*There’s a large bot in an oversized poncho leaning against the wall, smoking a cy-gar. Their hat eclipses part of their face, and only one bright blue optic shines out from under the darkness.*
chevalier and ex-lovers for the angst promt? that seems like it would be really interesting considering his route. thank you for reading this ask
A/N: With some encouragement and brainstorming (thank you @lorei-writes 💜) I finished this!
An addition to my Broken Heartstrings series
Chevalier x Reader
WC: 1.3k
The crowds that have gathered in the streets are humming like a hive full of excited bees. Some small children are pushing their way beneath elbows and through knees, trying to get to the front. Others are being hoisted up onto the shoulders of grown ups who shift their weight from foot to foot, as eager as the children to get a glimpse.
You can see them all from your spot, perched on the wide windowsill of your bedroom. Precarious as it may be, you’ve pushed open the window, leaving nothing between you and the view of the street below. It’s a joyful scene, one of breathless anticipation as the townsfolk wait for their king to ride through on this, the anniversary of his coronation. The king that you chose a year ago. The man who had challenged your spirit and won your heart.
But instead of sitting by his side, proudly looking down at all the beaming faces, you’re alone at your window, stomach in knots at the thought of seeing Chevalier Michel again, even from a distance.
Just thinking his name sends your mind down well-trodden paths of anguish and heartbreak....
What had seemed so solid, so strong, had unraveled in a single moment. You didn’t even have the chance to anticipate something was wrong. He had gone to investigate suspicious activity at the border. He had returned, white clothing running red with blood that was not his. Still, you had run to him, concern an engine that spurred you forward at lightning speed….and he had turned away, turned his shoulder towards you. And then he had told you, in a voice as chilled as winter’s edge, to leave.
Leave, he repeated at the palace gates, his hand gesturing for you to move away.
Leave, he repeated as you stood in his bedroom, questions shooting from your mouth like wayward fireworks, bright and burning and frantic.
Leave was all he said, his voice a blade as dangerous and final as his sword.
His betrayal of your trust was a sudden cracking of ice, a fall into freezing water that left you speechless, breathless, and utterly broken. All the possibilities for the future, all the countless daydreams. All the nights spent talking, sharing, weaving a relationship from the threads of your heartstrings snapped in a blink by silver shears, cold as the blue of his eyes when all your wild thoughts boiled down to a single question, your voice trembling like a leaf in a cruel, sudden wind:
Why?
Leave was his only reply.
And so you fled the palace, the beautiful rose gardens, the confused and concerned questions in the eyes of his brothers. You fled the place that had become home to return to the life you had known before, except it didn’t fit as it once did. Something was missing, something that ached in the night, that chased sleep away from the spinning hurricane of your mind. A longing for someone that you shouldn’t want, someone who was willing to drive a stake into the beating heart of your love without hesitation. Or explanation.
A combined gasp and cheer rises up from the crowd as the royal caravan approaches and tugs you back to the present. The other princes ride upon their horses, smiling and waving. Well, Licht isn’t exactly smiling and something about his somber expression is so familiar, a constant in a world turned upside down, that it actually brings a smile to your lips, a sad, watery thing but a smile nonetheless. Jin and Nokto beam brightly, waving and nodding, especially to the women who meet their gazes with excited hands pressed to their hearts. Leon is every inch the prince, flawlessly dividing his attention between both sides of the street, his smile open and wide. He was always so kind. A wave of bittersweet emotion washes through you as you remember the time he would take to explain things to you, to help you find your way, to listen,
But he is not the one your heart chose.
And behind Leon and his black stallion rides the King on his destrier of purest snow white. The sight of him, tall and proud, one gloved hand on the reins, the other casually on the pommel of his sword freezes the breath in your lungs. Your fingers curl into your palm unbidden, nails biting deep into flesh gone numb. Beside him, Clavis is all flashy smiles and waves, golden eyes scanning the crowd to award a nod or tilt of the head to anyone he wants to feel special. His head tilts up as his gaze sweeps across the many open windows and people waving handkerchiefs, some embroidered roses, some embroidered with tigers in honor of the king’s crest.
You, still as a beam of moonlight, stand out amid the riotous cheering.
Of course Clavis notices you. In a heartbeat, your eyes lock with his and something inside you shifts as you are flooded with the memories of the many laughs, the teasing, but most of all, the way he supported you through loving his brother. He knows what a difficult path that is to walk. He has been walking it his whole life.
He offers you something no one else in the crowd gets. His face, always adept at schooling itself into whatever mask it need be, is filled with genuine emotion at the sight of you. He offers you a smile, soft and sad and real.
Somehow, even from a distance, he has still found a way to comfort you.
Your spirit is bolstered, just a little, and you manage a smile in return, raising a hand in greeting.
And then Chevalier notices his brother’s upturned face and his own head moves, his gaze rising to see what has Clavis’s attention.
There you are, up in the window, framed like a beautiful portrait, smiling, but even he can see it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, like a garden dappled in shadows. Your hand is raised, that hand he knows intimately. He knows the motion of your fingers as they delicately turn the page of a book. He knows the strength in them when you grip a horse’s reins. And he knows their softness, the tenderness with which they can touch, the feel of your fingertips as they trace the line of his jaw. The eagerness with which they press into the back of his neck when he kisses you-
Kissed you.
