These Are So Soft And Sweet And Most Importantly They Instantly Bring Comfort To The Reader - Tumblr Posts

Hi Violet! I just now remembered that I was going to send in this ask. 😮‍💨🥴 Thank you for taking this request!

I would love some Princely headcanons for an insecure plus sized fem!Reader/MC. She just isn't feeling herself at the moment and doesn't feel like she's beautiful enough for her Prince. How would the princes react/comfort her?

Thanks so much, my dear! I already adore what you've shown me, I can't wait to see what you might add. 🥺❤

A/N: Thank you for the ask, L. Who doesn't need to feel loved? I hope I could do this justice.

TW: the f!reader is filled with feelings of self-loathing about her weight

Suitors: @randonauticrap 's favorite princes: Jin, Sariel and of course, Chevalier

WC: 1568

Due to the content, the writing is after the break.

Jin Grandet

You stand in front of the mirror, gold frames and plane glass warping into a blurry vision of smeared gold and streaked silver as you blink against the hot tears filling your eyes. You reach up with heavy hands, pulling on either side of the corseted dress for the upteenth time, struggling to make the ends meet. Again, they don’t and again that feeling churns inside you, like frothy foam on an ocean of self-loathing. The beautiful material falls from your fingers. You don’t deserve to even touch it. It's not meant for women who look like you.

At that moment, Jin steps into the bedroom you share, chattering something about Clavis and chili peppers and ice cream, but he stops short when he sees you, the inward slope of your shoulder, the way you turn your face away from him, the dark purple jeweled satin abandoned, now pooled at your feet. The flow of words stops abruptly, your body language as clear as a hand violently clamping over his mouth. 

He approaches you from behind, garnet eyes smoldering with emotion as he reaches out, his large hands resting on your shoulders for a moment. They slide down the soft skin of your upper arms and you force yourself to remain still, to resist the urge to pull away. One strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you tenderly against the hard planes of his body. The other hand rises to capture your chin, urging you to lift your face. He murmurs your name, his dusky voice entreating you to look up and into the mirror.

You raise your eyes to look into the glass. He asks you what you see. Your voice is silenced by a mace of antipathy slamming into you and you almost choke on the spikes. You whisper something about a dress that won’t close and a body not worthy of anyone’s gaze, let alone his touch.

Jin glances down at the dress and with one foot, casually kicks it away from both of you, sending it sliding off into exile under the settee. His voice isn’t entreating anymore when he tells you, commands you, to meet his gaze in the mirror again. 

Instructing you to never take your eyes off of him, he bends his long body around you from behind, his lips touching your cheek, still tracked with tears. His hands move over your skin, over and under the linen shift you wear. With his body, his whispered words and heated mouth, his gentle but demanding hands, he touches all of you, gilding you  with his love, his desire, his need for you and only you. The ocean inside churns not with loathing but lust, not distaste but desire. The seas part and you rise, resplendent, buffeted by the winds of his devotion. 

Sariel Noir

He finds you curled up in bed, heavy velvet curtains drawn against the moonlight, against a full moon no less. Normally you would be snuggled up in the window seat, book in hand, allowing the argent light to pour over you, to bathe you in its glow.

The brevity of the few exchanged words as he enters, the monotone of your answers, the way you fight to disappear. He sighs heavily. This is not new to him. These demons are always within you, more often than not dormant…but sometimes, like now, they escape, clawing their way to the forefront of your mind, laughing maniacally in the face of your paper-thin self confidence.

It takes a demon to defeat other demons. Sariel prepares for battle, removing his clothing piece by piece. Austere jacket, dark pants, undershirt. He folds them all meticulously. Lastly, he lays his glasses on the nightstand before sliding under the blankets. Only you know the corded muscle that lies underneath the buttons and fixtures of his clothing. His skin is cool, familiar. An immediate balm to all the inflammatory thoughts rolling around inside your mind. 

