It is always night upon plutonian hill, where the crows lurk and watch, where protection is not given unless he decides it must be. And as your hand, cold and shaking, pushes open the old rotting door, the manor is abandoned. Or at least, it seems that way.
༺❘✦ Manor Grand Doors
“Come close, come close. Rest ye weary bones beside the fires keep—Thank the crows that keep hard and pray the Manor is happy.”
Does he like boobs or butts? Just ask him!
Heartslabyul x fem!reader | All characters are 18+ | suggestive, objectification
Riddle Rosehearts
As often as he turns up his nose in refusal to answering something so vulgar... Riddle loves boobs!
Riddle usually claims to have no preference when it comes to physical assets. But that's not true. He's just trying to be modest. He was raised to be a gentleman no matter the circumstance!
He doesn't have a defined size that he prefers but this love of breasts would stem from his mommy issues...
He does like resting his head on your chest when he gets the chance. Even when you give him a hug and the soft mounds press against him it's like a fire ignites in his chest.
Sometimes Riddle's eyes will wander down to your chest during a conversation. Especially if you wear a tight top or thin material...
Riddle can sometimes see your bra. Making mental note of the color, design, style, ect. Of course after getting an eyeful; he'll do the gentlemanly thing and offer you something to cover up.
The sight of your chest should only be for him.
Trey Clover
Trey usually laughs at this question when he gets asked, but... Trey loves butts!
Trey loves when you eat. Especially when all the weight you may gain goes straight to your hips, thighs, ass, ect.
He has a trad male mentality when it comes to the assets on a woman that he likes. Child bearing lower body... Thank the Seven. He blesses everything he bakes for you.
He would like if your butt was bigger but his love for you isn't defined by that size!~!
He tries not to be obvious about it being his favorite part of you. Sometimes he rests his hands on your hips, or he gently pats your ass when walking past you...
Sometimes he can't help but let his eyes wander when he walks behind you. He never makes any wild comments, he keeps them to himself or uses it for masturbation material for later.
You start to figure Trey out when you realize how often he likes feeling up your butt during foreplay. That and Trey likes doggy style during sex. Getting to hold your hip and sometimes using your hair like a leash.
Cater Diamond
Cater is usually indifferent about this kind of thing, and yet... Cater loves butts!
Cater thought he was more interested in boobs but his sexuality helped him figure it out since he has no real attraction to a persons gender. And more often than not; breasts are a female asset.
The first time he had sex and the more he watched porn the more he realized that he liked butts of all kinds. And with a variety of porn and partners he got to experience it too.
Cater doesn't really care about the size or shape but he likes cute and small ones! It fits nicely in his hands and he can make a heart with his fingers on the soft flesh.
He wouldn't hide the fact he likes butts if you ask him but he might sugar coat it in case you feel insecure. You shouldn't feel insecure though he wants to be inside you either way.
You can wear matching underwear with him and take pictures. It'll be cute trust him... Get matching underwear with him or you're getting temporarily removed from his 'close friends' on MagiCam.
He does gas you up when the two of you are intimate. Sometimes asking for pictures with a pleading emoji or a string of hearts. Cater never wants you to be uncomfortable but he wants to help you get comfortable if possible.
Ace Trappola
Ace is pretty shameless when you ask him about this... Ace loves boobs!
Porn is all he knows when it comes to preference in women's assets... But the more he gets to know women he realizes what wonders the world holds for him.
He doesn't really like bigger boobs nor does he care for them. He actually likes smaller ones that fit in his hand! Modest size or average is good.
He likes playing with your nipples during sex and he commits the image of your chest to memory. Having small boobs and asking for a tit job is amazing for him. Why you may ask?
Because it makes his dick look bigger. If you have big boobs it engulfs him and he fears cumming faster. But with small boobs it's almost like an ego boost for him and he likes the sight of your face when he rubs his dick between the valley as you press your tits together for him.
He does like locker room talk but he never talks about you to his friends. Commenting on porn stars and trading links with friends but for the sake of conversation. He loves you a lot and he doesn't want his friends to see you in a sexual way.
You're his girlfriend, not theirs.
Deuce Spade
Deuce says he loves your 'personality'... Deuce loves boobs!
He usually avoids sexual conversations with friends just because he clams up and gets bashful over it. Deuce has very limited interaction with women other than his mother.
He does watch porn of course and he does notice where his focus drifts to in the videos.
He likes big boobies! Deuce can't help the sight of cleavage and how his primate brain activates. Please keep wearing that bodycon dress with a low cut top.
Deuce will always say he loves your personality and your smile and how smart you are but deep down he wants to suck your nipples so bad. Please let him palm your tits during foreplay and play with your nipples.
He wouldn't really be into titjobs/paizuri he just likes massaging them in his hands and making you feel good. But if you aren't into it he can adapt.
Even if you have a smaller size, that won't change the fact he wants to leave hickies all over your chest.
Im going through old AU fics, cause I've decided that's what i wanna focus on writing but I quite literally cannot remember where I was going with half those stories 🧍🏾♂️
Is there an AU of mine, you would want me to continue?
Okay, more on the demon au, cause i completely forgot my original plot, but building off of what I have already written, I have forged a new plot from scratch. Luckily it won't change any of the two previous posts, but hopefully my writing has gotten better and more coherent so stay tuned for that
Im going through old AU fics, cause I've decided that's what i wanna focus on writing but I quite literally cannot remember where I was going with half those stories 🧍🏾♂️
Is there an AU of mine, you would want me to continue?
Im going through old AU fics, cause I've decided that's what i wanna focus on writing but I quite literally cannot remember where I was going with half those stories 🧍🏾♂️
Is there an AU of mine, you would want me to continue?
| DID I FORGET HOW TO WRITE THEM. | YES. |
| IMMA FIGURE IT OUT. |
His fingers press against the straightened blankets, the perfectly propped pillows, and the tip of his fingers traces the ruffled edges. His knee sinks into the mattress, ruining the perfect side of his bed, but he doesn't care, not a lot anyway, not enough to make him stop. The tips of his fingers graze the soft flesh of your arm, blue-greyish eyes gliding across your peaceful face, only half visible, the other buried into plush pillows.
Your side of the bed is crinkled, his hand settles on your shoulder—blankets pulled to your chest, he slides to the curve of your neck—the pillows fluffed and folded in such a way that only you could do in your sleep. Your body shifts, further into the bed, more content, warmer. He can't fight the smile that spreads across his lips. And the sadness of having to leave before you wake. Just a few hours, but it feels longer.
He drags his knuckles up to your face, across your forehead—hot, but normal—he pulls away, leaning down and grazing his lips against your face. He feels his face grow warm as he leans away suddenly, his lashes fluttering and a soft pout settling on his lips.
The bed dips as he moves away, fixing his crisp white collar, tightening his bowtie as he passes the bedroom mirror, catching his pink-tinted cheeks. He blows out a rush of air, fixing the ends of his hair, before forcing himself to be still, straightening his back, and pressing his hands tightly to his sides. He has to appear serious; lawyers are serious. His eyes drift back to the bed, back to you.
OMG your latest Wally fic is so good I'm obsessed!! I'm not that good with words but I have an scenario request! Soo plsplspls bear with me! What about Wally x reader who's also a puppet and been member of this beautiful peaceful community from the start like all of them. But the reader gained consciousness not so long ago. Reader is freaking out they don't love Wally anymore they don't remember him and their love for them and they also don't want to, they just want to go away. Wally on the other hand in fact does, he's always been conscious one in the neighbourhood and he loves them very much!! maybe even a bit too obsessed with them? He doesn't understand how the reader can't remember their sweet lovely memories of being together. He's very desperate and pushy with them he wants the reader to remember! To love him like they used to (BONUS ANGST POINTS IF THEY ARE MARRIED!!!!!!!!) also you could finish it however you want (angst, fluff, dark idk I'm not good w this) thanks!
A/N. A very very old ask, I accidentally deleted. I havent played nor read any Wally in a long long time. So. I was going off solely what I remembered. I also have some old old old twst content I might freshen up.
ʚїɞ | Jul.06th.2024 | —K |
ʚїɞ| Wally Darling | Gn!Reader
ʚїɞ | Old Story | Self-Aware | Yandere | No Chance of Escape |
ʚїɞ | Synopsis: You live here and you will love it. |
It's all yours.
Yours. That which belongs to you. The house is yours, with colorful walls, and colorful doors that practically sing when they open and birds that chirp with a lovely lovely tune. You liked it before. Woke every morning to the smiling sun, happy to hum along. Until one day.
