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ikesimpleton · 7 days

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Hello hello!!

May I request Cyran // courage // Gangster AU? ^^

A/N: My entry for the Wish Upon an Aide CC hosted by the wonderful @lorei-writes and @wordycheeseblob

Cyran x Reader, Gangster AU; Prompt: Courage

I went a less obvious route with the prompt. It's not exactly nsft but it is suggestive. A kind of follow up to this Cyran Gangster fic.

WC: ~1k

In order for there to be courage, there must be fear. Darkness needs light to exist, light cannot shine without darkness. They are intertwined, interconnected, essential to one another like the moon and the tide, like oxygen and life.

In the shadows of your bedroom, the glow from the neon sign across the street slides its way through the blinds, bathes your skin in red.

Red means danger.

It means warning.

It means stop.

But Cyran couldn't stop now, not for all the money in the world. His hands travel down the smooth plane of your waist, slide across the round curves of your hips. It is a road he has only traveled once before but one he has never, ever forgotten. He feels the pressure of your arms around his neck, the way your fingers curl into the ends of his hair. More red.

His mouth follows the pulse in the side of your neck. He presses his tongue flat against it, then sucks hard. The sound you make should be illegal. It fogs his mind with desire, smothers the rational thought that thrives in the cold light of day.

Being the doctor they call, you are already in too deep with The Organization. No good can come of dragging you selfishly deeper, through the unpredictable danger of his job, under the waves of fear and anxiety that every assignment floods him with. He is certain that being with him will bring you nothing but heartache.

And yet……how can he stop an avalanche’s momentum? How can he push back the tide? How can he stop drinking in the taste of your lips? Stop drowning in your breathless whisper of his name?

He is a criminal, one who walks the opaque fog between right and wrong....but with you, everything becomes crystal-clear.

And he is not strong enough to deny what his body and soul so loudly cry for.

Cyran’s hands have divested you of all clothing. Only the golden rose necklace they gave you lays against your skin. He sweeps it aside, pressing a line of desperate kisses across your collarbone, first one, then the other.

He walks you backwards towards your bed, his clothing falling like flower petals along the way until he is as bare as you. When the back of your knees bumps into the mattress, you pause to drink in the sight of him, disheveled and alight with desire, his broad chest rising and falling with each labored breath.

God, is he beautiful. All sculpted muscle. Powerful lines. You unconsciously bite down on your lower lip as your fingertips trace the Rhodolitian rose tattooed on his shoulder. Unlike some of the other gang members, his rose is not blood red, but has been rendered in shades of gray. You follow the line of the petals, then glide down over the curved stem lined with sharp thorns. In reality, they would have torn your fingers to shreds. But right now, all you feel is warm skin. All you feel is him.

He can’t take the sight of your lip between your teeth. He wants it for himself. Surging forward, he kisses you and you fall back onto the bed, your body catching fire, your heart aflame.

The neon sign has blinked out, replaced by the pale yellow of early morning sunlight. Cyran is sound asleep, his red hair a bright spot among your white pillows. Propped up on one elbow, you watch him as he sleeps. You haven’t been able to tear your gaze away since you woke up, your body heavy with satisfaction, sore with the remnants of last night’s storm.

His face is softer now, carrying none of the hard, concentrated lines of responsibility, duty. He is at ease, for once, lost in the clouds of dreaming. He looks younger somehow. Almost innocent. You allow yourself the luxury of staring, of gazing at the line of his jaw, covered in stubble, the slope of his neck down to his broad shoulders. You notice the small crescent-moon marks there, the ones from your fingers as they clutched him, held him tightly against your body. A smile ghosts across your lips.

You follow the relaxed surface of his bare chest down to where your bed sheets are draped modestly over his hips. One long leg, bent at the knee, sticks out from the covers and you're struck by an overwhelming wave of emotion, something warm and bright that sends your heart into a gentle swoon.

Wanting him. Dare you even think….loving him…..is dangerous. You know it. There are a hundred reasons why falling for him is nothing but jagged peril, a treacherous road you should not walk.

But the way he rasped your name is still ringing in your ears.

Your fingers remember the grip of his own when they intertwine with yours.

You know the way his body feels against you. It is now written across your heart like a swathe of stars in the night sky, burned into your skin like a brand.

He sighs in his sleep, shifting to roll onto his side, and a lock of red hair falls across his forehead. You reach out instinctively to brush it away and something inside you is kindled, like a forge slowly coming to life.

Yes, it is risky to give yourself over to what you are feeling, to fight for a place in his heart and life.

But you are brave.

Your hand gently cups the side of his face and your heart sinks into the flame of the forge, becoming something strong, a sword to face the danger, a light to wield in the dark. Courage and determination flow through your veins as mightily as desire had just a few short hours ago.

Cyran is worth loving. He is worth every twist and turn if only for the feel of him under your palm, the light in his eyes as they flutter open and see you, his slow, sleepy, unburdened smile.

“Good morning,” you murmur, leaning down even as he reaches for you, a kiss already waiting on his lips.

This is worth all your courage. This will be your light.

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @portrait-ninja @starlitmanor-network @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly

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ikesimpleton · 8 days

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Two of my favorite group dialogues of all time all in one chapter of an event. Who is biggest man baby, Clavis or Rio?

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ikesimpleton · 1 month

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We love a confident emperor king.

And I see exactly zero problems.

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen series #gilbert von obsidian #ikepri gilbert #ikemen prince gilbert #ikemen prince gilbert von obsidian

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ikesimpleton · 1 month

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A/N: I know I am late but this is a very belated birthday present for a very special person: @lorei-writes 💜 I'm sorry this took so long but I hope you know what a wonderful friend you are and how grateful I am to have you in my life!

Chevalier x Reader, Only One Bed (the trope that won my poll!)

tw: injury

WC: ~2.5k

The trees whip past you, black blurs with long, spidery branches like fingers that reach for you, the wind carrying their whispers of how much they yearn to touch you, to pluck you from the back of the white horse you’re currently astride, tear you away from the man whose waist your arms are so tightly wrapped around.

Chevalier says nothing as he guides his horse expertly through the darkening forest, the evening light fading with each thundering heartbeat, each turn of the ground under the horse’s hooves. You hear the distant sound of yelling, of the soldiers who are pursuing you and squeeze your eyes closed, pressing your cheek harder against the softness of his white cloak. You don’t know how much time passes. Your arms begin to tremble with the effort of holding on. Your legs feel as if they are numb as they struggle to keep you atop the churning muscles of the animal beneath you. It’s only when you hear him say your name that you slowly come back to yourself, eyelids fluttering open as you feel his body slowly twisting away from you.

