He waits until he feels your breath entering and exiting steadily, then asks you what happened.

He is quiet, his hand now still as he listens to you recount your nightmare. He may be impatient but not with you. And he understands the fear you felt because Silvio is a man of Benitoite. He respects the sea. He knows its power. It is woven through the fabric of every folk song, every cautioning fairy tale.

Your words run out and you sigh heavily as you turn your face away from him, now embarrassed at the visceral reaction you had to something born of your own mind. A frown crosses his face and his other hand is on your chin, turning you back to him, his body knowing what to do even if his mind is a few steps behind.

He leans down, gathering you to him and kisses you gently, a kiss that grounds you, reminds you that you are safe with him, in your own bed, in the solid castle of his arms. He may not be good with words, your Silvio, but in his kiss you can feel them. I love you. I am here for you. I always will be.

Keith: Heated Kiss

He has been away for days on diplomatic business. And even though you weren’t moping around, wilting across seating furniture like some lovestruck lady in a bad romance novel, you did miss him fiercely. So much so that when you heard the servants calling that the Prince was home, you let the heavy, beaded gown you were trying on fall to the carpet with a breathy whoosh. 

In your rush out the door, you grab your dressing robe which is haphazardly tied over your shift as you fly down the hallway, wings on your stockinged feet, heart buzzing with excitement. Several servants leap out of the way, then smile at the genuine but hurried apology you toss over your shoulder. You hop around a corner and then reach the white wooden banister from which you can see the large palace foyer.

Keith is standing there, speaking with his butler, still in the stately white and gold of his travel cloak. Your heart stumbles onwards, thumping against your breastbone, willing you to move. He glances up, as if sensing you there, and he smiles, his face lighting up with joy.

You grab the hem of your robe and continue your flight down the wide stairs, rushing ever faster as he moves towards you and you leap from the bottom step straight into his arms. The butler discreetly steps to the side, motioning for the others to leave you. You barely notice the servants dispersing like dust as you hug him with all your strength, your face buried in the side of his neck. He smells like sunshine and travel and the faint scent of the tea he loves so much, black flavored with oil of bergamot.

He sets you down, your feet dropping slowly to the cold tiled floor. But before he can straighten up, you throw your arms around his neck again, holding him in place and surge up to kiss him. 

He hesitates. You are in the foyer of the palace after all and there are curious eyes everywhere. But you are insistent, whispering between kisses how much you missed him, how often you dreamt of his return, of feeling him in your arms again, how much you need him right now. And while he is a gentleman, Keith is also simply a man. And the woman he loves and has missed desperately and desires more than anything has her mouth pressed to his while she whispers sweet, ardent nothings to him. Your voice is low, only for his ears, and the words you are brushing against his lips are sinking in, stoking a fire that began smoldering the moment he saw you at the top of the stairs.

The gentleman concedes. 

Without hesitation, he lifts you into the cradle of his arms and walks with purposeful steps down a hallway to the right. Your body feels warm, feverish with anticipation as he kicks open the door to one of the downstairs guest chambers, the closest possible bed. 

Any curious gaze following you both sees the way he lowers you the moment he crosses the threshold, his white-gloved hands immediately pulling on the ties of your robe as his own cloak falls to the carpet. Curious ears hear the low, almost impatient growl that escapes the usually gentle prince as he captures your mouth in a heated, hungry kiss. And then every intriguing bit of it is blocked by the heavy slam of the guest chamber door, courtesy of the prince’s booted kick.

Gilbert: Romantic Kiss

You will always love the feel of Gilbert’s leather gloves. They are soft, supple and black enough that they seem to drink light in by the mouthful. Right now that dark, soft leather is gripping your hand tightly as he leads you down a narrow dirt path that runs along the back of the residence you are staying in. Puffs of dust are brought to life by your footsteps, dirtying the hem of your skirt and dulling the shine of his boots. This is a path not used often.

He’s leading you to the small greenhouse on his property, a small, derelict glass building in desperate need of repair. When you had first arrived and asked him about restoring it, he had shrugged, one shoulder lifting in a gesture that seemed to say “perhaps”. And then other matters had risen, the drums of war thundering in the distance, overshadowing the tiny, neglected greenhouse and it was never mentioned again. You had assumed he had simply decided it was not important.