You feel out of place. Feeling the wire strings that poke and prob into your skin, and move you, that make you step, wave, dance, bow. Your face in an always expressive happy smile, always happy, always glad. Always. Always. Always. It's harder to ignore day by day. Harder to ignore how aware you are, how conscious you are of your existence, but them not.
Julie who rather plays the day away, humming and laughing happily with such a smile as she plays hopscotch, always begging you to play and happily hugging you whenever you agreed. Which was all the time, until recently. You began to reject her smiling invitations, not wanting to play. And she would merely tilt her head in surprise before letting out a happily laugh, "Tomorrow then!!" And she goes on her merry way.
Eddie who always has mail, who's always on the move. Delivery after delivery. Letter after letter. Art craft after art craft, folding colored paper, gluing on sticky glitter. Always providing solutions through hard work. Always asking you to accompany him on his deliveries, and how could you not. It always led to such fun, to crazy adventures. Until you reject him, watching his brows raise and eyes widen, before he let's out a honest flustered laugh. "That's alright! Next time!"
Sally who's always performing. Always acting in front of her colored curtain. Or instructing you to act and how whatever theatrical scene she Invisioned, always asking you to join her fantasy world. And of course you accepted. Putting on a special outfit, doing your hair and makeup and preforming for you neighbors. But like the others, you reject her offer. To which she tilts her heard, before giving you a grand shining bow, "All actors need a break from the stage! We'll play later!"
Play. To them. This is a world of fun, a world of joy, happiness, where the sun never sets, so the day never ends. The curtain never stops, the letters are always delivered, the game never ends..
"It's yours."
And no matter how you look at it, no matter the angle, the glasses you wear, the color of the lenses, it doesn't change your feelings. You hate everyone here. You hate how deluded they are, how happy they are, how they live without fear without concern.
And as you stand in front of your home, clutching the painted yellow key, a house designed after you. Made to your exact liking. At least it was made to you, the you who didn't know. Who didn't feel the—the constant weight of merely existing in a world so unnatural. Shoved into the box of sickening happiness — of Wally's Darling. The one who without fail was always beside him, always his muse. You can't stand the thought of him, it was all designed. All made up.
"Is the house so pretty that you have to admire it so? I do think it's gorgeous, it's made for you after all."
Hands clasped behind his back, lazy smile resting upon his lips. Unbothered smile and unbothered eyes, he knew you'd be here. You can't force a smile when you see him, instead turning your gaze to the ground, which makes his eyes widen. Shoes clicking across the paved ground and sitting beside you. "Do you feel alrighty, it's not often I see you with your smile, you always smile for me, give me a smile, love."
He nudges you, resting his elbow into his knees, propping his face in the palm of his hands. Copying your closed in form, silently mocking you.
"I don't love you.... "
This gets his attention. His usually lax expression changes into on of utter confusion, before he tries to smile, and laugh. "Silly silly. I'll forgive you this one time, but some jokes are cr—"
"I'm not joking."
He pauses for a moment, sitting up, your watching his face tremble, that smile he wears wants to disappear. He can't. But his eyes seem darker, and his voice seems different. "You couldn't possibly be serious."
You clutch your fist, the key digs into your palm. You try to build your resolve. "I am." Wally shakes his head roughly, he doesn't look at you, the world seems to tremble.
"Jokes like that are cruel." He doesn't raise his voice, he wants too. You want to leave. You're stuck to the bench. You can't leave.
"I don't—I want—I can't be here. This isn't—"
He says your name firmly, forcing your words to become trapped within your throat. He hasn't said your name. He never says your name. It's cold. Have you been cold before. Everyone seems to be watching you, staring at you. His eyes are so black and big. He forces a smile and head tilt.
"Lovely. I'll forgive you this one time." He holds up one of his fingers and rises to his feet, standing—towering—in front of you. He stares—down—at you. "You gotta remember we don't make jokes like that to our friends. Nor hurt our—your—special person. It hurts their—my—feelings." He smiles and holds his hand out to you.
His eyes stare.
It's all yours.
You place your hand in his and rise to your feet. He stares. Making your way to the colorful door of "your" house. It has your name gorgeous painted.
It's yours.
That which belongs to you. The house is yours, with color walls, and colorful doors that practically sing when they open and birds that chirp with a lovely lovely tune. He stares.
It's always yours. Always. Always. Always. It's harder to ignore, harder to ignore how aware you are, how conscious you are of your existence.
And how conscious he is of yours.
ⓒ 2024 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.
✦ | A/N: Slowly trying to ease myself back into writing fanfic, with this. Perhaps work on some AU stuff or Yan!Kalim and OCs, but lemme start off slow |
Perhaps I’ve already met my soulmate and loved them as much as one could love.
Like wilting flowers that blossom then fade into nothing, unable to remain within his palms and turns into bitter sand. I loved them with my everything. They were mine and mine alone. My soulmate. With a love so passionate and so burning, everything that could be so right, was right. And arguments just as heated, yet filled with so much love and desire that the fight turned into nothing between heated kisses.
A soulmate with an expiration date.
There is no doubt that they were my soulmate… His hands shove into pockets and angry goodbyes are given, tears unshed until alone, anger that fizzled into heartache. He sighs, blowing out a puff of hot air. Days molding into months, and months into years. Dates that lead to nowhere and paths that truly had no meaning.
Perhaps he’ll move on.. Maybe one day, in every person he meets he’ll stop trying to find his soulmate in those new faces. Stop searching for their features, their laugh, their humor, their everything. Maybe he'll let go of the love he lost, and find something—someone to stop his desperate search for a piece he lost and can never get back.
“Leona.”
You call his name, your voice so clear and true, so different yet so enjoyable that the lion beastman eyes flutter open, awake from his nap. You are so different from them, for if they are loud, you are silent, and if they were silent, you were loud. He thought he’d never find love in you. Someone who shares no resemblance, no traits, nothing that existed within his soulmate. You are you, and they are them.
He lets out a yawn, rolling onto his side to watch you talk about whatever you wanted, moving around your shared bedroom with familiarity. Picking through his clothes that he laid haphazardly when he got undressed, tossing them into the hamper without bothering to look. Actions you've done before several times. He watches you walk, the sound of your feet pressing against the cold floors—floors you often complain about whenever you get up. There’s an invisible smile across his lips, so very familiar with this scene, to the point everyday he looks forward to it. Waiting eagerly to hear your voice, to watch you go on about your day as a silent observer.
I’ve already met my soulmate and loved them as much as one could love. He calls your name, tearing your gaze from the bathroom mirror, toothbrush hanging out of your mouth and toothpaste decorating your lips. You give a muffled ‘yes’ and the lion beastman can’t help but laugh under his breath, whatever he planned to say, he keeps it to himself. He finds love in the little moments—the simplicity that came without a rush, something he never enjoyed before.
There is no doubt that they were my soulmate…
Yet you. So different and unique you. There is no timer, no race to make every moment memorable, no chance that you’ll leave him. This is not fleeting. Your hugs do not hold fear nor restraint that one day you might not hold him again. Your eyes stare so openly honest and hold no hint of regret. There is no end.
In truth, it is a interesting thing. I loved them with my everything. And they loved me with their everything.. but what if I was nothing...
Sometimes he is nothing. Several feet from where he wants to be, from where he should be—when I am nothing, you will love me. I know you will.
And together we are something.
ⓒ 2023 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.
✡︎ Synopsis: It started with a simple fairy tale, the devolved into a obbesassion, the became an illness. One that has no true cure.
| One | Two | Three | Four | Five |
“A true love kiss that seals is binding. Ties to lovers together. No matter the odds.”
— Childhood Fairy Tale
The thick pages of the large hard-covered book are heavy in his small hands, placed heavily in his lap, as his wide garnet red eyes dart quickly across the old, yellowed pages, reading the old fading ink. He hears the gentle rustling of wind that dances through wooden wind chimes, creating gentle clattering as he focuses on the pages. Lips a gap in utter awe with the old fairy tale.
The young heir is tucked away in a dimly lit corner of the ancient library, sitting crisscross beneath a dust-covered wooden desk, using a long wax candle, placed upon a golden hand-held candlestick, using the gentle orange flame to light the small corner of where he sat and give him the ability to see. Still dressed in his silk pajamas and barefoot as he sits upon the plush velvet cushion, one that he dragged from his bedroom with the help of his faithful servant and closest friend, Jamil Viper, who has currently disappeared somewhere in the library, though Kalim, knows he’s always near.