You’ve stopped.

Darkness has almost completely taken over. Only the palest shafts of dusk filter through the gaps in the trees. Strong hands reach up, pulling you down from the exhausted horse. Despite the heavy pace of the ride, Chevalier’s grip feels solid, a strength you lean into, wishing it would somehow seep from him into you and grant your shaking limbs calm, your burning lungs cool steadiness.

He waits a moment, still as the tree trunks, but you can see the way his eyes roam the gloom, searching.

A decision is reached.

“Can you stand?” His voice is low, quiet, hushed with alertness.

“Yes,” you manage, surprised at how raw your own throat is, how the words have to be forced out like sandpaper against rough wood.

He releases you and your back curls like a question mark, your hands sliding down to your knees where you hold yourself, focusing on breathing. Your shoulder burns, a lick of fire that feels oddly wet when you reach up to touch it.

You hear him murmuring to his horse, patting the loyal animal’s neck, speaking in a tone that is both gentle and soothing. Who would have thought the brutal beast capable of such softness? And then, having removed his bedroll and saddlebags from the animal, he reaches back and with a crack across the steed’s rear, sends it rushing away into the yawning darkness with a soft whinny.

What….? The horse is your only way back….how…. why…..

He may not be able to see your face clearly but somehow he can still read your thoughts. “It is familiar with these woods and will find its way back to the palace. We cannot risk having it close by.”

Suddenly his hand is grabbing yours and he’s moving, pulling you along with him over the uneven forest floor. “Come.”

You trust him to lead you, even if you cannot make out a path. He pushes his way through branches and brambles and bushes and you very quickly lose hope of ever figuring out what direction you are moving in. Just when your legs begin to cry for mercy, he pushes aside several low hanging branches to reveal the destination he has been heading for: The mouth of a small cave underneath an overhang of uneven rocks and scraggy bushes. It is here he takes you, into the maw of darkness.

You’re hit immediately with the strong, dank scent of rock and earth. Chevalier has to duck, the cave not high enough to accommodate his full height. How does he know where he is going? It’s nearly pitch black. You don’t have the energy to voice your concerns or questions. The aftermath of fear and flight has left you compliant, wordlessly trusting this man to lead you somewhere safe.

The mouth of the cave is almost out of sight when he stops, dropping to his knees in the darkness. You hear him lift the flap of the leather saddle bag, rummaging around until he finds what he is looking for. There’s a quiet snapping sound and suddenly the small area is illuminated with soft blue light, a sight so unexpected and beautiful that you gasp.

You’re at the back of the cave, surrounded on all sides by smooth stone. Chevalier is holding what looks like a vial of some kind, filled with glowing blue liquid. You’re so enchanted that you momentarily forget the terror of just an hour or so earlier, of the masked soldiers who ambushed you while on a sunset ride with the prince, the hiss of the arrows they fired at you, the cry of your horse as it stumbled to the ground and the way Chevalier swept you up in one fluid movement, anchoring you behind him even as he carried you away from the violent chaos, deep into the safety of the dark forest.

“What is this?” You touch the glowing tube even as Chevalier pulls out another, bending it until it emits a small cracking sound and more blue light, pale as the underside of the ocean, fills the cave.

“My brother may be a fool but he has his moments.” He sets the glowing vial down, turning to reach for the bedroll.

Clavis. Of course. He’s always working in his room, tinkering, inventing. That he was the one to come up with such a clever invention doesn’t surprise you. As Chevalier lays out the bedroll, you continue to look at the glowing tube. The gentle blue light almost feels like it’s wrapping itself around you, gentle waves guiding your lungs into a steady rhythm, your heart lowering its guard as you feel a sense of cautious safety begin to settle over you.

“Come here.” You look up to see Chevalier pointing to the bedroll. He’s kneeling beside it, pulling off his dark gloves one finger at a time, a small brown jar on the ground beside him. Before you can ask, annoyance flickers across his face. “You’re injured. This will help keep the wound from becoming infected.”

Injured? Where are you–

“Your shoulder. Now come here.” His words are crisp, edged with impatience.

You glance down, pushing aside your cloak and are stunned by the darkness that stains the sleeve of your white blouse.

When did that happen? In the blur of escape you didn’t even notice…..

Carefully you settle yourself in front of Chevalier. In the cool light, he leans close to you, shifting the torn fabric to try and examine the injury. He’s so close you notice just how long his lashes are, how the wild ride through the dusky woods tangled his pale hair. A slender red line mars the perfection of his face, a scratch that cuts a slanted line right beneath his cheekbone.

“It’s no good. I need more access.” He leans back as his eyes, so impossibly blue in the chemical light, flick up to yours. It takes a deep breath to keep you from free falling into those oceanic depths. Forcing a quick nod, you cast modesty aside, grateful for motion as it will keep you busy. Your cloak is tossed aside. One by one, you undo the buttons of your blouse until you can slide the material off your shoulder completely. The cool air of the cave brushes over your newly exposed skin and you shiver.

“It’s not deep. You should heal without issue.” He uncovers the jar and reaches inside with one finger, scooping up a generous portion of the milky salve. With a practiced hand, he begins applying it over the torn skin of your shoulder. Another shiver runs through you, something bright and restless that has nothing to do with the cold.

Hands that have rained down death and destruction are shockingly gentle as he touches you, spreading the salve evenly across your injury. You watch the passage of his finger across your skin, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Have you ever noticed how beautiful his hands actually are? He glances up and finds you staring at him. Whatever he sees in your eyes seems to unsettle him. He jerks his upper body back, hastily pulling his hand away and reaches back into the saddle bag for a strip of cloth which he ties around your upper arm. His fingers now expertly avoid touching your skin.

“That should suffice for the night.” He reaches for the jar, about to close it again.

“Wait!” You pull it from his grasp as surprise flashes across his face. Clearing your throat, you gesture with the small clay jar in your hand towards him. “You have a scratch yourself.”

His shoulder lifts in a gesture of indifference. “It’s nothing.”