When he kissed you.
Because he will never know their touch again. Nor your kiss. Nor your smile. Even now, as your gaze meets his, that smile fades, your hand slowly lowers, curling against your heart like a wounded animal, seeking shelter.
And he knows he did that. He killed the warmth of you, the joy, the whispering sunshine of your love.
And he would do it again.
Because as pained as you look now, somehow he knows it would never compare to the pain of being in love with someone who could so deeply disappoint you. He learned that lesson the day he rode to the border, when he killed as mechanically as clockwork, without remorse, without regard. How easily his blade drank the blood of young and old. He saw only red, felt only the jolt of sword through flesh and turned to seek it again and again.
You claimed there was good in him, there was mercy and the capacity to love.
And for a brief moment in time, he had believed you. Until that day.
And rather than watch your love for him slowly wither as you learned you were wrong, that he was nothing more than a brutal beast, he made a clean cut. Sharp, painful but without a doubt in his mind the correct thing to do.
He could not watch the light in your eyes go out. Because he loved you.
Loves you.
Because he still loves you.
Chevalier’s pale head turns away from you and the procession continues.
Slowly, breathing against the burning ache in your chest, the broken pieces of your heart slicing into wounds that have never fully healed, you lean forward and pull the window closed.
A/N: @dear-mrs-otome your request has taken me on quite the journey. I hope I've managed to do your Prince right and that you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it. 💜
Technically, this is part of my Broken Heartstrings series under the prompt: Only One Bed which I have been dying to write and was really excited to do with Silvio, demanding as he is.
Silvio x f! reader
Word Count: 5093
Of all the people to share a carriage ride back to the palace with, Silvio Ricci is the last one you would have chosen. You glance at him, sitting there across from you in the darkened carriage as it sways over the uneven country roads. His face is currently set to a sharp scowl, his impossibly blue eyes staring out the glass window. Not that he can see much. The world outside is black, streaked with shots of gray as the rain continues to fall, pelting the carriage’s roof and windows with a loud rat-a-tat-tat sound.
Only his occasional annoyed sighs interrupt the steady drumming of the rain. You pull your thin, black silk shawl tighter around your bare shoulders, turning to stare out your own darkened window. You’ll be grateful when you reach the palace and can change out of your tightly corseted ball gown. As enchanting as it is with its ivory-colored satin and black lace trimming, you are looking forward to being able to breathe again. And bend properly.
“Only Rhodolite would have a ball way out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”
Your jaw clenches and the rolling sound of thunder echoes the irritation you feel at his snide tone.
“The Count holds this ball once a year at his country estate which is one of the most elegant–”
The Prince of Benitoite scoffs loudly. “Elegant my ass.”
You are really beginning to question Sariel’s decree that you ride back to the palace with this pompous royal. You’re more likely to lodge your heeled shoe in his temple than make pleasant small talk.
“Prince Silvio, do you have to be so-” You’re interrupted by another boom of thunder, this one loud enough to rattle the carriage. You hear the frightened whine of the horse over the continued sound of heavy rain. Some part of you is not surprised when it rolls to a stop. A moment later there is a rapping at the window and you lean over, opening the carriage door. A rush of wet, cold air invades the dry interior.
“The hell we stopped for?” Silvio yells above the din of the downpour.
The driver, battling the gusting wind to keep his hat on his head and the rain out of his eyes, has to yell back in order to be heard. “‘Storm has gotten too bad, your highness! We can’t keep traveling in this weather!” He glances over his shoulder, blinking against the water pelting his face.. “We passed an inn just a short ways back! We should head there for shelter!”
You expect him to argue and for a half a moment, his lips part and it looks like he might. But then the sky explodes into a sheet of white as lightning bares its teeth. Silvio’s gaze shifts from the sky back to the driver and you’re given a glimpse of a man who understands and respects the power of a storm. He nods once in affirmation.
The driver looks relieved that he won’t have to argue with the haughty prince and closes the carriage door. A moment later you feel it turn, heading back in the direction it came. You wonder whether or not you should comment on the prince’s amenability when he snorts in disgust, moving his expensive leather boots away from a puddle of water that the rain had blown onto the carriage floor.
Nope, still an ass, you think with a sigh and ride the rest of the way to the inn in silence, with only the turbulent sound of the storm echoing through the carriage.
“Whaddaya mean there’s only one room left?” Silvio’s jewelry and the many gold adornments on his ocean-blue jacket gleam in the light of the hearth fire inside the common room of the inn. “You’re talking to a Prince of Benitoite! I could buy this whole place out from under ya in a day.”
The beleaguered innkeeper crosses his burly arms, glaring at the prince from under bushy white eyebrows.
“As I said already, Your Highness, I got one room left. You can take it or leave it.” He turns to the driver who has returned from securing the horse, safe and sound in the barn. “It’s not much, sir, but you can have a spot in front of the hearth. It’ll warm you up, dry you off.”
Silvio’s booted foot hits the wooden planks of the inn’s floor. “And your room? What if I demand to commandeer your bed?”
The innkeeper grins through his full, white beard. “You’d certainly give my wife the thrill of her life, Your Highness.”
You would laugh at the startled look on Silvio’s face but you have another pressing problem. “So I have a choice between the floor and….sharing a room with him?”