He stops walking, turning to face you, his eye bright with excitement. “Allow me.” He reaches up and that soft leather now covers your eyes, shutting out the world. One strong hand on your lower back guides you forward, slower now. He warns you to tread carefully.

The first thing that hits you is the scent. It smells the way you imagine the color green would: like petrichor, like dirt, like something faintly floral and sweet. He walks you a few more steps and then removes his hand. You’re greeted by rows of young potted plants, hanging ivy as far as the eye can see, and a greenhouse without panels of broken glass, jagged and unwelcoming. It is a small green paradise within the dusty land that is Obsidian. You had mentioned once, shortly after leaving your home country to be with him, how you missed the gardens of Rhodolite. He had simply smiled and said nothing in response. You thought he did not want to hear about the things you had given up to be here. And so you never mentioned them again.

You’re taking it all in….And then you notice it. On the metal table in front of you, a black pot with a small, thorny shrub covered in miniature red roses, tiny replicas of the ones you had loved in the palace gardens. You turn to him, lips parted in surprise. “You hate roses,” you say, your voice soft and questioning.

“You don’t,” he answers. Those words settle into the center of your heart, warmth blossoming from them. He understood the Heimweh, the homesickness you felt, and that it could live alongside the love you had for him, neither one overshadowing the other. 

You can’t help the way your eyes fill with tears. Your gaze drops as you try to stop them but then you feel the cool touch of his bare hand on your cheek. He’s removed his gloves to touch you, laying them on the table as he steps closer. His expression is full of tenderness and your last thought as he closes the distance between you is how his eye is your favorite shade of red.

His hands cradle your face and his lips find yours. His kiss is soft, cool as a misty morning before the world wakes, when shadows and the last vestiges of moonlight still reign. His mouth moves over yours, speaking without words of love and devotion. Of understanding and acceptance. You sigh into his kiss and he drinks it in, sweeter than mana. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, your lips still touching his. You feel his smile and it sends another wave of warmth through you. 

His head tilts to one side, his lips never losing contact with yours. “Bitteschön, meine Liebe,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours with every word. “Bitteschön.”

▪

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @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

(´。＿。｀)

please don't repost minors/ageless blogs dni

Merman Silvio

hi there talented writer. I would love to request headcanons (3 or 4?) for the princes and them doing something with a small child (their son or daughter)

I'd love for it to be Leon, Luke, Gilbert, Silvio or Chevalier but I will leave the choices up to you!

Thank you!!!

A/N: Alright anon....here you go!! Sorry this took so long! I did them all 😉

Word Count: 1878

Leon 

She has his hair. Wild locks the color of dark walnut that spill down her small back in a wavy cascade. You braid it every morning but by the end of the day, it has escaped its braided prison and curls with abandon. And so it is up to you or Leon to tame the wild beast with the best weaponry you have: a silver hairbrush and a dollop of oil.

It's his turn tonight. You walk into your bedroom, the night's book selection in hand, to find them on the bed. She sits cross-legged in front of him, telling a very detailed story about an adventurous ladybug she found crawling on the window of her room. Leon is carefully brushing her hair, fingers gentle as he works the brush through her dark tresses. 

You pause, watching them. Her small hands gesture to punctuate her story, a perfect imitation of her father. He listens, nodding intently even though she can't see him. Her story is taken seriously and you love him so much for it. 

He sets down the hair brush, running his hand over the soft fall of her hair. Knowing they are done, she spins around with the type of energy only young children can have, throwing her short arms around his neck. He embraces her, hugging her tightly before pressing a kiss on her dimpled cheek. She giggles and so he does it again, growling like a lion.

Her laughter fills the bedroom, bright and clear as wind chimes. "Papa!" Her voice is bubbly with glee. He kisses her and tickles her and she howls with joy. He tosses her onto the bed, still growling playfully, continuing his loving onslaught.

As she wiggles and giggles at her lion Papa, you sigh through your smile. Her hair is getting tangled and he'll have to brush it again.

Somehow you know neither of them will mind.