You shift your body, turning to face him directly. Your blouse is still partially undone and he finds himself noticing the wash of pale blue light across the exposed skin of your shoulder, the way it highlights the line of your collarbone and the intimate divulgence of the skin beneath it.

“Please, let me.” Your voice carries a note of something tremulous in it, pulling his gaze back to your face, the parting of your lips, the soft supplication in your eyes. He finds himself acquiescing, his powerful upper body leaning ever so slightly towards you.

“If you must.”

The salve is cool to the touch and you apply a much smaller amount to the tip of your index finger, leaning towards him. Your other hand moves automatically, reaching up to catch his chin in order to hold him steady. He blinks, but otherwise does not move. You press your finger to the thin scratch on his face and slowly, carefully follow the red line. You’ve never been this close to him before. He carries the scent of roses and sweat, even after your hard ride. Your finger comes to the end of the scratch and it is with a surprising reluctance you let your hand drop from his face.

His chest rises with one breath, two. And then he tears his gaze away from the mesmerism of your face, leaning back to close the jar and return it carefully the saddle bag. He glances towards the cave’s entrance, shaking off the moment that still has your heart clenching with emotion.

“We cannot risk leaving now. We’ll stay the night and make our way back by the light of day tomorrow.” He gestures towards the bedroll. “It’s cold. Get in.”

“And what about you?” You don’t even realize you’ve crossed your arms, frowning.

He shakes his head once. “You’ll freeze before I do.”

“We can share it.” The words are out of your mouth without thinking. And they continue. “It’ll be snug but we can both fit. You need warmth just as much as I do. And you can’t protect me if you’re freezing to death.”

You’ve surprised him. He draws in a breath and then exhales. With every passing minute, as darkness becomes thicker outside the distant mouth of the cave, the temperature is indeed dropping.

Wordlessly, he leans forward, pulling off his dark, mud-splattered boots. The sight is somehow so intimate, so personal you find yourself watching, both fascinated and flustered. He removes his cape, folding it into a makeshift pillow and then pulls back the corner of the bedroll. It’s made of thick brown leather and lined with the softest looking white fur you’ve ever seen. He slides his long body inside and then jerks his head.

“Come then.”

You kick off your own riding boots close to where your cloak is lying, abandoned on the hard stone floor, and then with the roaring sound of your own heartbeat in your ears, you wiggle your way down into the bedroll beside him.

And immediately you realize you were wrong.

While the bedroll is large, it is not really made for two people. The only way you can remain covered by the top part is to press yourself as close to Chevalier as possible. He grunts as you hook your leg over him, nudging your hip against his. Your arm automatically reaches across his middle as you settle your head on his shoulder.

Now the bedroll flap closes, enveloping the both of you.

And Chevalier has not moved. He’s barely even breathing.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your face burning as you begin to slowly scoot away. This was too much, too fast. You literally just touched his cheek for the first time ever and now you’re laying across him as if he's a pillow. “Maybe I…I can wrap the cloaks around me and–”

Your words are cut off as he pulls you back to him, his arm holding your body firmly against his. It’s a rough gesture, a jerky movement so unlike his usual feline gracefulness.

“You’ll stay here.” His voice is low, a soft growling sound that you feel as much as hear with your ear pressed against his chest, the vibration of it slowly winding its way through you. Heat blossoms within your stomach and your veins pulse with the sudden awareness of just how it feels to be held by Chevalier Michel, how every hard plane of his body fits perfectly against your own softness.

You blink as if you have been shocked awake, as if someone has ripped the curtains away from a window full of glaring sunlight.

Have you always felt this….desire? Has it been hiding itself within the shadows of your heart only to be dramatically exposed by your closeness to him?

Chevalier shifts ever so slightly, pulling you even closer as he tilts his chin down to look at you. Your own face lifts to meet his gaze. Clavis’s soft blue light illuminates the planes of his face, the pale white of his hair.

He is so breathtakingly beautiful.

For the second time tonight, you reach up and touch his face with your hand, this time cupping the strong line of his jaw. His lips part as if to speak but nothing comes. Ignoring the spark of pain in your shoulder, you stretch yourself upwards and press a kiss, soft as silk, warm as dawn, to his injured cheek. Beneath you, his chest stills with a breath held.

“Thank you, Chevalier.”

And you sink back down, your eyes closing as you allow yourself the peace of falling asleep, cocooned in the safety of his arms, welcoming the strange, new tide of yearning for him that has astoundingly, readily rolled into your heart and mind.

As for Chevalier himself?

He holds you through the night, each passing minute you are in his embrace more and more startling because despite the enemies at the gate, despite the cold of the cavern, despite all that has transpired, it has him wishing that dawn will never come and take you from his side.

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @ozalysss @starlitmanor-network

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #chevalier michel #ikepri chevalier #ikemen chevalier #only one bed #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic

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ikesimpleton · 1 month

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Just Licht being The Cutest

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen series #ikepri licht #licht klein

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ikesimpleton · 1 month

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Never change, Jin.

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen series #gilbert von obsidian #ikepri gilbert #ikepri licht #ikepri yves #ikepri jin #ikepri luke #ikemen prince jin #jin grandet #licht klein #luke randolph #yves kloss

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ikesimpleton · 2 months

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Chevalier: (has a cute dream and smiles in his sleep)

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ikesimpleton · 2 months

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Confused Chevalier is great Chevalier

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen series #chevalier michel #ikepri chevalier #ikemen fanfic

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ikesimpleton · 2 months

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#confused brothers are confused #ikepri #ikemen series #chevalier michel #ikepri chevalier #ikemen cybird #ikepri jin #ikepri yves #ikepri licht #ikepri luke #luke randolph #jin grandet #licht klein #yves kloss #my honeys a bunny route spoilers #ikemen prince

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ikesimpleton · 2 months

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Every. Single. Time.

Suitor: (super-duper-mega-injured)

Emma: (fighting back tears)

Suitor: (thinking) The only thing I can do for her is to use my dwindling strength and make her so horny she stops crying.

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ikesimpleton · 2 months

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A/N: This is my gift for @readerinsertfanfiction 💜 The moment I saw Cyran on your list, I was thrilled. I hope you enjoy!