Genuinely sorry, the innkeeper nods, his gaze darting to the prince. “I apologize, my lady. Truly.”
You turn to face Silvio and his scowl. With a jangle, he snatches the room key from the counter where the innkeeper left it and marches off toward the narrow, winding staircase that leads to the second story of the inn.
You follow with one last glance at the common room.
Maybe the floor wouldn’t be that bad.
The room is at the very end of the hallway, nestled under the slanted inn roof. You notice several things right away when you step inside: There is one round glass window through which you can watch the way the rain is being flung through the night by a restless, howling wind. A small oil lamp is lit, resting on the nightstand of the lone bed. It is larger than you expected, taking up close to half of the small room. A tiny, worn table and single chair are tucked into a narrow corner. And there is absolutely nothing else in the room except a Prince of Benitoite, whose pale head almost brushes the rafters, standing in the middle with his arms crossed, glowering in disdain.
“What a dump.”
Irritation trumps politeness and you hear yourself snap at him. “You’re welcome to take your royal ass back down to the common room and sleep with the driver. Or perhaps the barn with the horses is more to your liking.”
He turns sharply, his clothing and jewelry jingling softly under the sounds of the storm. His gaze, the blue of a midsummer sky, lingers and you wonder if he’s going to snap at you for speaking to him that way. Or comment on your language. Instead he surprises you by doing neither. His lips curve into a grin and you are utterly unprepared for the way a smile changes his face. What was begrudgingly handsome transforms into blindingly beautiful. Butterflies are born, fluttering their wings in your stomach, sending up a breeze that comes out as a huff of air as you march over to the side of the bed closest to the window and sit, leaning down to undo the straps of your shoes.
He watches you, crossing his arms. “Whatcha doin’?”
You keep your back to him as you pull off one shoe and begin undoing the other. “Getting ready for bed.”
He glances at the bed with its single, quilted blanket and two pillows. Then he begins unbuttoning his dress jacket. “Fine. You can have the blanket. Maybe it’ll make the chair or floor more comfortable.”
Standing, you turn around to face him. He’s carefully removed his jacket and has folded it so all its golden ornaments are wrapped inside of it.
“What do you mean ‘the chair or floor’? The bed is big enough for us both. I refuse to–What on earth are you doing?” You watch, brows raised as he begins tucking his jacket underneath his pillow.
“My clothes are worth more than everything in this room. Hell, one of my rings probably more than this whole fucking inn.” He steps back, satisfied that you can’t see the jacket anymore and then faces his next bothersome obstacle, the one shaking her head with her hands on her hips. Hips, he notices, that are temptingly accented by the flair of her ballgown. His gaze follows the stiff waistline up the strapless bodice where he can’t help but notice other things the gown accents. How had he not noticed your–
Your voice snaps him out of it.
“Prince or not, that’s ridiculous.”
Aaaaaand you’re yappin’ again. He ignores your comment, kicking off his expensive leather boots in a move so casually effortless it stirs those annoying butterflies again and then with a sigh, lays down on the bed. He’s left all of his jewelry on, his golden rings and earrings and necklaces which strikes you as very uncomfortable but he seems right at home, stretching out his long limbs in a way that seems to swallow all that space the bed seemed to have at first glance.
Best to get ready and go to sleep immediately.
With that thought, you realize something-and the raucous storm outside has nothing on the roar of panic flooding your body.
Your ivory and black ball gown is beautiful. And you were laced into this beautiful ivory and black ball gown by a trusted female servant. Laced into it wearing nothing but a pair of soft silken drawers which stop mid-thigh.
You consider trying to sleep in the gown. No. You wouldn’t be able to move. It’s too tight at the waist and chest and too voluminous in the skirt.
Which means…..you turn slowly to see Silvio has rolled over, his back to you. Great. He’s gone to sleep already.
You clear your throat.
No response.
You do it again louder.
He doesn’t move.
“Silvio!”
His name does it. “The fuck you want, lady?!” He’s rolled halfway around, glaring at you over his shoulder.
“I….” This hurts to admit and you wish you were in the room with anyone else. “I can’t undo my gown.”
“So sleep in it,” he says, each word drawn out slowly like he’s talking to a small child. He mutters something in the language of Benitoite you can just tell is rude and insulting.
You grit your teeth. He starts to roll back over.
“I can’t. It’s too tight to sleep in and the skirt is big.”
Outside the thunder rolls, low and foreboding. Silence swallows the room and you know your cheeks are warm. Maybe he won’t notice in the dim light.
He jangles as he pushes himself up now, hair pale as moonlight falling across his forehead and cheek as he tilts his head. And then slowly, oh so slowly, he grins in a way that corkscrews a blaze of heat right through you.
“So lemme make sure I got this. You’re askin’ me to undress you?”
You steel yourself. “And to give me your shirt.”
That wipes the grin right off his face. “Whaddaya mean ‘give you my shirt’? Do you know-”
“I’m sure it’s more expensive than all the buildings in Rhodolite but I am going to sleep in that bed and I am not going to do it in just my undergarment!”
Your tone is firm, much more confident than you actually feel. Again the thunder outside is the only sound as he stares, those cobalt blue eyes fixed on you with the intensity and depth of a storm-tossed ocean.