Luke 

Your son, with his shock of bright red hair and wide green eyes, is the spitting image of his father. He has inherited Luke’s gentle nature, his easy-going smile and not surprisingly, his love for honey. You set the freshly baked bread down onto the kitchen table, watching the way two sets of moss green eyes light up with anticipation.

Setting a generous slice of thick, dark bread down on his plate, you push the honey jar toward your little guy. Enthusiasm fills him as he reaches for the prized jar and the little metal spoon nestled in it, when Luke’s large hand covers his gently. 

“Let’s do this together, ok? Just like last time.” His son nods and with Luke’s help, carefully scoops out a spoonful of honey and then plops it onto his bread. His gaze darts to you and you nod approvingly, rewarded with a cherubic smile. Luke hands him the smaller, child-sized butter knife. “Like we practiced," he reminds his son gently.

The little boy nods, taking the knife and then very, very carefully begins spreading the honey across his bread. Luke watches, reaching out to help him with the rounded corners, words of encouragement and praise murmured whenever he lets go. The knife at times digs into the bread. Sometimes the honey is spread right off of it. But the bright light of pride shines in your son's eyes as he looks up, challenge conquered. “I did it!”

Luke smiles,  pride mirrored in his expression as he nods, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s head with a large hand. “You certainly did. Now let’s eat!”

Gilbert 

“Papa! Ich brauche Hilfe!” (Papa, I need help!) She races across the thick carpeting of your bedroom, dark hair flying behind her like a wayward banner. Gilbert has just finished pulling on his black leather boots, readying himself for a family excursion while you rifle through your drawers looking for a scarf. 

“Slow down, Mäuschen,” he says gently, an undercurrent of laughter discernible to you in his words. He kneels with a grin as she skids to a stop in front of him, catching her breath long enough to point at her coat. It’s made of rich black wool with large, round, gold buttons, a perfect size for her little hands. “I need help. It’s not working!” She is a perfect, flustered combination of eager to get outside and frustrated that she needs to ask him for help. 

“First of all,” he says, reaching for her hands. “It’s much easier to close the buttons if you are not wearing these.” He carefully pulls on the tips of her small black leather gloves, removing them from both hands and laying them on the edge of the bed. “Now, try again.” At first she looks at the gloves in dismay and you know from experience how proud she is of them and how long it probably took her to get them on. But she blinks her bright ruby-colored eyes and turns her attention back to the coat. Reaching up, she takes hold of one shiny button and holds the flap of the coat with the other hand. Several attempts later, the button isn’t through and she looks up, brow furrowed in annoyance. “It’s still not working.” 

Gilbert reaches out, straightening her coat. “Try again. I’ll hold it still for you.” He keeps hold of the bottom of her coat, pulling so the material is now stiffer, less bendable. Again she takes the button between her small fingers….and this time slides it right through the buttonhole. She doesn’t celebrate yet. The job isn’t done. Determination shadows her young face as she does the same for the entire row of gold buttons. It’s only when the last one slides into place that she looks up with a smile ablaze with pride. “Geschafft!” (Done!)

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the cool skin of her round cheek. “Toll gemacht, Mäuschen.” (Well done, little mouse) He stands, a loving hand lingering on her shoulder as she happily grabs her gloves and begins the process of pulling them on. His gaze finds yours, his smile warm with happiness. This could take a while.

Silvio 

Your son is sitting outside on the terrace, the cobalt blue-tiled floor warm from the sun's rays. In front of him are several pots of paint which he is enthusiastically dipping his chubby fingers into before smearing them across the pages of white paper. You're sitting on the wicker chair nearby, one eye on him and one on the book you are reading.

This is the peaceful scene Silvio comes upon after returning from a meeting in the city. The familiar jangling noise of his clothing and jewelry alerts you both to his presence. Your son leaps up in a hurry, excitement thrumming through his body.

"Papa!" Silvio catches his colorful little hands by the wrists, a wry smile on his face. “Ah topolino, what happened to these?” He makes the little boy's hands wiggle back and forth to an eruption of giggles. “I’m painting, Papa. Come, paint with me!” Silvio releases his son who scurries back to his art. The child glances over his shoulder, eyes as bright as the sea in summer. “Papa?”