He always is.
Yet that isn't what the young heir cares for, not at this moment. He wants to fall in love like the prince in his story does. Who is so kind and sweet, who gives to the poor, who sees the good in everyone. The prince in his tale showers his love in gold and jewels, and dances within sunlit days and cool moonlit nights away. Who holds them close and seals their love with a kiss. Yes, this is what he desires more than anything.
To get married to his own love. To his princess.
══════ •✦• ════════════ •✦• ══════
“Shall I have you for all my own! Yes, I shall slay dragons, fight demons, and save you for all you are! Because I love you! And what is stronger than love?"
— Childhood Fairy Tale
“Do you think soulmates exist?”
Kalim walks along the towered wall, arms outstretched as he balances, placing one foot in front of the other, with Jamil by his side, holding the young heir’s belongings as they walk around the large vibrant courtyard, wasting time before Kalim's next school lesson, which is history. One of Kalim's least favorite, since the tutor is quite rude.
The large grassy courtyard is filled with unique plants--ranging from distant flowers, that fill the air with a rich fragrant aroma, and lush green bushes that hid colorful berries, to elegant and giving fruit trees, that Kalim occasionally takes from, filling his stomach with fresh oranges and plums.
“I don't see why they don't exist.” Jamil’s answer is simple, honest—like he hadn't bothered to think about it more than a mere moment, allowing Kalim to indulge in his fantasies, while he focused on making sure Kalim didn't topple off the stone wall and hurt himself. Which he knows Kalim wouldn't care about, wanting to immediately visit the palace doctor, desiring to be spoiled and given a handful of sweet candy for listening so well. Obviously trying to avoid the stern history tutor. While Jamil knows the doctor will send him to be scolded by his parents for being so careless about the young successor's health.
Which is something Jamil would rather avoid.
Charcoal grey eyes occasionally glance over, watching the heir’s feet skip and balance on the wall, occasionally wobbling, which nearly gave the young retainer a heart attack.
“I wonder where my soulmate is! She just has to be thinking about me!”
Not paying attention to Jamil's clear nervousness and annoyance with constantly having to divide his attention, Kalim continues hopping and bounding along the old wall carelessly. White hair shifting in the mild breeze as the loose clothing he wore sways and is pulled by the wind. Earning a delighted laugh from the young successor follows the wind’s pull, carelessly falling off the wall in one fluid motion. Jamil’s face pales as he rushes to the other side, jumping over the fence, still carrying the heavy school bag. Watching Kalim lay on his back, unphased as he lands in plush grass. Staring up at the bright blue sky, arms spread out gaily.
“And when we met Jamil! I'll give her the sweetest kiss! Then we’ll get married!”
Jamil bites his tongue and merely nods in return, gently placing the bag on the ground, taking the moment to sit in the shade of the stone wall, listening to Kalim laugh away. Letting the young heir to the Asim Family have his daydreams. Cause eventually, he will be saddled with reality, a harsh reality.
Even Kalim Al-Asim is not untouchable to the world of arranged marriages.
══════ •✦• ════════════ •✦• ══════
“Even in your faults of delusion. I shall cherish you—clear your mind of horrors and love you eternally.”
— Childhood Fairy Tale
The pen scratches along the paper, held by a shaky hand that moves across the page, quickly and frantically. Barely aware of what he writes, but knowing he has to write down what he remembers of his dream. A dream so vivid that it seemed real—that it was real. His milky white hair was in complete disarray, with drool decorating the side of his lips, and sweat coating his skin. The cool desert air does little to cool him, as the windows remain open, giving a clear view of the bright full moon that barely illuminates his pages. He can barely see, barely make out the words he writes messily, still in a half-sleep daze, but he needs to remember.
It’s late in the night, and he's awake before either Jamil or any of the other numerous servants checked on him, eager to serve every whim and need. While only the two guards were stationed outside his door possibly awake, but quite unaware of the quiet rambles of the heir, who drew a messy portrait of the woman in his dream. He sits upon the plushness of his bed, with a leather-bound journal in his lap, filled with other dreams of this same woman and stories that were written poorly but stories he adores that speak of you and him.
You have filled his life unlike any other.
Kalim dreamed of a pretty woman with pretty eyes. A woman that loved him, that desired him, heart and soul. That threw herself into his arms and held him so desperately. Cupping his face and whispering over and over and over how much she loved him. How she'd wait forever and ever and ever for him. Those dreams would matter less once they met.
The brain is a cruel thing.
══════ •✦• ════════════ •✦• ══════
“If you do not love me, then I accept that your feelings are your own. But I cannot deny mine, my pure feelings of want! I will love you. Forever.”
— Childhood Fairy Tale
There’s slight worry in his ways, a slight obsession that fills Kalim, as he turns woman after woman away, only holding eyes for one and giving no other a chance. Holding out for the woman he loves and loves him in return.
Still, kindness is etched into his being, rejecting each in utter honesty, speaking of why he cannot love them. Each woman leaves with nothing but understanding, that leaves with the feeling of rejection... Dull.
Leaves each to hope and to find love in one who's as devoted as he, as Kalim speaks of nothing but his true love. As his presence alone emits such devotion and passion with great fervor that you would think that his love was real.
That all he speaks was truth. That this mysterious woman was real—and she is. To him.
Jamil is the only one aware of the truth, the only one aware that Kalim lives within his own lies—within his own delusions.
Yet he keeps such thoughts to himself.
Allowing the young heir to ramble on and on, to speak endlessly about his beautiful, enchanting lover, to show sketch after sketch and mourn that he could never recreate her beauty, but once he found her, he would know immediately. Jamil says nothing, merely sits, and watches Kalim flip through his journal, page after page filled with nothing but her, her, her.
A Her without a name.
══════ •✦• ════════════ •✦• ══════
Night Raven College does nothing to curve his growing obsession. To stomp out this flame that burns and festers within his chest.
"I had another dream."
Jamil tries to keep his placated look, only sharing a brief look behind him, watching garnet eyes look utterly lovesick. Remembering not of his outbursts that follow after he awakes from his dreams—dreams that have Kalim waking up screaming—sobbing his eyes out in pain as if he was being stabbed and ripped apart. Screams that frighten the other dormmates, as their housewarden wakes up covered in sweat, tossing off his blankets and pillows in mass hysteria. While others desperately call and usher Jamil into the room. Who forces the others out as he holds Kalim onto the large bed, forcing his body to go limp from exhaustion. Sobs turning into faint mumbles, silently wailing about how badly he needs them, how he could die from the simple pain of being far from them, and how fate keeps them apart.
"It hurts," he cries, it hurts that he can't be with his love. Eyes fluttering close. After so many years, it's so painful to dream. Nights that force Jamil to remain by his side, forced to console his "friend" who doesn't want kind words but merely wants her.
And in the mornings, it is no better.
With Jamil ushered his heir awake, gently shaking his shoulders, waiting for Kalim to open his eyes—to open his eyes to the waking world. Only for him to throw tantrums, sobbing and begging for Jamil to let him go back. To let him her. "Please, let me see her. Please", Kalim sobs, body limp as Jamil practically drags him from bed.
Kalim wants to spend his days in his fantasy only.
His retainer does well to avoid the topics of love and dreaming, doing well to keep Kalim, for the most occupied with anything else. Leaving no time for Kalim to think about her--you--for a moment.
Yet sometimes this obsession seeps through the cracks. Slipping past the several walls Jamil has built to keep him sane.
Kalim's voice is a whisper amongst the sea of people, walking side by side with Jamil, who carries his and the heir's bag with a tepid look, more focused on navigating through the many students and not be late to their next class. Wanting Kalim to do anything but speak about you.
Kalim doesn't notice his friend's disinterest, used to Jamil's silent air, and far too deep in his mind, far too in love with the idea he has built.
He continues talking.
“But this time it wasn't in the courtyard, but the school gardens.” There’s an optimistic tone in his voice, one that makes Jamil sick. He says nothing, as Kalim walks with a certain breeze in his step as he moves, unconcerned by the weird glances he got as the two glid through the crowd, a delighted smile upon his face. Jamil gives a short hum, letting Kalim know he was somewhat listening, which Kalim believed was highly important. Jamil had to listen, and he had to absolutely like his lover, and care for her as his retainer cares for him.
Which is something Jamil has heard numerous times, from long-time friends to distant guests he was sure that Kalim would never see again. And under any other circumstances, Jamil would give a blunt ‘Absolutely. A friend of yours is a dear friend of mine’, with a deep bow, while easily lying through his teeth with a faux sweet tone, something that Kalim would believe without any worry.