“Please.” It comes out small, a tiny crack in the wall of confidence you’ve been presenting him with. The word has slipped out, unbidden and the heat in your face feels unbearable. Have you lost your mind, asking him to do this? “N-Nevermind, I’ll-”
Your stammering drops off as he stands, his elegant fingers reaching under soft white ruffles to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He does not meet your gaze and you wonder if that darkness in his face is a blush to match your own. Then the white shirt is off and he’s standing before you, his upper body surprisingly sculpted and shockingly bare. His necklaces lay against his fair skin and there is something so intimate about the sight your breath catches.
“So the lady likes what she sees.” Dragging your gaze away from all the exposed skin and corded muscle, you see that grin has returned to those lips and you draw a quick breath, spinning around and presenting him with your back (which happens to conveniently hide a blush so fierce it must be glowing.)
“Just get on with it.”
The wooden floorboards creak underfoot as he crosses to where you are standing. You’re not sure you’ve ever been this close to him before. You didn’t dance together at the ball and as far as you can remember the only time you’ve ever touched was when you first met and he offered you his hand, a sharp thrust in your direction that felt more like he was going to stab you with an invisible dagger than an introduction.
But now he is so close you can smell his cologne, something unexpectedly soft that vaguely reminds you of the sea on a dark, clear night. Your body is electric with an awareness that ripples across your skin with every inhale and exhale he makes. Outside, the rain is endless, the thunder unflagging. But their sounds are drowned out by the sudden pounding of your heart, by the beat of a thousand butterfly wings sending your blood rushing through your veins like the current of a wild river. He begins pulling on the satin bow of your gown, undoing the careful knot.
“The laces can be tricky,” you say just to say something, anything. Is that really your voice, so breathy and soft?
You realize your mistake instantly because he answers you and his voice is right by your ear, curling around the shell of it.
“I got more than enough experience with knots,” he murmurs.
“Because of all the people you’ve bedded,” you mutter. Why did you say that? And why does the thought of Silvio in bed with anyone make your fingers curl into your palms?
He’s released the knot and begins loosening the stays, tucking those nimble fingers underneath each crisscross and tugging, not roughly as you would have imagined but with precision, loosening each section deliberately, skillfully.
“Because I’m a sailor,” he says matter-of-factly, surprising you yet again. He tugs again and the bodice of your gown suddenly slips, sending you scrambling to keep the whole thing up. He leans closer still, his lips mere centimeters from your ear. “And because of all the people I’ve bedded.” He’s undone your gown but you’re being wrapped up again, this time in his silken, serpentine words..
Your heart leaps in your chest and you stumble away, holding up your dress with both arms, swallowing against the unexplainable tightness in your throat.
“Your shirt.” You hold the ivory satin to your chest with one arm and hold out your free hand, palm up. He practically strolls back to the bed (how he manages to do that in such a small space is a mystery), picks up his shirt and with a shameless grin, throws it at you.
You don’t reach for it with both hands as he may have hoped, instead catching it one-handed and there is a flash of something in his eyes. Disappointment? Admiration? Both?
“Turn around.”
He lifts his hand, jeweled rings on nearly every finger and covers his eyes.
“Silvio.” Consternation swells his name. It looks like he’s peeking.
“What? I ain’t lookin’!”
There is too much running wildly through your mind, too many blurry thoughts twisting in incomprehensible circles to worry about whether or not the man is going to sneak a look at you or not. You turn your back to him and let your gown drop to the floor with a whoosh.
He didn’t plan to look. But the rings on his fingers don’t allow him to hold them together completely and when your dress makes that sound, his eyes open of their own accord and through the narrow space between his fingers he catches a glimpse of your naked back. The curve of your hip and dip of your waist. The shapely line of your legs.
The thunder rumbles a warning and he quickly closes his eyes again, alarmed at the sharp, hot pang of want slicing its way through his body. You? No. He doesn’t want–
One blue eye slowly opens, this time without any excuse. You’re wearing his shirt. It falls to the back of your knees and somehow looks better than any dress ever would. There is a tension slowly winding its way across his neck, his shoulders, a tightening in his gut at the sight. And then you turn, buttoning the final few buttons and his mouth goes dry at the fleeting glimpse of your décolleté. .
What the fuck…..He forces his eyes closed again, his jaw clenched against the swift desire you unknowingly provoked.
You scramble towards the bed and dive under the blanket, pulling it up and over your chest.
“Okay,” you murmur. “You can look now.”
He mumbles something that sounds like “Finally”, his voice oddly hoarse, as he lays back down but on top of the covers.
“You can get under the covers. You’ll get cold if–”
“I’m fine, lady,” he snaps, a dog snarling at the hand offering it a pet.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You have no shirt on and it’s not all that warm in here. You’ll get sick.”
“I don’t get sick,” he says haughtily and for a moment, your exasperation overrules the awkwardness.
“Fine. Whatever you say.” You pointedly roll away from him, trying to ignore how soft his shirt is, how good it smells, how comforting it is against your skin as the world outside rages with wind and water.
“This bed sucks.” His voice is rough, irritated. You glance over your shoulder. He’s laying on his back, his hands behind his head, staring at the slanted wooden beams of the ceiling. Despite the bareness of his upper body, it’s his profile that captures your attention. The fall of his pale hair. The slant of his cheekbones. The straight, aristocratic nose. His perfectly sculpted lips. A sudden, wild thought bursts through the chaos of your mind: what would they feel like on your lips? On your skin?