Silvio slides off the light, white coat he is wearing and then comes to where you are reading. He pretends to seriously inspect his son’s paintings as he slowly removes the golden rings from his fingers, one by one. You reach up, taking them from him and he flashes you a grin. “Keep a good eye on my treasure, tesoro.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the bad word play but you cannot resist the smile that curves your lips as Silvio lowers his long body onto the tiles, leaning close to the boy with hair pale as dolomite and eyes blue as summer skies. “Now maestro, tell me, where do we need to paint?” 

Chevalier 

Together they stand in front of the white bookshelf in her room, the one with pink painted roses climbing up the sides. He holds her small hand in his as they consider the many, many books she has managed to collect thus far in her rather short lifetime. His pale head nods towards a dark blue book with gold lettering. “We’ve only read this particular story twice.” She turns, her long pale braids swinging as she shakes her head. Her small fingers wiggle, adjusting her grip on him. “That story is about pirates and we read the story about mermaids yesterday. I would rather not have another nautical adventure.”

His inflection is echoed in her young voice, his influence in her vocabulary. He nods, eyes scanning the shelves for another, more suitable choice. “Perhaps the desert instead of the sea.” He taps a finger against a beige book with the title in darkest brown along the spine. Her head tilts to one side, brow furrowed in consideration. “Whenever we read this story and it talks about how hot the desert is, it makes me thirsty and I’ve already had-” She glances over her shoulder at where you are laying out her clothes for the next day. “How many glasses of water did I have at dinner, Mama?”

“Three,” you answer as you lay a pale blue sweater over the sunflower yellow dress you’ve chosen. She turns back to her father. “I’ve already had three.” He tears his gaze away from the bookshelf, regarding her with a shadow of a smile on his lips. “That is very pragmatic of you.” She nods solemnly, squeezing his hand before examining her books once again. Her eyes light upon a book bound in deep green leather, embossed with a tall tower made of gold. “This one!” She slips her hand from him to take the book off the shelf. Though excited, she is careful. Books are treasures and her collection is more pristine than some libraries. Chevalier looks down at her choice and you see how his expression softens. “You’ve made this selection twelve times in three weeks.” 

“I like how you say all the new words!” The book is a story of a princess who travels the world and learns how to say hello in a multitude of languages, all of which Chevalier can speak. She takes his hand in hers again, the book cradled against her chest as she leads him to the large, velvet armchair, the one whose pink perfectly matches the dusty roses adorning her bookshelf. He settles into the chair and she climbs onto his lap, scooting back until she is comfortable. Reaching around her, his arms encircling her, he holds the book upright. “Shall we begin?” She nestles against his chest, azure eyes already eagerly on the book. “Yes, Papa!” 

A split second is all it is. Just a breath of time before he opens the book, but in that space the length of a heartbeat, you see how Chevalier allows the moment in: his daughter curled up on his lap, safe in the soft, warm light of her room, eyes bright with excitement as she waits for the magic of a book to begin, for her father to create that magic for her. His expression is the tenderness the dawn has for the sky, love painted in soft hues across his noble features. And then he clears his throat, opening the book to her delighted, already sleepy smile, and begins.

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

For SILVIO FANS ONLY. Do not look if you're not a Silvio fan, or something bad will happen. Don't say I didn't warn you!!

HA. It was clickbait. I've posted this wip before. But this is the wip I'm trying to finally finish

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

Dragon!Silvio

maybe not what you were expecting but welcome to the hoard

Deadass rendered coins to use

Keep reading

My queen!

For the Snapshots of Spring, may I please request Silvio with number 8, fluff? ❤️❤️❤️

A/N: Here you are @ikemen-writer 💜

Silvio x f! reader

A part of the Spring Flowers Spring Showers CCC hosted by @aquagirl1978 and myself!

WC: 913

Curled up in a soft, white leather armchair, you sigh happily as you turn the page of one of the books you have discovered in the royal library here in Benitoite. So many books you've never read, so many worlds to discover. And when you raise your gaze, you’re greeted by a sight that remains simply breathtaking: the wide, alabaster expanse of the palace terrace, the bright blue of the twin pools, and further on, the darker navy of the white-capped ocean, eternally waving to you in greeting.