A huge thank you to @ikemenlibrary for her support and friendship and for being a generous, caring host 💜

Prompt: A servant, someone who knew Cyran from before his time in Rhodolite

Cyran x AU Emma

WC: ~4k

Obsidian: the Past

She runs across the cracked, sunbaked cobblestone streets, her treasure wrapped in a cream-colored tea towel and held protectively against her chest. Her worn leather shoes make a pleasing thunking sound against the stones as she hurries past dusty shop windows and faded porches, carefully dodging people on the street.

“Langsam, Emma!” someone yells as she flies past but she doesn’t listen to their warning. She can’t slow down. She has somewhere to be.

Finally she reaches the edge of town and takes a sharp left, leaving the cobblestones behind for a ribbon of dirt road that winds its way along tired hills covered with sparse sage-green grass and dotted with scraggly yellow dandelions. Another turn onto an even smaller path, a faint thing that meanders through the knee-high growth and then, finally, the faded barn comes into view.

She smiles, pumping her young legs harder, willing them to swallow the distance faster and faster until she reaches the peeling, splintered wooden doors and haphazardly flings one open.

“Cyran? I’m here!!”

The boy, just shy of fourteen, turns away from the wooden beam he has been faux-sparring with, lowering the dull, well-worn practice sword he is so proud of. His hair gleams like fire in the hazy sunlight that shines through the pocked roof.

Emma hurries over, gulping down huge breaths of musty air as she grabs his thin forearm.

“C’mon. I’m dying to see how they taste.”

Cyran laughs, struggling to sheath his sword as she drags him over to the blanket thrown over the hay in a cozy corner of the barn. This is their favorite place to meet, an escape from the outside world they discovered several years ago while exploring. It is here that Emma sometimes reads to him from one of her treasured books. She’s even shared stories she’s written, romantic tales of princesses and dragons, knights and monsters. Cyran is always the hero, the knight who slays the monsters and rescues the damsel in distress. Emma will change her roles in the stories.

Sometimes she needs rescuing.

But sometimes, she is the dragon.

Often they sneak treats to each other, hard biscuits or smoked meat or, if they are really lucky, sweet berries brought across the border from the lush neighboring country of Rhodolite. Cyran’s neighbor is a servant for some of the merchants that make the risky trips over and when he’s lucky, she manages to tuck away a few treasures just for him.

He settles himself down on the frayed checkered blanket and pushes his bright hair away from his forehead, eagerly watching as Emma drops down next to him, laying the tea towel down. Her face is flushed from her run and from the thrill of what she’s managed to bring him.

“Ready?”

He nods, enthusiastically motioning for her to unwrap it already. He has hands that are too big for his young body, growing the way many boys do at this age, in odd fits and spurts.

Emma leans forward, pushing up the sleeve of her too-big dress and carefully pulls back the edges of the tea towel.

The smell hits them first, the warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of the cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger. It wafts up towards them, exotic and tempting. Cyran breathes in deeply and then sighs happily as he looks at her, eyes bright and admiring.

“It smells so good.”

Cyran had carefully been saving up the exotic store of spices, some of them gifts from his neighbors, others decadent purchases made at the market from his meager earnings made mucking stalls and chopping wood. He knew that Emma would be the one who would create something special with them. Young as she was, she was a talented cook and baker, able to make the most fantastic treats out of the simplest ingredients. And now that she had been given such a treasure trove to work with, she had spun pure magic.

The spiced biscuits are dappled dark brown and gold. When she hands him one, it is with a reverence that echos a priest giving communion or a child receiving a shiny new toy at Christmas.

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Together.”

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes.

“Together.”

They bite into the cookies at the same time. Emma breaks into a proud smile as Cyran closes his eyes, savoring the medley of flavor and even better, the knowledge that she made them just for him.

“It’s good, isn’t it?" she asks, grinning. She sees the look on his face, the way he is practically melting with enjoyment.

He lifts his shoulder in a casual shrug, feigning indifference.

“I guess……”

“What?!”

He takes another bite, leaning back on one hand. “I mean, they’re ok. But you know, Hilde’s biscuits are also really good–OOF.”

She’s tackled him, throwing herself at him with all the force of a frenzied feline, her nimble fingers scratching at his sides. Cyran breaks into laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to squirm away from her.

“Ok ok Brown Eyes, enough!”

Emma lets him go, sitting back on her heels with a glowing, triumphant smile.

“Never say that about Hilde’s cookies again.”

He pushes himself up, heart pounding furiously in his chest. Only some of it is from laughing. He tears his gaze away from the unsettling beauty of her eyes, traveling up to her hair.

“You’re a mess. You got straw in your hair and your braid is a disaster.”

Emma turns and scoots until she is sitting in front of him. “Since it’s your fault….you fix it.”

Cyran heaves a sigh he doesn’t mean and then settles himself into a comfortable position, reaching forward and with a tenderness and care far beyond most boys his age, begins slowly picking the straw from her messy plait.

Emma’s eyes drift closed as she revels in the attention he’s giving her, the gentle way he untangles her braid and then very slowly begins brushing his fingers through her soft, chestnut-colored hair.

It feels comforting and safe.

It feels thrilling.

It feels like the early evening has come to a standstill and they have all the time in the world.

But their time together is like a rose slowly losing its petals.

A petal falls as he tells her, wide-eyed and shaken, that his neighbor has been killed in her own home, throat opened in the dead of night and left smiling its ghastly red smile until she was discovered hours later. Emma rubs his back, not knowing what else to do. This is not the first death in their village as of late. And it will not be the last.

A petal falls as they lay, side by side, on the blanket in the hay, staring up at the patches of starry sky visible through the holes in the roof. “My parents are scared,” she whispers. He turns his head to stare at her profile and knows it isn’t just her parents who are frightened. “I’ll protect you,” he whispers, voice fierce with youth’s naïve promise. Her gaze remains on the silver stars but she reaches out, taking his hand and squeezes it.

A petal falls as she comes to their favorite spot, face pale as bone, to tell him that her family is leaving. Her father has contacted distant relatives that live far to the north, as far from Rhodolite and the dangers it poses as one can get. Cyran feels like his young heart may break right there in his chest and he will be forced to live the rest of his life with its pieces rattling around inside of him. Though filled with dismay, Emma’s eyes are as beautiful as ever. They shine with tears, rivaling any star they have ever spent time gazing at.