Yet this time, Kalim was serious.
Garnet eyes were unmoving, and lips pressed together, sitting more poised like a ruler--like a king that deserved respect. Kalim was not asking, nor making a random comment nor gesture of goodwill. He was demanding that Jamil swear it--swear upon his oath that he made to Kalim since the day he was born. To vow that he would care for his love.
Forcing Jamil to not see him as an overly innocent man who was hopelessly in love, but as the next heir of the Al-Asim Family who had found his future bride. He, whose word is absolute. And Jamil did, pressing his forehead to the cold marble ground, swearing upon his life to care for her. And after a moment, Kalim was satisfied, returning back to his carefree self a moment later.
“Jamil… She said she was here. Waiting for me to find her.”
Kalim stops, the halls clearing slowly. His gaze stares out into the school courtyard below, standing silently in the open stone halls, wind rustling through his hair as he gathers his thoughts before the large open windows. His hand clutches the ends of his shirt with nothing but a grin.
A chill runs along Jamil’s spine, staring at Kalim with unrevealing eyes, lips pressed together as he gives a firm nod. Inching to move as he watches garnet eyes fill with something unlike him while searching his retainer’s before frowning.
“You don't seem happy—”
“I am.” Jamil’s words are quick, watching the dark look unfamiliar look disappear quickly, his smile automatically returns. Unable to hide his happiness nor remain still, he practically lunges onto his closest friend with a tight hug, squeezing tightly.
“You’ll help me find her…” Kalim speaks, but he follows with a gentle sigh and a headshake, “I know you will.” It’s a command. One that isn't forceful, nor threatening, but an expectation.
Jamil is his servant after all.
“Of course, I will.”
ⓒ 2023 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.
✡︎ Synopsis: This is a time for all the rich nobles and bacheors gather for six months to find a love, to grow their name, to make a fourtune. So shall you play along.
| One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six |
ACT ONE
“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” - Shakespeare
The Huntsman gently closes the book, leaning against the rough bark of the pine tree, basking in the few sun rays that gently touch his skin. Emerald eyes flutter closed as he lets out a low amused hum.
“Something will change. C’est assez excitant~”
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“Vil. You know I am quite disappointed.”
The tip of the fountain pen taps against the pristine white documents, each paper in some way tied to the never-ending business and work that’s conducted by the small Schoenheit Family, made up of the Head of the House, his new wife, and his two sons.
His eldest son, Vil Schoenheit, stands before him. Dressed in a simple button-up and slacks, his blonde hair in a low bun except for the purposeful loose strands that frame the sides of his face. Lilac eyes express nothing, as pink-painted lips press tightly together. The room was dimly lit with little light filtering in through the large violet window shades. A thick, dark oak desk was placed in the furthest part of the room, separating the two.
The silence between them grows more tense with each passing moment, as the head of the family lets out another annoyed sigh. Wishing to be occupied with signing papers alone, then having to deal with the son of his late ex-wife. The shadows prevent the head’s face from being seen, but Vil knows—his father has his always disappointed face engraved into his memory—he knows that his father is scowling. Like he always does. Scowling with disappointed eyes and disappointed lips.
The air, thick and cold—frigid upon Vil’s elegant skin, forcing him to remain present, then allowing his mind to wander to more savory things instead of listening to his father’s long lectures. The pen taps again, showing a bit of his father’s impatience, which is always short. Since Vil was a child, his father has never been patient. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed.
“I apologize,” Vil bows, placing a hand over his heart, “but there was not much else I could do. Time got away from me...”
The chair beneath his father creaks as he leans forward with a scoff, “The time got away? You—who is insistent upon keeping track of all things I do. Ready to undermine me at all chances.” Vil’s father lets out a tired sigh. “Just like your mother would, always trying to correct—” He speaks under his breath, placing his pen down, his hand pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Yet time got away from you.”
The blonde brows of Vil’s face scrunch, his glossed lips pulling into a deep scowl, standing straight once again, his arms crossing. “Leave my mother out of this. You tormented her enough when she was here.”
“Do not get smart with me boy!” His father’s hand slams against his desk, creating a firm and echoing sound that seems to shake the very room, Vil bites back any words, watching the multitude of books, pens, pencils, and décor topple off the desk. Vil does nothing. Keeping his posture straight and unamused, eyes firm and staring. His father’s hands clenching and stretching, fixing his wedding band subconsciously, breathing heavily.
“Pick my things up, boy.” Vil’s father’s voice is firm, watching with glaring eyes as Vil’s shoulders drop, slowly sliding down and onto his knees and picking up the multiple objects and placing them back on his desk. Vil’s father proceeds to speak, staring down at his son.
“If time has gotten away from you—then you simply force my hand Vil.”
The chair creaks. His father rises from his seat and pulls out a black envelope with gold writing. He flicks the envelope from his hand, watching it flutter before landing on the wooden flooring, forcing Vil, on his knees, to reach for it, on all fours. Like a dog.
‘Vil Schoenheit’
Written in beautiful gold cursive, Vil recognizes exactly who the letter is from immediately having received a letter occasionally from the family. The Royal Draconia family. He rises to his feet, placing the objects back in place and returning where he stood. Looking over the letter in silence.
“Because I cannot trust you to act reasonably and properly, you will host this year’s courting season.” His father speaks again, straightening his hair and clothing. Vil’s gaze moves up to his father, scowling deeply.
“The courting season is in less than three months. Everyone has already made preparations for the Al-Asims to host. And I have talked to the head of the family, and he is more than happy to let you host.” Vil’s father sits back down, before waving his hand in a shooing motion, “Now go. I’m tired of looking at you.” Vil gives another curt bow, biting back any vile words that wished to escape his lips. Turning on his heel and walking out of his father’s office.
Closing the heavy oak door with a hard slam, keeping his displeased scowl, any servants were quick to move out of his way, keeping their heads low. He walks the lavish white halls quickly, steps muffled by the thick violet carpets, he holds the letter tightly. His huntsman appears beside him in stride, a small smile across his lips. Unbothered by Vil’s scowl and furrowed brows.
“Bon après-midi, mon Seigneur, pourquoi un air renfrogné orne-t-il le beau visage d’une personne?” Vil stops immediately in place, turning to his huntsman, holding up the envelope, and watching his personal guard nod in immediate understanding.
“He has not only forced me to my hands and knees like a dog but has also saddled me with preparing this year’s courting season. Even went so far as to ask the Draconia family, he has absolutely made a fool of me.” Vil’s voice is low, dripping with venom, before resuming his walk, his steps long and fast, his guard follows easily. Dressed casually in his familiar brown feathered hat upon his head.
“How would you like to begin planning?”
“Have letters sent out—Courting with take place at the Pomefiore Manor. I’ll have father regret ever forcing my hand.”
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“Master Robyn!”
The wind blows softly through the sunlit manor grounds, rustling the vibrant green grass and forest leaves as two figures crouch in the bushes, out of sight and view of the frantic middle-aged maid who was shouting for them. Trying to rush down the stone stairs, but also afraid to fall, leaving her to grip the ends of her black dress and white apron as she sidestepped down the steps. Swatting away at the two large dogs that yap and bark as they bound up and down the steps, messing with her as she tries to shoo them away.
There’s a handmade animal target made of hay and cloth that stands unmoving, placed in the very center of the grassy field. Something the maid is utterly oblivious to, as small hands grip the wooden bow, a hand-crafted gift made for the young brother of the Locksley house, with his name elegantly engraved along the handle.
“Ignore her.”
The master of the house’s voice is quiet, with a hint of playfulness as he tucks a strand of rose-red hair behind his ear, crouching low as he adjusts his brother’s aim. Once again, the maid shouts, which earns a snicker from the younger boy, as the Head of the house grins. Both the brothers are quite used to her panicked shouts, having grown to know the difference between her actual urgent calls and her simple faux panic that she at times sends herself into over the smallest changes.
“Do I shoot now, brother?” His brother’s voice is playful, glancing up at his brother with eager eyes, waiting for the release command. A moment passes before the eldest looks at his younger brother, giving a short nod.
“Shoot.”
The young brother does, the arrow zipping through the bushes and shooting straight into the fake deer’s neck, sending the puppet flying over. The maid shrieks in fear and surprise, nearly dropping whatever she was holding, as the dogs bark happily, rushing over to the straw dummy and pouncing on it. The younger brother immediately jumped with a cheer, revealing his hiding spot as he rushed over to the puppet.