And then you notice something else. The small dark dots breaking out across the white stone of the terrace, the tiny drops of water plucking at the surface of the pools. Somewhere over the course of several chapters, the cornflower blue sky with its peppering of white clouds has darkened to a pale sheet of slate gray. It’s started sprinkling and instead of your heart sinking beneath the rainfall, it’s buoyed, lifting your lips in a smile bright as sunshine. Your book is abandoned as you jump up from the plush armchair.

“Signora.” Silvio’s attendant Carlo suddenly looks concerned as you head toward the wide double doors that lead outside. “Where are you going? His Highness should be back from his meeting any moment.”

You look over your shoulder, still smiling. “I’ve read that the rain in Benitoite is warm. I’ve been looking forward to finding out if it’s true!” Before he can stop you, you slide open the doors and excitedly step outside, into the now steadily-falling rain. A gasp escapes you at the soft feel of the water kissing your skin, dropping and sinking into the cotton of your dress, soaking into the strands of your hair. It isn’t warm exactly, but it certainly feels better than the cold rain that falls across Rhodolite, the kind that nips at your skin with sharp, chilled teeth. You’re so enchanted that you don’t hear the commotion from inside, the shouting delivered in the rapid-fire native language of the land you are currently so admiring. It’s only a few minutes later when you hear your name bellowed like a blast of hot air by an angry prince as he stalks toward you through the rain bearing an oversized, cotton towel.

“Are you fucking stupid? What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Silvio looks like a big, wet, angry feline as he approaches you, all coiled energy and springy steps, his cheeks high with color. He throws the now damp towel over your head. “You could get sick! Anyone with half a brain knows not to go walkin’ ‘round in the goddamn rain!”

You yank the towel off your head, unknowingly musing your hair in a way that looks so artfully disheveled, so complimentary to the face he has grown so unexpectedly fond of. The blush of pink across his cheeks brightens unwillingly. 

Ignoring his admonishments, you throw your arms out, tipping your face upwards as the towel falls from your fingers, sad in its sodden uselessness.

“It feels so good!” 

His jaw clenches. The woman standing before him, the one stretching herself wide as if embracing the rain and sky, is unaware of how her clothing is now coquettishly clinging to all her soft lines and rounded curves, maddeningly transparent in places, and triggering a wash of heat across his body so overwhelming, he’s surprised the rain doesn’t just evaporate upon touching his skin.

Flustered, he reaches out to take your hand, pulling you toward him with the intention of dragging you back inside. But one touch is all it takes for you to look back to him, through the veil of rain, and recognize the look in his eyes, the blue of the hidden sky, burning with twin meteors of frustration and desire. 

“So fucking stupid,” he rasps, the words barely managing to slink past his lips, his throat tight and tangled with emotion because you….Dio, you’re smiling at him, turning the tables as you tighten your grip on his hand, the one he originally grabbed, and pull this beautiful, rain-drenched thornbush of a prince towards you. And then you’re pressing your body, that body that looks like a marbled museum centerpiece, against him, proving you are indeed flesh and blood and heat. Your hands slide over the sharp planes of his cheeks, holding him as you press your lips to his, your mouth alive and eager. He tastes like rainwater and decadence. The tang of the ocean, the richness of expensive chocolate. His hands slide over you, around you, ringed fingers curling possessively into the softness of your hips as he answers your esurient kisses.

You hear the sound that escapes you even over the soft drumbeat of rain, the sensuality of a sigh wrapped in lambent desire, skirting the edge of a wanton moan. And you feel the way he smiles, the cocky curve of his lips still pressed against yours.

“Guess this feels good too, huh?”

You want to throw him headfirst into the ocean. 

You want to throw him straight down onto the terrace and ravish him. 

You settle for pulling away, blinking against the soft kisses of rain, the caresses it leaves on your skin as the drops slide down your flushed face, your sensitive neck.

“Maybe you're right." Your voice is glowing with how much you want him. "It’d be better if we went inside. And you warmed me up.”

His eyes flash, brighter than lightning, a wolf's hungry, gleaming gaze in the gray of a misty wood.

It's your turn to smile.

Tagging: @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @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

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.