Outside the thunder booms, a furious sound so powerful it shakes the window, like a giant quaking the earth with its powerful steps. A small cry of surprise and trepidation escapes you.
He turns his head. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”
You roll onto your back, not wanting to face the window and the darkness outside. An uncontrollable shiver rolls through you and you tug the covers up, closer to your chin.
“Rhodolite doesn’t have storms like this often." Your heart is hammering because of the deafening clap of thunder, right? It has nothing to do with the preposterous thoughts spinning like coins through your head just before.
“Benitoite does.” He returns his gaze to the dark wooden beams above. “Be grateful you’re not on the deck of a ship durin’ a storm like this.”
You glance at the window, illuminated by a burst of lightning and then turn, rolling completely away from it to face him.
“What was it like?”
Silvio glances at you, then quickly back to the ceiling. “This little rain shower’s got nothin’ on a storm that crept up on us while we were out to sea, sailin’ back from Tanzanite…..”
He speaks and you listen, each word a small fairy light blinking into existence, leading you down a path, away from the storm outside the small guesthouse in the middle of the Rhodolite countryside, and into the eye of a hurricane. One that rocks the carrack Silvio is on, homeward bound from far-away Tanzanite.
He paints the picture so well, his voice low, blending in with the unrelenting barrage of rain on the darkened window pane. You can see him in your mind’s eye, soaked through, swallowing salt water and his fear as he clings to wet, stinging ropes, his boots sliding across the slick deck. Men’s shouts fade into the roar of the wind. A body is plucked from the ship and tossed like a ragdoll through the howling wind, lost forever to the churning, briny depths. The ocean is enraged, a wild beast bucking and kicking blindly. The ship groans and tilts, battered by the winds, tossed by the wild waves. Silvio’s vision is blurred as he seeks out the helmsman, valiantly still at the massive wooden wheel and makes his way across the dangerously open deck. A wall of water slams into him and he knows if he doesn’t fight, he will be washed out to sea. Dogged determination fills him. Out here he isn’t a prince, fighting for his father’s approval, fighting to be seen as someone worthy. Out here in the elements he is a man, fighting for his very survival, all his gold and jewels and titles worn down to nothing by the wild storm, like mighty mountains that have been reduced to pebbles by the persistence of rain over centuries. He roars in the face of the wind and the rain, clawing his way up to the petrified helmsman. “Insieme!!” Together.. His ringed fingers wrap around the wooden handles, between those of the helmsman. Their gazes meet and as lightning blanches the sky, they both turn with all their might……
“The sea claimed four men that night. Ain’t small, the price of lovin’ her.” He trails off, the experience slowly fading back into the mist of his memory. His blue eyes, darker and softer than you’ve ever seen them, blink as he returns to the small room at the top of the inn and the woman lying next to him.
You’re still on your side, facing him, your gaze held completely at attention by his face, his voice. His story not only distracted you from the storm outside, but had pulled you in, had you inching closer, heart hammering in your chest as you hung on every word.
But he’s run out of words, that barrier now gone, and there is nothing between you. Just your gaze locked with his, your chest rising and falling as you stare into those azure depths, wondering if the tempest outside will be what causes you to helplessly fall into all that blue, another voyager lost in the ocean of his eyes.
You may be balancing on attraction’s razor-thin edge, but he is no better off. All he can think about is the softness in your expression, the part of your lips, and how he wants nothing more than to capture them and steal the taste of your mouth for himself, hoard it along with the other treasures he already has of you from tonight. The line of your bare back, the light in your eyes, the whisper of your breathing. Just a few centimeters and he would touch you. A few more and he could-
A loud clap of thunder breaks the moment, snapping it in two. You jump, shaken from the hold his gaze had on you, a loud gasp escaping your throat. He jerks back, suddenly aware of just how close the two of you were. There is a faint flush across his cheekbones as he runs a hand through his soft, silvery hair.
“Stop bein’ such a baby. I just told ya how this is nothin’.”
That imperious tone feels like an affront after hearing him speak so softly before. You pull away as if stung and then gather yourself together so he won’t see the glimmer of hurt in your eyes.
“I’m not a baby. I was just startled and–” The way he’s tilting his head, a derisive smirk on his lips sends a flare of annoyance through you. “You know what? Just forget it.” Angrily you roll away from him, yanking the covers up over your shoulder. You don’t see the flash of disappointment in his eyes, the way his fingers reflexively uncurled when you turned away, his body knowing what it wants long before his mind.
You don’t see how long his gaze lingers on you before he finally forces himself to look away.
Sleep does not find you. You lay there as the oil lamp sputters out and the room is filled with dark shadows that scatter briefly when bright bursts of lightning illuminate the sky, a sky that continues to rampage with gusts of wind and cries of thunder.
Every single inch of you is aware of how close he is. You feel when he shifts his body, the movement disturbing the bedding. You’re still wrapped in the softness of his shirt, surrounded by his scent. And now you can hear the even sounds of his breathing.
Taking a chance, you glance over your shoulder.
He’s asleep on his side, still facing you, his pillow tucked between his arm and his head. You should turn away and continue your battle with wakefulness. You should stop staring at the locks of argent hair across his forehead. The curve of his arm. The graceful line of his torso.