“That was like 15 yards away, brother! And the arrow went zoom!” The young child holds out his arm, pretending it was the arrow and how it flew, nearly falling over from the extra momentum and the dogs that jump and bump into his small frame.
“Master Jay, please be careful!”
The maid, a middle-aged woman with dark brown hair and white streaks, holds the ends of her skirt as she rushes across the field, her plump peach-colored face flushed. Jay ignores her completely, entertaining himself with the dogs and the straw deer, chasing them around with it.
“Marjorie, he is alright.”
She nearly jumps 10 feet in the air, turning around and coming face to face with the master of the house, Robyn Locksley. Who has a small smile, resting a firm, gentle hand on her shoulder with an apologetic grin and laugh. “You almost gave me a heart attack.” She presses her palms against her fast-beating heart, and he gives her a moment to gain her breath as he fixes the runaway strays of her hair, watching his brother from the corner of his eyes, watching Jay play happily with their two black and white hunting dogs.
“You called for me earlier. Was something wrong?”
Robyn holds out his arm, allowing the maid, one he’s known since childhood, to interlock their arms as they walk around the grassy field. She was the main maid in charge of Robyn’s everything, making sure that he had everything he could likely need, while his parents spent days away from the manor. Leaving their young son alone for days on end, a habit that didn’t change at the surprise arrival of Jay Locksley, who was born when Robyn was only sixteen.
So, while Marjorie took care of him, Robyn took care of Jay. Even after the Locksley name was ruined, all due to his father’s negligence and his mother’s embarrassment, who fled the moment it was declared by the Draconia Family that Robert Locksley had ruined their wealth and discarded their name and found dead in an alley in the next town over. Though his mother, Jane, died six years ago in a carriage accident.
Neither of the sons of Robert and Jane attended the funeral, at the request of her third husband.
“Goodness me! I almost forgot! Well, news has it that the courting season has changed from the Al-Asim Family to the Schoenheit Family, at the last minute’s notice—”
Robyn nods, giving an occasional hum as he listens. Knowing that it was better off to simply ramble on about whatever news and or drama she gained, speaking about all the speculated drama behind the sudden decision. Cause to her, quick and unusual change is never good.
Though Robyn is curious. A sudden change three months before courting season, he can imagine quite the mad faces of some of the more prominent families. Having to rearrange everything to fit the more regal attitude the Schoenheit’s had, instead of the more freeing vibe that the Al-Asim’s conveyed.
“It could possibly be tied to Kalim Al-Asim and his secret lover?” Robyn holds back a laugh but is not unable to stop a sly smile from spreading across his lips.
“I assume it is another story from the market?” Robyn watches her face go slightly pink, making Robyn know immediately that he’s correct. He laughs, watching her wave him off in a playful fashion. “All rumors hold a bit of truth.”
“That they do.”
They continue walking, Marjorie going back to her conjectures, Robyn adding input here and there, his bright blue eyes gazing along the gardens located on the side of the house, the grassy ground shifting into gravel, crossing past a flowery hedge into the fruit and vegetable gardens. His eyes surveyed each plant, silently searching for any growing berries and fresh, vibrant tomatoes. After finding nothing of interest, his gaze moves to the thick tree line that surrounded the entire Locksley Manor. Located on the furthest outskirts of the large bustling town, hidden within the green land forests. Marjorie continues,
“And it is to be held at the Pomefiore Manor!” Robyn turns to her, his full attention, his brows pulling together in shock and surprise. The Schoenheit family had two famous manors, the Schoenheit Manor where all events are held in relation to the family, and the Pomefiore Manor.
“The one in the Northern Mountains?” The maid nods, stopping in her tracks and pulling away as she rummages through her pockets, retrieving an elegant letter, and placed it in Robyn’s hands.
Pomefiore Manor is a manor of pure and utter elegance hidden within the towering northern mountains and shielded by flurries of never-ending winters. No one except the Schoenheit Family to be allowed that deep into the mountains. Others have tried, but none ever returned alive.
“Such an odd location... And so last minute...”
Robyn mutters under his breath, he’s spent time reading about the mountains and the mysterious snowstorm that follows, some say it was caused by a jealous queen who lost her love to another, and her cold bitter hurt would make those that once stood in her way suffer. While more logical, researchers blamed it on a strange influx of magic that forced the storm to never end. His gaze moves down to Marjorie, watching her anxious-filled expression. Robyn gently presses a hand against her head, his lips curling into a smile.
“I’ll be alright. I was invited, so there should be no worries.”
“You’ll be away for six months. Oh dear,” She leans against Robyn, leaning her full weight against him like a mother would her very own son. He allows her, indulging in the slight smell of honey that surrounds her. Marjorie continues to ramble as she pulls away. Robyn watches her talk aloud, speaking to herself, then to others.
“How would I ever—you’re off to getting married? I need to prepare. We only have three months—Dear Seven—” You watch her walk from the garden and towards the back of the house. Robyn follows behind her, slipping the letter into his pants pocket, as he watches her climb up the stone steps, still speaking to herself, stepping into the manor, clearly in her own world.
“What’s courting season?”
Jay pops up beside the young master of the house, holding a long stick, watching Marjorie before wide blue eyes look up at Robyn, dirt, and grass decorating his clothing. Robyn lets out a low hum, roughing up his brother’s hair, ignoring the gentle ‘hey!’, as Jay tries to duck away.
“It’s like a long party. I’ll be looking for a spouse—Though,” The master of the house trails off, a grin spreading across his lips, watching Jay try to fix his short messy red hair, that’s always messy, even after Robyn spends 15 minutes in front of a mirror, trying to style his unruly hair before giving up. Watching Jay try and slick his hair back, squinting his eyes to look cool, making Robyn laugh when the hair practically bounced back into place.
“—I’ll be away for six months.”
The two siblings walk side by side. Jay, with similar bright blue eyes, bounds happily beside his sibling, attracting the attention of the playful hunting dogs, who zip and dart between the two.
“For six months... That is a long, long time.” Robyn’s brother sways as he walks, purposely bumping into his brother, who uses his hand to entertain the dogs, feeling them playfully nip and bite at his fingers, and chasing the siblings as they walk.
“It is—You will be alright; Marjorie and Arthur will take of you.”
Marjorie and Arthur are the only two remaining maids and butlers to the Locksley Estate. The two manage everything within the large, empty manor. Marjorie is in charge of the inside of the manor, while Arthur handles all outer duties. Occasionally, the two siblings help in secret, dusting and sweeping, maintaining the gardens, and handling the large dogs.
“But it’ll be lonely without you—”
Jay wraps his arms around his brother’s waist, stopping the two in their tracks, Robyn gently combing his fingers through his brother’s hair. His lips pulled into a frown, the last few years, since the fall of the Locksley name, everything has been nothing but hectic, meaning Robyn missed his other courting season, leaving him with only this year and the next before he’s considered ineligible, which could possibly leave the two homeless. And though every fiber in his being wants to remain with his brother—nor does he truly desire a spouse—this is one of his ‘noble’ duties.
“I’ll visit. Once a month, if possible... Our situation is no secret.”
Jay is aware of their social standing. Aware of who exactly their parents were, Robyn had no reason to paint his parents in a good light. Sparing no expense to hide the truth in bits and pieces. Jay knows they’re nobles with no riches, nobles alone in status, merely because King Draconia pitied them, and swore that they could properly regain their title if Robyn worked and proved that the Locksley family was worth helping.
Though becoming a proper noble matters little to none to the Head of the Family, it’s merely a title that comes with a following never-ending headache, and if Robyn could—he very well would rid himself of it. Yet, he crouches to his brother’s level, his hands gently squeezing his shoulders. Jay’s eyes look glossed over in worry, his bottom lip poking out as he frowns.
“You’ll be in my thoughts. Always.”
Robyn Locksley has a brother to protect, to care for, whom he loves more than any other. His only family—besides Marjorie and Arthur—and closest friend. Jay nods, his pouting lips curling into a small mischievous smile as his hands tug at the bottom of his shirt. “Then—Can you help me shoot some more?”
Robyn gasps, clearly being tricked by his brother, “I knew those tears were fake!”
Robyn attacks his brother in a flurry of tickles, bringing his sibling into his embrace, wrestling Jay in his arms, causing him to giggle and laugh, fighting back and losing terribly. “No! No! Robyn! Please!” He shouts in between giggles, the dogs barking and yapping happily, knocking over both Robyn and Jay as they practically pounce onto the two, sending them all to the floor, giving Jay a chance to wiggle and squirm away, darting away in a fit of laughs and giggles. Robyn kneels in the grass, green blades coating parts of his clothing, hair, and face, hands resting on his knees. Jay sticks out his tongue, urging the dogs to come get him, leaving Robyn alone for a moment.