Inspired by xxsycamore's recent success with writing short fics, I wanted to open up requests for super-tiny drabbles of around 100-300 words (may be longer)

Please Note:

I'm only taking requests for Ikepri suitors at this time

Suitor x reader requests will be written in 2nd-person. The reader will be gender-neutral unless you specify a particular gender

Anon requests will be sfw by default, but you still need to be 18+ to request

Request Form:

IKEPRI SUITOR: TYPE: choose from suitor x reader, suitor x emma, or a platonic episode featuring the suitor by himself/with other characters READER GENDER: if applicable GENRE: angst, fluff, smut, crack, headcanon, fantasy, scifi, paranormal, horror, slice-of-life, poetry, action, adventure, ransom letter, etc FLAVORING: any particular prompt, ship dynamic, kink, AU, etc RATING: sfw or nsfw ANY OTHER NOTES: if applicable ***To prove that you are 18+, please include the phrase "Silvio's Special Socks" in your ask

>>> Askbox here

Thank you, I'll try not to fail you 😭

Inspired by Ubbe (Vikings) being cozy

Che palle! You've got a lot of nerve giving orders to the captain

⬥◇◆ Clothes Shopping with the Ikeprinces ◆◇⬥

With Act 3 and Silvio's route just around the corner, let's slow down, take a step back, and remember how we all ended up in here. Particularly, how we all ended up in these clothes.

Silvio’s Dubious Preorder ◆◇⬥

*the front door to the clothes shop opens in the middle of the night*

Shopkeeper: Who’s there?

Silvio: Your worst nightmare…

*Silvio drops a heavy bag of coins in the shopkeeper's hands*

Silvio: And your salvation.

Shopkeeper: What?

Silvio: Listen closely, tailor. Tomorrow you will be visited by a pathetic pack of princes with questionable fashion sense. They are in search of new outfits to wear for the upcoming story arc and have chosen your lousy shop as their genius loci. Lucky you.

Shopkeeper: …What?

Silvio: I’ll be in attendance as well, but I’m only interested in an outfit that’ll blow everyone else’s out of the water, so I’ll mostly be observing from the sides. All you gotta do is keep those other guys occupied and catch all the notes I send your way. You’re an experienced man, you’ll know when I’m dropping you a hint. But no one else needs to know about our little deal, capisce? 

*Silvio pats the coin bag and leaves. Shopkeeper puts on glasses and cleans out his ears*

Shopkeeper: WHAT?

⬥◇◆THE NEXT DAY ◆◇⬥

Judge Yves, Round 1 ◆◇⬥

Yves: As members of Rhodolite’s domestic faction, we are the pillars our citizens look towards to represent the values our kingdom instills in art, culture, and conduct. The outfits we select today must not only reflect the propriety expected of the royal family, but also that of our people for generations to follow.

Yves: Jin! Button your shirt all the way up right this moment!

Jin: You can’t cage the collarbones, Yves!

Yves: Leon! Too much detailing will overwhelm your conversation partners! You look like you’re drowning in gold.

Leon: But you’re talking to me just fine now?

Yves: Licht! You look wonderful, of course. But if I had to nitpick, the white on your lapels clashes with your black jacket. Try wearing more color, you don’t want to look like a walking chessboard.

*Sariel slowly backs into the dressing room*

Nokto Seeing Double ◆◇⬥

Nokto: No, this blue vest doesn’t bring out my eyes quite right.

*hands vest over to Licht. Licht tries it on*

Nokto: Hm… and these tassels make my face look too narrow.

*hands shoulder pads over to Licht. Licht tries them on*

Nokto: And these black gloves clash horribly with my hair, what was I thinking?

*hands gloves over to Licht. Licht tries them on*

Nokto: You look great, Licht. Ugh, nothing in this entire store works for me!

*a bag of coins flies across the store*

Silvio: Tailor! No vests, tassels, or gloves!

Judge Yves, Round 2 ◆◇⬥

Yves: Ahem! I’m only doing this because you four are an extension of Rhodolite beyond the borders, and I don’t want you messing up our image in front of our neighbors. It’s not like I particularly care how you dress everyday!