Outside the thunder rolls. Your heart echoes its tremor.
You do eventually turn away from him but find yourself very slowly inching your way backwards, moving towards him until your body is touching his, the blanket still between you. Despite the coolness of the room, he has stayed on top of it. There is an almost palpable relief in the feeling of his form, the solidness of his body. The storm feels less angry, less destructive. Being this close to him feels right in a way you don’t want to explore, a nebulous thing on the horizon of your heart that you want to keep at bay.
And then he shifts in his sleep, throwing his arm around you and pulls you even closer against him.
You’re grateful he’s asleep or else the sudden galloping of your heart would surely wake him. It takes several breaths to calm the storm of butterflies in your chest, kicked up by your heart’s sudden racing. They settle down, wings still opening and closing at the feel of his strong arm, the curve of his body around yours. But there is also something warm slowly washing over you. A cocoon, a safe haven where you can finally close your eyes, finally feel the storm’s energy not as an enemy but as a companion, accompanying you as you drift off to sleep at last.
Silvio feels the way your body relaxes, the tension seeping from your muscles as you fall asleep, soft and trusting in his embrace.
If you only knew he has been awake throughout.
He stays awake for a long time, loath to move even a centimeter, feeling the warmth of your body through the blanket and listening to the sound of the rain.
Epilogue:
“Get up, lady. I need my shirt back.”
That voice falls into the still waters of sleep, hooking itself into your consciousness and drags you slowly to the surface.
Sleepily you push yourself up, raising a hand against the bright beam of sunlight spilling into the room.
Pushing your tousled hair out of your face, you find the Prince of Benitoite standing beside the bed, his jacket flung over his bare shoulder, one hand on his hip as he stares down at you. “Let’s go. We’re gettin’ out of this dump. Driver’s already waitin’.”
Irritation rears its little horned head and your eyes narrow.
“Good morning to you too.”
He ignores that and stretches out his hand. “My shirt.”
And we’re back to this. You sigh.
“Go wait outside the door.”
He regards you a moment and then turns on his boot heel and leaves the room. With a grimace you climb out of the warm bed, padding barefoot across the wooden floor until you’re by the entrance. As quickly as you can, you unbutton his white shirt and then stick your hand out the door with it dangling from two fingers.
He mutters something that you cut off with a slam, eyes closing for a moment as you catch your breath.
Did last night really happen? Was he….kind? And….warm? Did you really sleep in his arms?
A bang on the door jerks you out of your thoughts. “Move it or lose it!”
Oh for fuck’s sake. “Go already! I’ll be there!”
Somehow you are able to wrangle yourself back into your ball gown. Tying the back is tricky but you manage to get it closed enough to avoid any indecency. A quick re-pinning of your hair and buckling of your shoes and you're making your way down the wooden staircase. The innkeeper is at the counter, smiling through his fuzzy white beard in greeting.
“Morning, my lady,” he calls cheerfully.
The door to the inn is open and you can see the driver loading a few things back onto the carriage. Silvio is already inside.
“Thank you again for your hospitality, sir. I’m afraid I don’t have any coin for our stay, but I’ll be sure to return as soon as possible to pay-”
The older man shakes his head, waving you to a stop with his hand. “Oh no, no need for that my lady. Your…er…roommate already took care of it.”
You’re unable to hold back the surprise in your voice as you glance at the carriage and then back to the innkeeper. “He did?”
His eyes gleam as he reaches into the pocket of his worn vest and again, shock squeezes a silent gasp from your lips. In his work-worn, calloused hand, he’s holding two of Silvio’s bejeweled rings. His words from last night flash through your mind.
—“My clothes are worth more than everything in this room. Hell one of my rings probably more than this whole fucking inn.” –
The innkeep is oblivious to your stunned expression. “These’ll pay for any damage the storm caused and then some. I told that young man, he's welcome here anytime.”
You finally find your voice. “I….I’m glad to hear that. Thank you again.”
He bids you farewell as you walk outside into the startlingly bright sunlight. The smell of petrichor fills the air, the ground still damp as you walk towards the carriage.
The hazy feeling of something born in the fury of the storm….
Something nameless.
Something undeniable.
Something Silvio has awoken.
….is rising on delicate butterfly wings, inching its way closer to the realm of your heart.
A/N: An entry into my own One Suitor, One Prompt Content Creation Challenge as well as fulfilling a request for my Broken Heartstrings series
Prompts: Water from the first, Only One Bed from the second.
WC: 3.5 k
The King of Benitoite slowly lowers his crystal flute bubbling with rose-colored prosecco. Carlo is by his ear, mumbling something but Silvio isn’t paying attention. His sharp blue eyes are on the gray marbled dance floor of the ballroom where couples are passing by the raised dais in dazzling displays of glittering jewels and shiny, flowing gowns. One couple in particular has caught his attention: the third prince of Rhodolite and you, former Belle and newly-minted ambassador. Silvio tilts his head, his crown sliding ever so slightly forward over his silvery hair. Clavis is smiling, that guy is always smiling, but somehow this is different. There is a certain softness around his mouth, a brightness in his golden eyes that Silvio can observe even from here. And you, lady, are no different. Your hand is gripping Clavis’s tightly, your face tilted up towards him like a flower to the sunshine. You two dance like you are the only people in the ballroom, like the orchestra is playing just for you.