A petal falls as she rushes through the dark, on the night before her family is to leave, her throat burning with feelings she can’t quite name, waves too strong to try and understand for fear they will sweep her away. She bursts through the barn doors and finds him already there, his hair dark as garnet, damp with sweat. He has spent the entire day doing heavy labor, removing heavy wooden beams, hauling ancient and broken equipment, sweeping the dusty, straw-strewn floor. Several lanterns placed around the interior bathe the space in warm, yellow light. The barn is as clean and inviting as he can make it. He wanted to give her one more memory, something beautiful, that she can take with her on her journey away from here. Away from him.

Emma is frozen in place, soaking in all he has done, before finally stopping on the young man at the center of it. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Already his shoulders carry the hint of what manhood will bring him: strength and breadth. Arms that with training will turn hard and sculpted, legs that will lengthen until he is taller than most. He is the faint beginning of what he will become. Emma wonders wildly if she will ever get the chance to see the finished masterpiece.

“Emma,” he says, his voice raw and rough, deeper than she has ever heard it.

She sets down the bundle she is holding, the one she carried so close on the way here, leaving it on top of a weathered wooden barrel.

“Cyran,” she answers, her muscles tense, like a fawn when it hears a crunching in the underbrush.

He starts forward, one hesitant step and that is enough. She flies towards him, throwing her thin arms around his neck and buries her face in his worn linen shirt, clutching him to her. There is power in her small frame, something fierce and bright, a hurricane in crystal. Cyran holds her close, his eyes closing as he breathes in her familiar scent. He’s been teased his whole life because of his last name, but she is the one who reminds him of a rose, who always smells so sweet.

The anticipation of loss that has them clinging to each other slowly ebbs and something else, something that has been burning low and quiet in every laugh, every touch, every glance begins to emerge. She is suddenly aware of the press of her chest against his, of how much taller he is, the earthy smell of his skin. She leans back to look at him and sees the same awareness mirrored in his dark eyes.

Outside a rooster crows, loud and discordant.

Cyran turns his head toward the sound and Emma, sparked by the frantic knowledge that she must leave, grabs his chin, pulling him back to her and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips to his.

It is a sunbeam bursting through gray clouds. A spark breathing life into a pile of dried leaves. It is hope and promise and wonder.

And heartbreak.

With a stifled cry, she steps away, turns and flees the barn, not wanting to see the look on his face as she leaves, not wanting that to be her last memory of him.

Cyran watches with a thundering heart as the door swings shut. Flooded with helplessness and misery, he notices the bundle she left behind. Tenderly he lifts it, undoing the sky-colored ribbon. It’s her favorite handkerchief, white with pale blue forget-me-nots painstakingly embroidered along the edges, and nestled inside are several of her spiced biscuits. His favorites.

Rhodolite: The Present

Rhodolite is so much MORE than she expected. The streets are wider and cleaner and lined with greenery, more trees and flowering bushes and grass than in the entire garden of the palace in Obsidian. There are more people than she expected too, many standing under awnings and lampposts, peeking through windows and around doorways, watchful eyes in beautiful faces following the royal procession as it makes its way towards the palace.

When she had been told by the Head Chef that they would be accompanying Prince Gilbert and his entourage to Rhodolite, Emma had felt a familiar ringing through the cockles of her heart. Rhodolite is where Cyran was rumored to have ended up. Whispers from the south had traveled her way, over the many years since they parted. He had joined the army when he was of age. He had left Obsidian for the verdure of Rhodolite. He was employed by one of the Princes there. Crumbs of information she had managed to gather, hoarding them tightly like precious drops of mana.

He may not even be here, she reminds herself as her tired gray mare plods along down the street. She and the other servants are at the end of the procession and most of the people have turned away, not interested in anything but the dangerous Prince Gilbert with his sharp smile and blood-red gaze.

Still, Emma finds herself scanning the crowds as they pass, looking for any head of red hair. She spots a few but they are never him.

As the overwhelming elegant palace suddenly rises towards the heavens before her, she draws in a sharp breath.

We’re here…….

…….Is he?

The palace looms closer, a breathtaking monument of pale beauty.

And if so….how in the wide world will she ever find him?

Cyran runs a hand through his thick mass of russet hair as his long strides make quick work of the pathway towards the training hall. It’s late evening and the young, freshly-minted knights are at the end of their training and he needs to make sure everything went well without him there. He knows Lucian is more than capable of leading them through their drills but Cyran has a responsibility to make sure. They are all under his charge.

Entering the hall, he sees several of the knights laughing in a corner. Some are sitting and catching their breath, others are pushing the heavy sandbags they sometimes train with back into their storage room. What he sees reassures him. They look tired and sore, yet satisfied, faces bright with the feeling of accomplishment a tough training session will leave behind.

He’s about to go look for Lucian, expecting a full report when he notices several of the knights standing by the wooden table at the far end of the training circle, the one usually covered with straps for shields and rope and other odds and ends. They’re smiling, far too widely to be discussing anything so mundane as weaponry. Several are chewing. He approaches the table, greeted by his men with smiles and respectful nods. Immediately he notices the tin: it’s round and black, covered with decorative golden swirls.

“What’s this?” He glances towards the first knight at his left, a tall lad with sandy blond hair.

“They were brought here by an Obsidian servant. She said they were a present for us.”

Cyran frowns, a skeptical look on his face as he reaches inside the tin for one of the golden brown cookies.

“And you didn’t think to–” He was going to ask if they thought accepting gifts from strangers was a good idea when the scent hits him, cutting through the sweat and musk of tired men.

The warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger.

He goes still, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Could it be…..

Something in his face hushes the men around him. They watch, curious as Cyran lifts the cookie and takes a bite.

The man who sees everything, ever watchful, closes his eyes as he chews and the knights are transfixed by the absolute stillness that has overtaken their leader.

And then those eyes open and something in them has begun to burn, bright and alive.

The other half of the cookie falls to the dusty ground as he turns on his heel and, practically jogging, exits the training area, leaving behind the half-eaten biscuit and a slew of surprised faces.

The rose gardens are somehow even more beautiful in the twilight of evening. The red petals seem to have darkened, shedding their bright rose-red for a sultry scarlet. Shadows emerge from the trimmed hedges, stretching across the winding stone pathways, giving a visitor like Emma glimpses of hidden benches and secret dirt paths leading into clandestine corners of the gardens.

She has taken several of these more narrow, less-trodden paths, not at all afraid of getting lost. Her heart is a bird, flitting between dark branches, full of a nervous, tightly-wound energy she can’t quite explain.