Courting Season.
It’s six months long and, unlike any of the other bachelors and bachelorettes, who flaunt and flounce, wearing their name proudly, the Locksley family cannot. ‘If not for myself... then for you,’ Jay darts around with the dogs, smile large and blue eyes happily wide. Robyn can’t remember the last time he’s seen his brother so happy, the last time he’s been so present. Not simply sparing a glance, but spending a moment with his brother after his long trips, to only leave again.
Trying to undo all his father did. Trying to prove his worth to the ever-reigning Draconia Family, who at any moment displeased with Robyn Locksley, could take everything away. Robyn pushes off the ground, wiping off the dirt and grass, his gaze turning to the large house. Whatever connection Robyn felt, whatever love for the manor—whatever love for his Locksley name ceased to exist years ago. It’s nothing but a house within his name, but to Jay—even as he knows the truth, the manor means something to him. That represents something that Robyn is quite unsure of.
“Master Robyn! Master Jay! Lunch is ready!” Marjorie’s voice shouts aloud, carrying a tray out and to the sitting area located at the top of the stairs, Arthur helping her keep the glass doors open.
Jay immediately is on his feet, racing towards the garden stairs, the two hunting dogs yapping and running after the young boy. A short happy huff lips past Robyn’s lips, walking towards the manor with a small smile.
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Courting Season.
A season in which all elegant bachelors and bachelorettes take a break from the pressures of society, gathering together to expand their family name and grow their riches by finding a spouse. There are no expectations of love, but connections. That is the goal, to connect and grow. Win it all or lose everything. Failure results in shame, and the Draconia refuses to have shame attached to them.
Courting Season is divided into two, the Spring Court and the Summer Court.
The Spring Court [March, April, May]:
The Court of Spring is the beginning of all festivities and gives a chance for everyone to scope out potential suitors and enjoy the fun without absolute commitment.
For most of the spring, the bachelors and bachelorettes remain separate. Getting to know one another and gaining companions. The more socially accepted you are, the less likely you’ll have competition in finding a good partner.
The Summer Court [June, July, August]:
The Court of Summer, this is the latter half of all festivities. During this time, one should already have mutually picked their suitor for the last three months, spending this time to bond more, whether romantically or for future business endeavors.
At this point, most have selected their main interest and attempt to spend the latter half trying to know them. While others, pleased with their connections but have no desire for romance, spend the last three months enjoying the festivities, but must show a sign that they are out of the running and uninteresting.
Origin of Courting Season: Created and in placed by one of the great kings of Briar Valley, as a way to keep the rich with the rich and keep the poor with the poor.
This idea has changed very little over time, due to the expansion of how many noble families exist beneath Draconia’s control.
ACT TWO:
“This above all; to thine own self be true.” - Shakespeare
The Huntsman can’t help but smile, turning his gaze to the growing crowd, as carriages of different sizes and colors move in staggered lines, traveling up the rocky dirt road, lined with elegant floral bushes, filling the air with the gentle scents of lavender and jasmine, guiding them towards the gleaming manor of violet, white, and gold. Feeling the cool spring air bite at his cheeks, he slides off the towering tree branch, falling to the ground in simply ease. Emerald eyes subtly memorized each landau that stood out before landing on a bright red and gold wooden carriage, pulled by two elegant black stallions.
“J’aime bien celui-là.”
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This is the beauty of the Pomefiore Manor.
It is a celebratory night, the first night of Courting Season, the first night before everyone is separated for the first three months. Yet that is the farthest thought from everyone’s mind. For some, it is their first time away from home, away from the suffocation of their titles. For others, this is a usual scene and a moment for them to take a break from their hectic life and bask in simplicity. For others, this is business, not a vacation.
DEAR ROBYN LOCKSLEY,
Greetings from the Draconia Family.
We hope all is well and wish you a very joyful and eventful courting season. May the odds be in your favor, and you find the perfect lover. We have written to you to speak gaily and thank you for all of your dedicated help, but we are also afraid that even after years of service, it is simply not enough. Your father was quite the foolish man and was built quite the debt, one you must repay. So sadly, I’m afraid that if you do not find a spouse of higher rank, you will be stripped of your title and all assets. Now don’t fear, this courting season is quite an extraordinary one, so have fun, be merry. For this might be your last time.
Best Wishes,
THE DRACONIA FAMILY
The words of the letter remain heavy upon his brain. Any formalities slipped out moreso on instinct than purpose, and barely remembering the faces of the different women and men that introduced themselves. Doing well to speak to the noble, only in name, rather than earned purpose. Which Robyn knows, aware of his name being spread across the ballroom like an uncontrolled wildfire, as others send him curious looks.
Looks he does well to ignore.
This had been on his mind for the last three months, in between preparations for his long journey, and making sure finances were in order. Making sure that Jay, Marjorie, and Arthur had all they needed while he was gone. He spent the days spending time with his brother, promising that six months would pass quickly that before they knew it, they’d be together again in the fall. While in the late night, he remained glued to his desk, furiously writing letters to different nobles and businessmen, trying to build any sort of safety net if he did fail in the task appointed by the Draconia Family. Spending nights within his bed, rereading the letter over and over.
Half of him wanted to make the unprompted journey to the Draconia Castle, demanding to speak with the King. Urge them to give him more tasks. To let him find some way to at least make sure his brother and the only two servants that he had were all right and cared for.
Though Robyn is certain that their solution would have Jay work for them. Not only does he lose the title of noble, but becomes a poorly treated servant. That thought alone forced Robyn to remain in the manor, doing well so as to not frighten the others.
He shakes the thought from his head. Suddenly very aware of his facial expressions, he forces a relaxed smile. Turning his gaze upon the crowded ballroom. Spotting some familiar faces and some not. Each and all dressed in the finest of silks and jewels, all wanted to show off to the Schoenheit heir, who has yet to make himself known.
Robyn stands against the towering white marble walls. As flickers of white and gold flames give way to bright light, placed upon hanging crystal chandeliers, as shoes tap and float against the polished floors. Dancing away with whoever filled their fancy, away from prying, judgmental eyes, with hands entwined and bodies close, dancing to the lovely orchestra.
Everyone during courting season has something to gain and something to hide.
The musicians, people that Robyn is sure that they have been alive far longer than him and have more than mastered the dark oak string instruments. The Locksley Head is certain that the orchestra is most definitely a gift from the Draconia Family. Seeing as no noble would accept less than the best, though Robyn is unsure of the last time he’s heard a live orchestra.
He holds the crystal flute glass, one practically forced into his hand the moment he stepped into the ballroom, occasionally sipping its sweet savory flavor that sends tingles down his tongue after every taste. There’s a subtle underlying flavor of alcohol. Yet the sweet flavor overpowers it greatly. He’s sure that there will be a few who make the mistake of drinking downing drink after drink.
Robyn softly sways to the music, far more interested in the different people, each seemingly comfortable in this environment. Not to say he hates dancing or even festivities, but it’s more enjoyable with someone, is it not?
Robyn’s blue eyes shifted across the enormous crowd that formed around the ballroom dance floor, mingling and gossiping—laughing at their own jokes and discussing the future events. Each within their own right, amazed with how elegant the first night seems to be, when Vil Schoenheit only had three months to prepare. While others knew that the moment Vil Schoenheit sent out invitations with a bouquet, that this year’s courting season—Vil Schoenheit's final courting season would be extravagant.
“Such a shame to only watch and never mingle—Though one can find beauty in simply people watching.”
The voice is like a cool summer breeze and has Robyn shuddering—once for the sudden cold and another out of pure surprise. A man, young, with short blonde hair, pulled into a low ponytail, and deep green eyes that betrayed nothing of his thoughts nor actions, but only showed his curiosity and amusement. He wears simple clothing, tight black pants, a white button-up shirt, and a black corset vest with green lace embellishments, with a simple black belt and a bow and quiver attached to his back.
Robyn glances over his form once more, before landing on his face. He’s watching the crowd. He can tell the strange man is a huntsman. The ends of Robyn’s lips curl. “People are the finest works of art.”
“Ils sont vraiment,” the huntsman says nothing more with a merry hum, occasionally glancing at the young nobleman, but keeping his gaze focused on the smiling faces of the people.