Hmm. Silvio takes a long sip from his glass. Suddenly he turns his head, snapping his fingers and stopping the flow of Carlo’s litany on the various nobles in attendance.
“Tell the band-”
“The orchestra, your Majesty.”
“Whatever. Tell ‘em to play ‘Moonlight on Water.’ That slow-ass song you told me about last week.”
Carlo frowns slightly. “But the guests seem to be enjoying the Almain.” It is indeed a lively dance that has people throwing back their heads and laughing a bit too loudly, gliding through the steps buzzing with wine and fast tempo.
“Do it.”
Carlo scurries off and Silvio watches out of the corner of his eye as the conductor bends his head, listening as the dark-haired man delivers the king’s orders.
It takes only a few minutes for the music to shift and what was a cheerful, energetic dance slows to something softer. Couples step closer together, arms winding around waists, bodies almost touching. He watches as you and Clavis come to a stop, taking in the way the dance floor has changed moods. Your blush paints your cheeks with the sweetest heat. Clavis drops your hand, stepping back as he looks around, his smile in place but his eyes move too quickly to be as calm as he is trying to seem. He says something to you and Silvio doesn’t need to hear the words because they don’t matter. It’s the slight forward pitching of his stance, the waver of his gaze, the tension cording its way across his shoulders that gives away his nervousness.
And then you smile, nodding, and step into Clavis’s arms. It’s impossible to miss the shower of relief that overwhelms him as he gathers you close and begins the slow steps of the dance. Silvio takes another deep sip of champagne. He’s rather had fun with the two of you on your diplomatic visit to Benitoite. Clavis is far shrewder than he appears and you are the perfect ambassador, with your warmth and intelligence and face that would melt the snow on the Achroite mountain peaks. And seeing how you both have King Chevalier’s ear, wouldn’t it be fitting if it was here, in his kingdom, that you two finally acted upon what is clearly a mutual attraction to one another? Wouldn’t it be a fond memory of his country to take back home and perhaps, with associations of love and romance, keep decisions tilted in his favor?
There is only one problem with his plan. Despite having asked the orchestra to play the sappiest, most romantic song he knows, you and Clavis are dancing close….and nothing else. Other couples have their foreheads pressed together, hands wandering into territory that is scandalous-adjacent. Some have even stopped dancing on the shadowy edges of the floor, kissing discreetly. But not you two. You’re still dancing an appropriate distance apart and despite the naked yearning on your face, Clavis’s golden eyes are not on you but past you, as if he can’t bear to see what you are offering him.
“Idiota,” he mutters as he drains the rest of his drink. The dance comes to an end and the orchestra begins a livelier dance. You and Clavis move away from the floor and only Silvio sees the way you’re blinking back tears.
Fine. If Clavis is too blind or too chickenshit to see whats right in front of him….he’ll fucking make it happen himself.
The wine cellar is remarkable. You’re still not entirely sure why Silvio scooped you and Clavis up from the ballroom and insisted you follow him to have a look at it. Surely it could have waited until tomorrow. But you don’t argue with the newly-crowned king and so you follow Silvio out of the luxurious ballroom and down several marbled hallways and a winding set of stone stairs. A gorgeously carved wooden door depicting vineyards and grapes leads to another, shorter set of steps and then you are inside.
Silvio lights several of the wall sconces and you are greeted by a white room with vaulted ceilings and dark wooden barrels bigger than you and Clavis put together. The walls are lined from top to bottom with bottled wine and one corner of the massive room has glass bottles of crystal-clear mountain water taken from the very peaks of the Achroite mountains. It is dizzyingly impressive and Silvio is actually quite knowledgeable and charming as he guides you and Clavis further back into the massive cellar.
You turn your attention away from the sheer magnitude of it all and back to what he is saying.
“.....but you ain’t gonna believe me until you try it. Just stay here. I know where we keep the good stuff.”
Clavis gestures with his white-gloved hand. “That none of this is “the good stuff” is truly surprising. You have wine from every country I know and then some.” You’re certain Clavis knows every single country but he is a master of flattery, playing down his razor-sharp intelligence when he knows it is a singularly good choice.
Silvio grins slowly, his teeth white as a wolf’s. “Just you wait.” He jangles as he walks back towards the entrance, a sound that echoes throughout the cellar. Despite the light of the scones, there is a chill that lingers here and no windows at all. A shiver suddenly runs through you, sending a scattering of goosebumps across your arms. Why do you have such a bad feeling about this?
As if in answer, the cellar booms with the closing of the door.
Wait….what?
You and Clavis exchange a look before he takes off on long legs, hurrying in the direction Silvio went. By the time you catch up, he’s already at the beautiful wooden door. The beautiful, locked wooden door.
“No……” Something akin to panic squeezes your heart and you find yourself drawing in a deep, unsteady breath. “He didn’t…..”
Clavis doesn’t look dismayed. In fact, his handsome features are bright with an expression of absolute delight.
“I would seem he did, the jangler. The question is why. What a curious action to take.”
“How are you so calm?” Dismay has you looking around the cellar, hoping for some miraculous other stairway to appear or maybe a trap door that would lead to a tunnel to get you out of here.