Nokto: Aww, Evie, you care~

Yves: Shut it! Ahem! For starters, the white theme you all have is a very nice choice. It’s a good idea to set up a visual indicator to let others know you’re working as a team.

Clavis: Oh, that wasn’t intentional. This humble shop is simply fortunate enough to have had enough pieces for each of us. Otherwise, these poor white coats would have been prematurely stained red! Hahaha!

Yves: Wha—?

Clavis: With strawberry jam, of course! Chev gets particularly pouty when someone wears white instead of him. I wouldn’t put it past him to “accidentally” sully that poor someone’s outfit with his toast.

Luke: That’s why I eat mine with honey instead!

Yves: No, that’s why we eat breakfast before we leave the palace! 

*Yves swipes the toast from Chevalier and Luke*

Yves: Luke! If you’re going to wear white, you can’t carry honeyed toast in your pockets!

Yves: Clavis! If you’re going to wear a coat over a jacket again, at least make them match in style this time!

Yves: Nokto! If you’re not going to button your vest all the way, you have to wear a shirt underneath!

*Chevalier covers his chest and slowly backs into the dressing room*

Small Talk Sariel ◆◇⬥

*In a quiet corner of the store, Keith looks over himself in the mirror. Sariel notices and joins him*

Sariel: Ah, a modest choice, Prince Keith. Were you to show Prince Yves, I am certain he would impart nothing but praise.

Keith: 🙂

Sariel: Modesty is, of course, cornerstone for a prince to emblem. Although, with our continent so rife with rowdy royals, one would not want to appear too humble, lest he be trampled by his more verbally-inclined peers.

Keith: 😐

Sariel: But too loud a statement piece would have a similar effect of disfavor among colleagues. One would not want to appear too brash in company of those whose opinions matter.

Keith: 😟

Sariel: Finding that sweet spot in the middle is crucial to deduce, and this is the moment to do it. Tell me, Prince Keith, is this the outfit you wish to present to the world in the next act?

Keith: Excuse me, I seem to have misplaced something in the dressing room.

*another bag of coins flies across the store*

Silvio: Make it loud, tailor!

Multi-talented and Multi-purpose Luke ◆◇⬥

Luke: Hey, Yves! How about this? I keep the lid open just enough to stick a spoon in like this, and my pockets get to stay completely… Hey, you okay?

*Yves blushes in surprise*

Yves: Yes, yes! Why wouldn’t I be?

Luke: Well, you’ve been standing by the hair accessories for a long time now.

Yves: Because there’s no one else here. I need rest from evaluating all your outfits, obviously.

*Luke puts down the honey jar*

Luke: Hey, close your eyes for a bit.

Yves: What for?

Luke: Just trust me. Besides, you said you wanted to rest, right?

*5 minutes later*

Luke: Tada! Whaddya think?

Yves: How did you…?

Luke: My sister used to make me braid her hair all the time. I’d say I’m pretty good at it, eh?

*Yves blushes in joy*

Yves: Thank you. But how did you manage to keep it in place? You didn’t use any clips or anything.

Luke: Oh, that’s ‘cause I packed it tight with honey. It oughta keep its shape all week, plus it’s good for the scalp. Bonus!

*Yves blushes in rage*

Life Lessons with Big Brother Jin ◆◇⬥

Jin: Hey, Chevalier. Come try this cloak on, it’ll help cover your…

*Chevalier quickly wipes his mouth and hides his hands behind his back*

Jin: …

Chevalier: …

Jin: Chev…

Chevalier: I was merely inspecting them for poisons.

Jin: Come on, big guy. We’ve been through this.

Chevalier: The showoff apprehended my toast. 

Jin: You can’t eat the roses.

Chevalier: …

Jin: …

Chevalier: The yellow ones taste best.

Jin: So you’ve told me.

*yet another bag of coins flies across the store*

Silvio: Bring me the juiciest rose you have! I know you’re keeping it from me!

Gilbert’s Infinite Hyperspace ◆◇⬥

Gilbert: Are you sure the shopkeeper won’t mind you making alterations to his designs?

Clavis: That wonderful man doesn’t need to worry about a single hair on his rapidly balding head! I won’t be defiling his style because all the additions I’m making will be completely hidden from sight.