“From the way you’re dressed, you do not seem like a noble?” Robyn’s words make the man chuckle, earning his full attention, unlike before. He wears a bright smile, pressing a hand over his heart as he bows.
“That I am not. I am Rook Hunt, personal guard and huntsman to Vil Schoenheit.”
Robyn’s eyes widen at his words, watching Rook stand straight, a still amused smile upon his lips. “May I ask what gave me away, Mr. Robyn Locksley?”
“You know who I am?”
“Who would not? You arrived in such a crimson carriage. Such a red is quite beautiful.” Emerald eyes dart up to his hair, before resting back on Robyn’s face, unafraid of eye contact. Robyn lets out a low huff like laugh, crossing his arms, and tilting his head to the side. “You asked how I knew—”
“Oui.”
“You are simply underdressed.” The words make the huntsman laugh, a few eyes turning in their direction for the sudden loud laugh, unaware of the two.
“Such a simple fact and yet gave so much away. Tu es vraiment fascinant.” Rook wipes away imaginary tears, giving another shallow bow, as if apologizing. “Forgive me of my outburst, it is not often one speaks to me so freely.”
“Freely?” Darting past Robyn’s curiosity, his smile unfaltering, “You spoke as people being art, then we stand in a museum of moving pieces.”
A museum of moving pieces. Robyn follows Rook’s gaze, watching the crowd move and dance. No one is in the same position as before, some with their arms crossed when they once talked animatedly, some who drink when they once were eating.
“So much passes in so little time. How can one truly appreciate it without a photo?” How can one fully enjoy a moment when a moment so quickly passes? Robyn’s gaze moves to his flute glass, watching the bubbles form and pop, before turning his gaze back towards the crowd.
“That is the beauty of it.” Rook tears his eyes away, green eyes filled with so much honesty. For a moment, Robyn swears he sees Jay’s honest eyes. It has been so long since he’s met someone who’s so true to themselves.
“You speak of…” The words come out heavy, and weigh heavily upon his tongue, “beauty quite often… Why?”
Rook takes a moment to answer, though Robyn is certain that the huntsman doesn’t need a moment to think of response, but moreso for affect. “That is my life pursuit… To find beauty in all things.” Robyn’s eyes move towards the orchestra, watching them happily play, caught up in the melodies of their own music. He thinks back to the letter, one he folded and shoved into the deepest parts of his temporary dresser, unable to swallow the bitterness of it all. Robyn lets out a soft sigh, taking a large gulp of his drink, before speaking.
“In theory that would be easy… To find beauty in everything… Yet how do you look past the negative to see beauty?”
“You do not.” The Huntsman answers with ease, rocking on his heels with a smile, laughing at Robyn’s confused expression. “You take all for how it is and how it will be. Negativity is a fluid emotion—no one can avoid it, so you must learn how to see it for what it is. People will always have negativity—that is one of life’s absolutes. Yet that is not all people can be…”
“So, you find beauty in those that experience it and move past it?”
“And those who cannot—il y a de la beauté dans l’angoisse.”
Robyn finishes the bubbly drink, placing the crystal flute glass on the tray of a passing by servant, before turning to Rook with a grin. “I quite enjoy your company,” Robyn face slightly flushed, feeling the gentle buzz of alcohol in his system, yet he doesn’t stop, offering out a hand.
“May I ask you to accompany me to the gardens?”
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“Master Vil, many are awaiting your arrival.”
A short maid bows deeply keeping her face hidden as the Schoenheit heir finishes his hair. Pulled into a simple bun, adorned with crystals and jewels. His pink painted lips pressed together, fingers elegantly fixing the golden chain of his necklace.
“Tell me, has father said anything about the courting season?” His voice is low, while the elegant makeup brush is carefully dragged across the lid of his eye, unbothered to even look at the shuddering maid, who’s dressed in simply black and white, keeping herself in Vil’s shadow.
“He—um—The Master spoke of annoyance and disappointment, yet has said nothing else, Master Vil.”
Coating the purple eye shadow across his eyes, before switching to black eyeliner, he speaks again. “That is good, I suppose,” he moves to his other eye, “And have you seen Rook? I give him a moment to see all who has arrived, and he takes the time to simply go missing.” Vil speaks to himself before letting out a sigh, switching from the black eye shadow to a deep purple. He speaks directly to his maid.
“I am aware he has been mingling with guests, yet has yet returned, where is he?”
“Um, the gardens, I believe. He is entertaining Master Robyn Locksley.” Vil pulls the brush from his eye, staring at the two perfectly matching eyes, before placing the brush down and for once, turning to fully look at the maid. His blonde brows furrowed and lips in a low grimace.
“Robyn Locksley… If I am correct, he is a noble in name and of nothing else.” There is slight venom in his words, standing up from his vanity and towards the full-length mirror, once again checking to make sure his outfit is in order. The maid makes sure to stand behind him, keeping her hand over her heart and legs crossed in a low curtsy.
“Yes, that he is. But many say that the reason is due to Robyn Locksley having close ties to the Draconia Family. Which is why he is able to retain his title. Rumors say that it was Lord Malleus himself who gifted the Locksley with the crimson red carriage. Which has caught a lot of attention, I am certain that Master Robyn will have quite many who seek him.”
Vil clicks his tongue, heels clicking as he returns to his vanity, picking up the black eye liner, “I do not like rumors, yet if there is any truth in this—I assure you, Robyn Locksley has caught my attention.” He speaks under his breath, adding the wings onto his eyes, before clearing his throat.
“Prepare for my arrival. I want not a soul missing.”
ⓒ 2023 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.
✡︎ | Unrequited Love | Angst | Jade v Floyd | "Cheating" |
✡︎ | Synopsis: Humans are cruelly fascinating.
Humans are fascinating creatures.
The way they walk, talk, eat, breathe. How you see the world through your eyes is unique. The way your heart beats, when you feel different emotions, and the ways you breathe, the way your lungs expand and release. It’s interesting. He finds you interesting, entertaining, amusing, much so that you bring out a side of him that he’s certain didn't exist when he was back in the coral sea.
To have the time to explore, to partake in interests, and to love. Before there wasn't time. Far too worried about surviving—killing others before they kill you. A life often fast-paced and dizzying, yet you. You bring a certain calm that lulls him, that makes him relax. That makes him sit a little easier, and that makes him observe more than act rationally.
He likes to keep such an emotion close. He likes to keep you close, enjoying the customs of closeness, the feel of your hand in his, the feel of your lips against his. He loves the ease as much as he loves the unpredictableness. He loves you.
Yet, there's a certain look in your eyes.
One that you only share with his brother. A certain look that no matter how long he watches—observes in silent curiosity, that he can't slightly understand. A look that you in no sense share for him. That it always seems to go away when his brother is not there. That vanishes quickly as the wind when his twin is carried off by whatever it is that captures his attention.
That's simply how Floyd is.
Yet something about his personality fills you with such utter joy, that there are moments Jade's conflicted. And whatever ache in his chest doesn't cease when you grab his hand, call his name, kiss his lips, lead him where it is you desire for the day. When you spend time in his company, when you proudly proclaim yourself to be his partner.
Yet the ache doesn't leave.
Simply because you don't look at him the same. And surely happiness is objective, the way people act with others changes, but it's as if the shine in your eyes utterly disappears when Floyd isn't in your vicinity. As if living isn't worth it without him. When he isn't talking to you, leaning against you, rambling on about his—everything. And you, shamelessly, give him your undivided attention.
He knows it isn't love...
It couldn't be love...
Yet Jade can't help but feel unneeded in your presence when his brother is there. Unable to fill whatever desire you need; he cannot do it no matter how much he tries. Yet you're his? That should be enough, it should. Yet you don't desire him…. You don't crave him.
Jade doesn't make you feel like how you make him feel. He brings you nothing.
“I truly wish to understand.”
Even in your cruelty, there is a part of him that cares for you. That should simply brush off this moment and be understanding, yet he won't. He’ll drag out this painful game, being the perfect boyfriend, catering to all your needs like no other. Drowning you in his unwanted love, until you say it. Until you say the truth with tainted lips, kissed again and again by his brother.
He watches from afar, watching you lean too close, yearning to be closer, yearning for his brother to hold you. He knows. He knows. He knows. It hurts. Yet what satisfaction can he get out of letting you go, what should Jade gain from letting you go and letting you be with him, when you so desperately desire it. He won’t. Not unless you say something. Not until the words spill from your lying lips that you fell out of love—when you never loved him to begin with—he wants to watch you struggle. Forcing out the words with guilt. He wants you to hurt. He does. He does. He does. Yet it hurts him to hurt you.