As the sky darkens to a deep navy blue and the first stars open their eyes, Emma pauses in front of a gray stone fountain. Two swans, nuzzling their beaks together, bodies curved towards one another as a blossoming flower rises above them, water spraying outward in celebration. She tilts her head, the romantic in her sighing at the way the two swans perfectly mirror one another, two halves of a whole, two souls in perfect harmony. So enchanted is she by the fountain that she doesn’t hear the footfall on the path, doesn’t notice the man who has stopped several meters away from where she is standing, the sight of her freezing him in his tracks.

“Emma.”

She jumps at the deep voice, her eyes wide and dark as she turns towards the sound. The owner of said voice is standing, half in shadow, at the place where the small path to the fountain begins, beneath a shadowy arch of crimson roses. She is so startled, she doesn’t even register that he has said her name.

“Oh….s'il te plaît, excuse-moi,” she says quickly, doing her best to remember the phrases of the common language spoken in Rhodolite. “J'espère que ça va…” She trails off, trying to remember how to say she hopes she is allowed to be here but the man takes another step closer, leaving the blanket of shadows and stepping into the fading light.

Even the dusky hue of evening cannot hide the red of his hair.

A gasp as soft as the flutter of a bird’s wing escapes her. The young boy she knew juxtaposed against this tall, broad man before her sends her heart into a tailspin. Her hand flies to her mouth as she takes him in. She sees the same bright light of recognition and admiration and overwhelming emotion plain as day on his beautiful face.

“Cyran?” The word is a whisper, a breathless repetition of the name she has kept in her prayers for decades.

His eyes never leave her, almost as if he has the power to hold her there with his gaze, to keep her from vanishing into the realm of his dreams where she has lived for so long. Slowly, he reaches up and loosens the laces at the top of his tunic. His hand slides inside and when it emerges, he is holding a small square of cloth. As he slowly opens it, her heart falters.

It’s white, with pale blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the edges.

He holds it out to her, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes. That handkerchief has lived next to his heart, in an inner pocket, one he has sewn into every shirt he has ever owned since the day he watched her leave.

“I think…..this belongs to you, Brown Eyes.”

She chokes back a sob, unable to contain the thunderstorm of emotion coursing through her and runs to him, falling into his arms as naturally as a willow bends to the wind, tears falling freely down her cheeks. Cyran wraps his arms around her, sheltering her, holding her the way he has imagined a thousand times. His throat burns with all the words he has ached to say, all those sleepless nights spent remembering the lilt of her smile, the music of her laughter, the bittersweet taste of her kiss.

Emma squeezes her eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him, at once so familiar and yet so strange. Her arms wind around his waist as she presses herself against him, drinking in the sensation of his body on hers.

This is Cyran….her Cyran…..her….

A thought pierces her heart as she suddenly steps away from him, eyes wide, still so beautiful as they glimmer with the remnants of her tears.

“Oh…I…I didn’t mean…..you could be married. I shouldn’t have-”

His laughter is coarse, rough with emotion, a roll of rushing water as it careens over the lip of a cliff.

“As if I could ever love anyone else.”

Love…..

As if summoned by the very word, the moon itself parts the soft gray clouds, flooding the small section of the garden with silvery light. The tinkling of the fountain fills the momentary silence.

Cyran’s cheeks suddenly flush, a hot mixture of embarrassment and panic overriding the elation of the previous moment.

“I…..I don’t mean to presume of course that you feel the same. It has been a long time and…..” He trails off, wincing. Fluster is such an uncharacteristic state of being for Cyran. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I–”

His words are cut off as Emma launches herself back into his arms, hugging him fiercely.

“Please, don’t apologize.” She tilts her head up to look at him, still in awe of how she sees the young man he was and the handsome man he has become in his beautiful eyes, in his exquisite face. “It has always been you.”

Cyran drags air into his lungs, hardly able to believe he isn’t dreaming. His rough fingers capture her chin, his thumb running over the sensitive skin just under her lower lip.

Slowly, he leans down as she stretches upwards, eager and nearly trembling with emotion.

He kisses her, his hand still cupping her face. Gently his mouth moves over hers as he tells her a wordless story of longing, of a bruised heart that learned to somehow keep beating.

He kisses her, a strong arm pulling her closer, his lips and tongue weaving the tale of a young soldier who never forgot the girl with the tender heart and radiant spirit. The soldier who dreamed of her face during his darkest nights and longed for her laughter on days of sunshine.

She meets him, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke, sliding her palms along his broad shoulders, clutching him as she answers his tale, confessing without words how he has never left her heart. How his smile was her light in times of worry and despair. How seeing him again has been her northern star from the moment of parting.

Only the moon knows how long they stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s yearning.

When they finally part, Cyran rests his forehead against hers, still keeping her tightly in his embrace. He may never let go again.

“You’re….in the employ of Prince Gilbert. I am here.” He frowns ever so slightly as he brushes several loose strands of hair away from Emma’s charmingly flushed cheek. “This could get complicated.”

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Yes…..but we’ll figure it out.”

And suddenly he is carried back in time to an evening when her eyes shone just as brightly, just as excitedly, a young girl with something to give a young boy, a homemade cookie, an offering of love.

“Together.”

Her voice echoes across the years, that word wrapping itself around his battered heart, a balm, a blessing.

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes, tenderly stroking the silk of her hair, and answers her now as he did back then.

“Together.”

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @wordycheeseblob

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri cyran #cyran rose #ikemen cyran #ikepri cyril #cyril rose #ikemen cyril

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ikesimpleton · 2 months

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A/N: This is an entry for my and @lorei-writes Shapes of Love creation challenge. It was originally a spicy holiday prompt that I retooled a bit.

This fic's type of love: Eros with a touch of Mania

Gilbert x Reader

WC: ~1k

It is your first ball in Obsidian, the first ball since you made the decision to leave Rhodolite behind and remain here, at Gilbert’s side. Your nerves are tangled, electric under your skin. You want to make a good impression on those you know he works closely with. Or those he has a close eye on. You’re no longer a foreign guest but have been declared his consort, a position of considerable power. You hope tonight, at the winter ball, you will be able to earn the respect of those who may still be skeptical of the union.....well, secretly skeptical since you know Gilbert would have the head of anyone who dared even breathe a word against you.