Gilbert: How like you to run your dirty work in the shadows. Such fun.

Clavis: I wouldn’t use that particular arrangement of words to describe it, per se. But considering Sariel has egregiously forbidden me from purchasing more than one belt today, I am forced to improvise my carry-on capabilities.

Gilbert: Ah, pockets! How very fun, indeed!

Clavis: Not just any pockets! Secret pockets! And just look at this enormous canvas I have to work with! Only… my hands were full on the way over here carrying Chevalier’s breakfast, so I wasn’t able to bring much of my usual tools to measure. I don’t like leaving the palace without at least a net or two on hand.

Gilbert: You can borrow mine!

*Gilbert produces a large fish net out of thin air*

Clavis: How fortunate, this will work nicely! I do wish I could have brought my trusty shovel with me, though. 

Gilbert: Regular or extra large?

*Gilbert produces two digging shovels out of thin air*

Clavis: Ah... R-regular is fine…

Gilbert: Anything else?

Clavis: You’ve been plenty helpful, I couldn’t impose—

Gilbert: No need to be shy. You still have plenty of space to work with, I see. 

Clavis: …

Gilbert: Try me.

Clavis: …Well, I do like to be armed with more than just my sword—

Gilbert: How about this?

*Gilbert produces a hatchet out of thin air*

Clavis: … Thank you.

Gilbert: What are friends for?

*Gilbert claps his hands, taps his cane twice, and pulls a tiny comb out of the heel of his boot. He combs Clavis’s hair out of his eyes and walks away smiling as the largest bag of coins yet flies across the store*

Silvio: Secret pockets! But don’t tell anyone where they are, you hear? Not even me!

Doggy See, Doggy Do ◆◇⬥

Leon: Find anything you like, Rio?

Rio: Lots! But I’m just not sure she’d like them, too.

Leon: Why not show me what you got so far? I may not be Yves or Sariel, but I’ll bet I can point out a stinker in the mix.

Rio: Okay then. What do you think of this gilded vest?

Leon: Awesome! The color matches your eyes perfectly. That’s good… I think?

*Coin bag toss #1*

Silvio: Tailor! Look into my eyes and get me a jacket that matches them perfectly! No, not a vest! We said no vests!

Rio: Huh, that was weird. Anyway, what about this broach?

Leon: She’d love it! The looped design brings out the curves of your smile just right. That kind of attention to detail is probably really important.

*Coin bag toss #2*

Silvio: Tailor! Bring me your loopiest jewelry! The more hoops, the better!

Rio: Did you hear something? Ah, nevermind. Do you think I should go with one earring or two?

Leon: Hmm… Yves rocks the one earring look—

*Coin bag toss #3*

Silvio: Tailor! I want your gaudiest single earring in my palm right this second!

Leon: —but earrings are supposed to come in pairs, right? So maybe two would be fine. For symmetry, and all that.

*Coin bag toss #4*

Silvio: Make that two!

Leon: Sorry, I’m not too sure, to be honest.

*Rio knowingly smirks*

Rio: Your advice is great, Prince Leon. Tell me, what do you think of these snow boots?

Leon: Well, it’s not exactly winter. But they’re really a statement piece, and she might appreciate a good conversation starter.

*Coin bag toss #5*

Silvio: I need the furriest boots you’ve got in this place, pronto!

Rio: And this zebra-print cloak?

Leon: Chevalier looks good in tiger stripes. I guess that’s basically the same thing.

*Coin bag toss #6*

Silvio: Where do you keep the darn striped fabrics, old man?

Rio: Great! What’s your opinion on oversized hats?

Leon: Uhh… go big or go home?

*Coin bag toss #7*

Silvio: GO BIG OR GO HOME!!

Leon: Hey, Rio, do you hear an echo?

Rio: Nope. Just the sound of a nation’s GDP falling.

I wanted to add a joke about their gloves, but this post is getting way out of hand, even without puns.

Tagging: @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus @thewitchofbooks @leonscape @rhodolitesrose @venti-tangents @dear-sciaphilia @ikesenwritings @myonlyjknight @ladyofcrowsx @otomefoxystar @my-day6

If you would like to be added or removed from my tag list, please send me an ask or a message.