He knows.
He does.
It hurts.
ⓒ 2023 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.
✡ | Angst | Cheating | Toxic Relationship | Cvlutos is also a liar <3 |
✡ | Synopsis: Floyd has needs. You know this, so why are you so upset. It was a mistake that you found out.
Mistakes happenー
Like spilling your drink on the table, scrambling to clean it up before it gets worse. Deleting a project instead of sending it. Like oversleeping or over-watering your plant till it drowns. Like sending the wrong text to the wrong person and having a fun laugh over it. Like tripping over your own feet and feeling embarrassed. Or blurting out the wrong math answer when you weren't paying attention. Mistakes are how a person growsー
Mistakes happenー
Like kissing your best friend while in a committed relationship, whilst swearing up and down that he’s only a friend and it was only for fun. Like missing your three-year anniversary, showing up late in the night, and giving a half-assed apology, while you spent your day showering a random woman with gifts, swearing it meant nothing and as only for fun. Like coming home covered—drowning in another woman’s touch… in her overly-priced perfume, it was for the excitement. Staying out too late and ignoring calls, only to block your number in annoyance. Like sleeping with her—fucking her in our own bed. Chasing the excitement, the fun that has long since died in your relationship.
“It’s alrightー” Mistakes are how people growー
Mistakes happenー
Like trying to stop you from leaving. Growing mad at you for being upset, for not understanding. Grabbing your arms as he tries to explain, frustrated when you can't look at him. Angry that you feel sick when you're near him. This is why you were supposed to mind your business. This is why you weren't ever supposed to know. You weren't supposed to find out ‘cause you were happy, happy in your long-term relationship, happy with the novelty in finding your soulmate, your one and only. And he was happy having you cater to every whim and need, but still able to get the excitement he so desperately craved. You had him and he has anything and everything whenever. So why are you upset? You wanted him, feigning after him desperately, readily and eagerly to toss friendships and family aside when he asked, ready to give him everything.
It was a mistake you found out.
He doesn't regret cheating, no, but he regrets you finding out. Cause he knew that this—this tantrum you would throw when you found out. That you overreact and try and leave him. Like you love him, right, you love him so much that it would hurt you to leave. So why don't you understand that he has needs? He needs excitement, he needs adventure, you just don't do it for him. But he loves you. So why does it matter he hurt you, why does it matter that he sees her, that he sleeps with him, if you don't know.
He watches you through the mirror, phone face down yet occasionally buzzing, he fights off the urge to immediately answer. You stare at yourself. Looking over the very features he said he loved. Boring but features that make him happy, isn't that all that matters? You get to call him yours. You twist the new engagement ring around your finger, and the new clothing upon your body. You thought that you'd be happier, jumping for joy the moment he got down on one knee.
He watches you inhale deeply, locking eyes through the mirror. His face relaxed, knowing, prepared for the outcome. Excepting this result, unable to hide his very satisfied smile.
“We can make this work...” After all, Mistakes are how people grow…
ⓒ 2023 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.
✡ | Synopsis: Riddle just needs a little help, and you're such a good friend, how could you ever turn him down.
“Please—Please—”
He lets out a shuddering whine, back arching and jaw falling slack. His right hand shooting down, grabbing your hand desperately, nails digging into your skin. “I—” He stumbles over his words, struggling to speak, watching his cum paint his once pristine white shirt, his cock head twitching as beads of his juices rolling down his length and onto your hands.
His face flushed red and his lips tremble, pressing his forehead against his desk. You call his name, pressing your chest against his back, your left hand placed against the desk edge, supporting your weight as you leaning over him. Your teeth grazing the nape of his neck, feeling his body shudder and hand desperately cling onto your wrist.
“A mess—I'll make a mess—” His words come out as frantic and breathless.
“We'll clean it up.” Your words send a muffled whine from his lips, as you drag your palm along his sensitive dick, a whine mixed with a loud cry follows, his free hand immediately slapping over his mouth, his glossed over eyes squeezing shut. His body pressing closer to yours, his hips grinding into your palm, coating your hand in his pre.You call him again, your thumb rubbing the leaking tip of his cock, gently coaxing him to move his hand that covered his lips, watching saliva drip past the corners, dripping onto his white button up.
“I might—I want..” He struggles to speak, his hand hesitantly pulling up the ends of his shirt, bringing the ends to his lips and biting down, his index and thumb brushing over his hardened nipples, gently tugging as he fucks your hand.
“…not enough…”
He mumbles desperately, turning his head to look at you, begging, pleading for you to do anything. You can't help by smile, pressing a chaste kiss to his shoulder and neck, whispering against his skin. Teasing him, edging him to simply say what he wants, what he so desperately desires.
“…. I wanna cum…” The words sound slurred and foreign, and he knows, his face contouring into one of embarrassment, his eyes move away from you. You whisper his name, pressing your forehead against the back of his neck, slowly pumping his cock, listening to his muffled whimpers and mumbled begs of your name.
Only you.
He swears by it, his eyes squeezing closed, only you can see me like this, can make me feel like this. You feel his body tense, a hot cry escaping from his lips, cum splattering onto the wooden floor, coating his stomach and your hand, white sticky liquid coating your fingers leaving behind sticky strings as your pull away, still keeping your weight on the housewarden. Moments pass in silence, Riddle slowly coming down from his high, carefully nudging you away as he pulls down the ends of his shirt hiding his dick, unable to look at you as you sit in his desk chair.
“Queen’s Rules.. dictate that favors must be… repaid…. in timely manor…”
Riddle’s words come out unsure, his gaze darting from your face, down the area between your thighs, then back up. You tear your graze from your coated hang, running your tongue along your fingers, watching Riddle practically screech at the action, before he heavily swallows, turning away from you as you clean your fingers.
“I like to…. repay all my favors…. starting…. right now….”
ⓒ 2023 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.
—tw: insecurity, room w/ freckles n' scars, open-ended
He sits straight and still, hands tucked tightly into his lap, and green eyes staring deep into the mirror. His freshly ironed white shirt discarded, tossed somewhere in his quiet bedroom. A room that seems almost suffocating and far too small—almost as if he was trapped. He's reminded of why he spends so little time in his room.
With his brown hat hanging off the pristine wooden coat rack, one that Vil had bought, realizing the lengths the huntsman would go to make sure his hat wasn't damaged. That his subtle protection was ruined in any mannor. The Vice Housewarden lets out a low exhale, trying to calm his beating heart, that seemed to beat far too fast, and far too filled to the point he felt out of control—lost to the whims of his own human nature.
He feels vulnerable.
As if he was the prey and not the hunter, at the mercy of your hands and lips as your sit behind him. Unbothered by his silence, unaffected by his stuff shoulders and solid back, that you're sure aches from his rigid posture. Yet you say nothing.
Your fingers grazing across his skin, feeling his muscles tense beneath your touch. Eyes taking in every shape and curve, ever dip, before his back flattens out.
They're sprinkled across his back, freckles small and large, like endless stars. And he leaves you to draw constellations. Connecting each dot, drawing lines into his skin that seem to never fade. Freckles that in their own right... Perfect, yet to him, they don't fit right. Not to say that he hates them, they're charming, until you stare, and beauty can change in a matter of seconds.
You find him beautiful.
You whisper it into his skin, leaving a trail of gentle honest kisses behind each and every constellation. Unbothered by the small scars that mark along his waist and arms, the scars that decorate his hands and chest. You love them and each story that follows. Scars that he's so used to seeing, scars that'll never heal, but fade with time. Though time never seems to come fast enough.
Resting your cheek against the center most of his back, your arms wrapping around his waist, and your hands slowly picking up his, entwining them effortlessly as your sit behind him. Listening to the silent ticking of his bedroom clock, basking in the slow moments of time's rule.
He finds himself speechless. Silenced by so many emotions that on cannot possibly at once understand and decipher. Sadness. Yearning. Confusion. Regret. Jealousy. Fear. Anger. Love. A feeling he understands so well, yet when faced with it, he's conflicted.
How can one make use of such in one moment, in one mere minute?
You call his name, washing away all uncertainty, all confusion, all feels that overwhelmed him. You calm him. And his lips—once pull into a line—tight and unmoving. Relax. Sliding into his usual smile and there's a certain confidence—sureness to his smile as he brings your hands to his lips.
Tagging: @v-anrouge [cause I forgot I even had this, but based on your idea]