You take a deep drink from your glass of chilled wine, reminding yourself that this is a celebration. It is Obsidian's final embrace of winter in all its beauty in the face of an encroaching spring. And you have done your best to dress for the occasion. Turning, you face the full-length iron-wrought mirror that leans against the wall of your dressing room. Your gown is a confection of black lace overlaying soft, shimmering silver. Black gloves, so fine they are almost transparent, stop just beyond your elbows and the smooth skin of your shoulders is bare. Black roses hang from your ears and your hair is pinned up by the pearlescent hair combs shaped like crescent moons that Gilbert gifted you the evening you told him you were staying. A wide, black silk ribbon is tied around your neck, hiding the dark blossoms left by his insistent mouth this morning. If anyone could see underneath the voluminous skirt of your beautiful dress, they would notice matching love-bites in almost symmetrical rings around your thighs and hips.

You’re just smoothing down the bodice when the door to the room opens and Gilbert, a vision in black and gold, steps in, the crisp, chill scent of winter following him wherever he goes. And although many would think you insane, you find yourself smiling at his presence. “There you are.” You fuss a moment with one of your hair clips, adjusting it ever so slightly. “I hope you like the dress? I know the tailor made it according to your design and I think she did an excellent job. But I know you’re very particular….”

You glance at him through the mirror and your words wither and die, dropping like fallen petals. It takes you a moment to recover, your voice and breath robbed by what you see. He has not said a word. He has not moved a centimeter since entering. His leather-gloved hand is still wrapped around the golden handle of the closed door. But there is hunger clearly etched into every line of his tensed body. It flickers in the deep red of his eye, a flame born the moment he entered. Slowly, oh so slowly, he lets go of the door handle and crosses the brocade carpeting towards you.

……why is your heart fluttering so recklessly in your chest, a butterfly trapped under crystal glass, erratic and beautiful and wild….

He comes to a stop behind you, staring into the mirror at your reflection. His gloved hands slide up your bare arms, up until they rest on your shoulders. There is possession in his tight grip, something dancing the border of discomfort as he drinks in the sight of you, held in place by the press of his fingers.

“Oh Häschen….this won’t do.” One hand slides up higher still, his fingers curling around the sensitive nape of your neck. His head tilts to one side, regarding the reversed image of you both in the glass. “You can’t go out there, like this.” He lowers his head, catching the tip of your ear with his sharp, white teeth before whispering. “This sight is for me and me alone.” His voice drips with dominion, rasps with barely-reined in restraint. Your chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, pressing against the black lace of your gown's sweetheart neckline.

He watches you for a moment, drinking in the paradox of your body, so perfectly still in his grasp and yet beneath the surface, chaos. Your blood courses frantically through your veins, pumped by a heart gone wild, lungs gone turbulent. Leaning against your back, he reaches around, holding his hands in front of you and very slowly removes one soft black leather glove. You’re hypnotized by the revelation of each lithe finger.

“Maybe…..”, he murmurs, tossing the glove aside where it falls listlessly to the floor, “Yes…maybe like this….” And you feel the cool kiss of his fingers touch the ribbon at your neck. It comes undone, a snake unwinding. Gilbert wraps it around his wrist as he thoughtfully studies the marks he left upon your skin this morning, in the gray, predawn light of his bedroom. “Like this, you are marked as mine. Maybe it would not make a difference who lays eyes on you if this is the first thing they see.”

He truly sounds like a man puzzling out a problem. Your mouth goes dry at the thought of being so brazen in front of all of Obsidian’s nobility and important citizens. Heat blossoms in your body, rises to your cheeks as you realize the idea of showing the world how he claimed you…is not unpleasant.

He can see the way your skin flushes, the gleam in your eyes and his breath catches in his chest where something hard and hot is born. “No….”, he whispers savagely, his blazing eye holding your gaze as captive as his hands are your hips. “No one else gets this. You are not meant to be seen looking like this by anyone else.” He has solved his puzzle.

The world shifts as you are gathered into his arms, held by a strength fueled by desire, by infatuation, by greed. He carries you away from the door with its golden handle, deeper into the shadows of the dressing room, towards the black velvet chaise longue in the back corner where he lays you down, covers you with his long body, his mouth already hungrily claiming yours, swallowing any protests you may try to make about waiting guests and making appearances.

Soon you won't have enough breath to even attempt forming words. All that you will be able to do is give in to the furious storm of his desire, bending like a reed under his voracious touch, his endless onslaught of exquisite, stinging kisses.

The ball, the guests, your beautiful new gown soon to be pooled on the floor in a heap of black lace and silver….all willingly, wantonly, blissfully forgotten.

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @joiedecombat @ozalysss

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri gilbert #gilbert von obsidian #ikemen gilbert #shapesoflovecc #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #otome fanfic

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ikesimpleton · 2 months

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Sugar and Spice - Chevalier Michel x Reader (Ikemen Prince)

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day!

Pairing: Chevalier Michel x Reader

Prompt: A day in the life of Chevalier and his future queen

Word Count: 1571

Tags: fluff with a bit of spice at the very end

You awoke to an unexpected weight on your body; somehow, in the middle of the night, Chevalier had decided that your chest would make an excellent pillow. Smiling softly, you gazed upon your love – with his eyes closed, and the white cotton sheets draped gently around his torso, he looked like an ethereal angel.

He was the most beautiful person you ever laid eyes upon.

Shifting in the bed to make yourself more comfortable, you twined your fingers in his silken strands; his naturally blonde hair was radiant in the sun’s rays like a regal crown atop his head.

Who were you to deny the king a few extra minutes of sleep? Chevalier had no meetings that morning, and with the knowledge that Clavis would meticulously handle everything in the morning, it was easy to let your eyes drift closed and allow your body to rest with your love.

The morning flew by, as it usually did – life in the palace as a royal was fast-paced and always kept you busy. Before you knew it, afternoon had arrived.

You returned to your shared bedroom to change your clothes for afternoon tea with the wives of the visiting dignitaries. Stepping into the room, you froze momentarily, surprised to find Chevalier seated at his desk.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you this afternoon.” Making your way over to him with a spring in your step, your heart sang with joy at this unexpected surprise.

Placing his quill down on his desk, he turned his attention to you, snaking his arms around your waist and pulling you onto his lap. Cradling your head in the palm of his hand, he pressed his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. His kiss was softer than usual, his displays of affection becoming more frequent and more comfortable the longer you were together as a couple.