He pulls you against him, his body curling around yours. One knowing hand reaches to hold you around the waist and automatically the demons in your mind try to push him away. He shouldn’t touch you, not when you feel like this, unwieldy and unattractive, uncomfortable in your own skin. But Sariel is not one to be deterred from anything he wants. His arm wraps around you, like a band of iron, and pulls you even closer. His midnight voice pours words into your ear, how you belong to him, how you can never, ever escape because he will never, ever allow it. How all of you, every single pillowy curve, every handful of flesh, is his to hold, his to claim, his to worship.

You have no choice but to relent, your body bending to his will, to the pull of his palms and the insistence of his fingers. His touch scours the planes of your body, chasing demons, crushing them under the weight of his will and his love for you. 

And when you roll over in the circle of his arms, your expression is clear. All he sees is the moonlight in your eyes that counters his own dark shadows. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then lower, kissing your mouth. He parts your lips and you melt against him, your mind and body wholly and completely his.

Chevalier Michel

You hear him come into the suite you share, the measured footsteps following the sound of the door closing. He calls your name and you swallow hard, forcing the thorny ball of self-hate down, down, down, down to the depths from whence it came. It leaves deep scratches in its wake, a pain that is at once shocking and terrifyingly familiar.

Bodily you sink further down into the large, claw-footed bathtub. You had poured a generous amount of the pink liquid into the water, birthing hundreds of soft bath bubbles not because they smelled good (although they did, like summer roses) but to hide your body from view. You didn’t want to get a glimpse of yourself even under the glassy, undulating cover of water. He calls for you again and you clear your throat, sweep away the ashes of loathing, before calling out that you are in the bath.

He steps into the room of white tile and gold trimming, looking as regal in this setting as he does in his office or in the throne room. You force your lips to move, to lift into a smile, hoping he is too tired from his meetings, from the heavy lifting of running a country to look too closely. Hope has a snowball's chance in hell because Chevalier Michel misses nothing, especially when it comes to the woman who captured his heart. 

“What’s wrong?”

Those words are your undoing. Burying your face in your hands, water and bubbles sluicing down your arms, you release the poisonous thoughts that have been corroding your mind. You are not beautiful enough for a man like him. You know people wonder what he sees in you. How could he be with someone who looks like that? How could a man as perfect as chiseled marble even want a woman whose body is soft, a body that spills out of clothing, that folds and bends and ripples like water. He deserves better. He deserves perfection. You are far from that.

Your words spill out of you, falling from your lips like teardrops. They feel slippery on the tongue. They sting like jellyfish tentacles. Chevalier does not interrupt. He does not offer words of comfort. He stands in his beautifully pressed clothing, pristine as angel song, and he listens. 

Eventually you run out of things to say. Your hands still cover your face, your breath warm, the air sickeningly sweet with the scent of rose-colored bubbles. The bathroom is quiet until you hear the susurrus of clothing falling to the floor. Your hands fall down as well, splashing into the water in surprise as a very naked Chevalier Michel lowers himself into the bathtub. Normally the disparity between the foamy bubbles and his serious visage would spark a laugh, but right now no spark stands a chance against the damp curtain of sadness hanging over your heart.

He leans back, arms resting on the rim of the porcelain tub, his head tilted as he regards you. And then he speaks, his tone rocksteady, as he reminds you that he accepts nothing but the best. That in no aspect of his life would he ever settle. Especially when it comes to where he places his trust. The person he chooses to love. He reminds you that once he commanded you to love him, an order from the king. Absolute.  Only a simpleton would believe that the reverse wouldn’t be true. He loves you too. Absolutely. 

“Come here.” He makes a motion with his hand and as with everything, the force of his will is undeniable. You slide forward, water displacing in gentle waves, and take his hand as he turns you and then pulls you against him, settling your back to his chest. 

His time, his words, his touch, his resolute declaration of love are the antidote you needed. Tension finally seeps from your muscles into the warm water as you settle back against him. His arms are your castle. Here you will always be safe and loved.

Exactly as you are.

💜

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @queen-dahlia @moonstruck-writing