Breaking the kiss, he cupped your cheek in his hand, his gloved finger clumsy as he stroked your skin. His awkward motions tugged at your heartstrings; you would always find them endearing, a reminder that you were his first, and only, love.

“The meeting ended early. I wanted to catch up on some paperwork before the next one.” While you were entertaining the wives, Chevalier and his faction would be in trade meetings all afternoon with their husbands.

“Don’t let me disturb you then,” you quipped playfully as you remained seated on his lap, his arm still wrapped around your waist. His hand splayed across your torso, not letting you go, even if you tried.

He scoffed, as if that was even a possibility for someone like him.

But then his expression softened, melting into something tender as he gazed into your eyes, taking a moment to read every thought written on your face. He then picked up his quill, his attention returning to his work as if the last few minutes never happened.

You watched him work, always amazed at his level of dedication and perfection, his attention to detail incredible. He was truly amazing in every way possible. And once upon a time, in the not so distant past, you were afraid that you would never measure up to his greatness. To his expectations.

But he saw something different in you. He saw someone who stood up to him. He saw someone who didn’t back down in the face of fear. He saw someone who strived to meet his level of expectations. Not only meeting that, but exceeding it.

And along the way, somehow, someway, you fell in love with one another.

Lacing your fingers with his, your back rested against his broad chest as you sighed softly, soaking in every moment of this serene afternoon, so very happy to be the one he chose to stand by his side, now and forever.

You were the first to return to your bedroom. But that was okay, it gave you a few minutes to change your clothes and get ready for dinner with Chevalier.

Not long after you arrived, a servant knocked at the door, signaling that dinner had arrived. You greeted them at the door with a kind smile, asking them how their day was. After making small talk while arranging the dishes, they bid you good evening before leaving the room.

Sitting in your seat at the table, you poured yourself a cup of tea – no milk, no sugar. The herbal tea was fragrant, with a small hint of roses; warm on your tongue, you went over the events of the day as you sipped your beverage.

Afternoon tea was a complete success. With Yves’ assistance, you baked a cake that incorporated sweet berries native to their land with the slightest hint of rose and vanilla. Your guests were so impressed you went to all the trouble of sourcing their favorite fruits, they praised your hard work. They would be leaving after breakfast tomorrow morning, so you still had some more work to do before earning a few days to relax before the next wave of visitors arrived.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t hear Chevalier enter the room. His smile was soft as he approached you, pressing a reverent kiss on the crown of your hair.

Your heart warmed as he took his seat across from you. It might not seem like much to others, but this nightly routine – a kiss hello before sharing a meal together – was something you looked forward to everyday. Whenever Chevalier was called away, and your routine disturbed, it made that day you were reunited that much more special.

“I heard your day went well,” Chevalier said, the corners of his lips curving into a pleased smile as he rested his utensils on his plate. You raised your eyebrows in surprise, causing him to laugh. “The ladies you hosted for tea earlier told their husbands all about the wonderful time they had at tea. All thanks to their hostess, the future queen of Rhodolite.” Chevalier paused; Picking up his teacup, his long fingers curled elegantly around its handle, he took a long sip of his drink, allowing his words to sink in for a moment before continuing.

“Because of your hard work entertaining our guests, your attention to detail carrying out your every task, you helped me in so many ways. The wives were so impressed by you, that they told their husbands. Who in turn, were more than generous when negotiating our trade deals. Thus putting Rhodolite in favorable relations with their country.”

Chevalier sat back in his seat, enjoying the change of expressions on your face as you realized what he was saying.

“Be proud of your achievements. Rhodolite is lucky to have you as its future queen,” he said softly. He reached across the table, his grip clumsy as he took your hand in his. “I am lucky to have you as my queen.”

After a steamy, shared bath, you and Chevalier retired for the evening in bed. You snuggled under the plush covers, your body close to his, seeking his warmth.

Chevalier must have read your mind as he rolled over onto his side, his smile wicked as he gazed into your eyes, his pale blue eyes darkening with desire. He dragged his hand down along your bare arm, his palm rough against your soft skin.

“I think…” he whispered, his voice low and husky, “you earned a reward tonight.”

“What kind of reward?” you whispered back, tilting your face forward, your lips so close to his.

He pounced on you like a tiger and its prey. He rolled his body on top of yours in one fluid movement, pinning your body to the bed underneath him. Heat radiated from his body as he pressed his hips against yours. With one hand, he grabbed both of your wrists and held them above your head.

He dipped his head down to yours, his long bangs tickling your skin. His mouth hovered over yours, his breath hot on yours. Your lips parted, awaiting a kiss that never came. His lips curled in a teasing smirk as he pulled away, his mouth instead fastening to the column of your neck. His teeth grazed your skin in a biting kiss, a low moan escaping your mouth as he sucked on your skin.

You tilted your head, further exposing your neck to Chevalier, your body tingling with pleasure. His mouth roamed, leaving a trail of kisses on your skin that would surely blossom pale pink tomorrow.

He flicked his gaze to meet yours, his tongue darting out to trace your décolletage. You let out a small yelp as he nipped your delicate skin harder than usual.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his tongue laving your sensitive skin, “I’ll be more gentle.”

“Don’t you dare,” you hissed as he removed his mouth from your body, your hands struggling to break free of his grasp.

He lifted his head, his pale blue eyes gazing into yours, the look on his face enough to steal your breath away. You couldn’t read his mind like he could read yours. But you were learning to read his subtle expressions. And this look on his face right now was filled with such a deep love and affection for you.

“I love you, Chevalier.”

He let out a haughty huff of air, his smile smug as he covered your mouth in his, finally granting you the kiss he denied you earlier.

Tagging: @redheadkittys @alixennial @rhodolitesroseforclavis @chaosangel767 @queengiuliettafirstlady @queen-dahlia @ikehoe @ikemen-writer @talfollowingstuff @kpop-and-otome @kisara-16 @altairring @lucyw260 @lordsisterxotome @umi-adxhira @crypticbibliophile @lancelotscloak @scorchieart @tele86 @nightfoxqueen @melodiousramblings @wendolrea @aceuuuu @randonauticrap @aria-chikage @nightghoul381 @judejazza @maries-gallery @xbalayage @xenokiryu @alydra @drachonia @ranhanabi777 @silver-dahlia @lunakaa @portrait-ninja @sh0jun

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