Clavis shoots you a grin, one that would normally send your heart racing if it wasn’t already dizzy with the first fumes of panic. He reaches into the pocket of his soft lavender coat and pulls out a small velvet pouch which he deftly unrolls with the snap of his wrist. Inside are several long, pointy metal objects.
“Because I am never unprepared. So calm your rabbit heart and watch as I save the day and pick our way out of here.”
“It seems we are at an impasse.”
Speaking more to himself than you, Clavis sinks down onto the top step. Gone is the confident gleam in his eyes. Instead he’s frowning down at his lockpicking set like it has failed him. How could Silvio of all people have a lock in this ostentatious mess of a palace that Clavis Lelouch can’t crack?
He inhales, ignoring the voice in the back of his head telling him that he has failed, that he’s disappointing you. But it’s so very loud, filling his mind until it’s all he can hear.
Failure. Failure. Failure.
It’s so loud in fact that you have to call his name several times, each time increasingly louder, until he jerks his head up.
“Clavis, come here!!”
He pushes himself off the steps, following the sound of your voice past the glass bottles of wine winking at him in the firelight of the sconces to a narrow doorway at the very back of the cellar. Stepping inside he finds himself inside a small room with a simple bed in the center, a humble wooden nightstand and a single candle which you have lit using the tinderbox and wooden splint that were in the nightstand drawer. You’ve also stolen a bottle of mountain spring water. Clever.
“At least we don’t have to huddle on the ground for the night.”
The intimacy of the room feels overwhelming, like a cloud of gray fog rolling through his mind. He couldn’t….you would be so very close, one slight movement and you might touch. Yes, you touch all the time, yes he held you close dancing but it is exactly the memory of what he felt then, the electric almost frantic desire to pull you bodily against him and taste the sweetness of your smile that has him forcing a casual shrug and a smile bereft of its natural sunshine.
“You can sleep here. I’ll stay awake. Play your trusty guard until one of these Benitoites opens the door again.”
He’s stayed awake through the night before. In fact, sleepless nights are no stranger to him. He’s felt the sharp rake of their fingernails across his forehead, felt their claws scrape against his ribcage and send his lungs shrinking in fear. Insomnia chose him as a constant companion after the death of his mother, when the nights became endless, every shadow a predator, smelling the blood of a broken heart and stalking him for one final kill.
“No.” You surprise him with the conviction in your voice, the frown on your face. “I mean…..I would….I would be grateful if you were here, close to me. If…if that’s ok.”
The truth is you’ve never been a fan of the dark, especially this dark. The dark, cold places deep within the earth. They remind you too much of graves, of death, of eternal night. Clavis, with his golden eyes and quick smile, is light and one glance at the candle on the nightstand tells you that soon, he may be the only thing left to keep you feeling calm and safe.
He hears it in your voice. The wavering undercurrent of fear that flows through your words.
“Of course, if that’s what you require, my dear.”
You slide your feet out of your shoes and sit on the edge of the bed. Carefully you undo your earrings, beautiful but heavy jewels the color of wisteria, setting them on the nightstand before laying back and settling yourself on the bed. You’re grateful you wore a gown more in the Benitoite-style, a softer, looser style of dress that allows you freedom of movement that the stiff, corseted ballgowns of Rhodolite would not.
Clavis waits until you roll onto your side and close your eyes before he undoes his lavender jacket, leaving him in his white dress shirt and pants. He sits on the opposite side of the bed, undoing his own shiny leather boots. What now? Your back is to him, exposed by the halter-style fastening of your dress. His gaze traces the lines of muscle and bone, the lay of the fabric along the curve of your hip. He blinks, then clumsily reaches for the bottle of mountain water like a man parched and removes the stopper, drinking deeply. It’s so chilled he feels it slide down his throat, down through his sternum where he hopes the cold will extinguish the heat you have unwittingly caused. He closes his eyes and takes several long sips. There. Yes, it should be just fine now. Why he's positively frosty. He carefully sets the glass bottle on the nightstand and then lays down next to you, on his back.
Eyes wide open.
The small room is illuminated only by the faint orange of the single candle and the slowly encroaching darkness only works to heighten his other senses. He can hear your breathing, smell the scent of your rosewater perfume. The thin blanket under his hands is rough and scratchy, the pillow too soft to be entirely comfortable. He blames these things for his wakefulness, but in the shadows of his heart he knows the truth: he could be asleep in his own luxurious bed in the palace, with soft moonlight filtering in through the arched windows, with the sounds of silver-stringed crickets and gently hooting owls punctuating the night….and even then, if you were near, he would never fall sleep. Your presence is too bright, blinding even. His skin is electric with awareness. Every breath you take is thunder in his ears and when you suddenly speak, breaking the room’s cloud of silence, it feels like an earthquake shaking his bones, unsettling the blood in his veins.
“It’s getting cold.”
He hadn’t noticed, not with his whole being focused on your proximity to him. But now he feels it too. As the hours of the night deepen, the cellar has grown chilly, cold dancing along the exposed skin of his neck and face.
“Here,” he murmurs as he pushes himself up. “You can have the blanket and-”
“Clavis.”
Your voice is small, subdued. And something in it brings all of his nervous motion to a halt.
“I’m sure you’re cold too so…..would it be ok if you put your arm around me? We could press together. For warmth.”
His heart feels like it might just beat itself right out of his chest. His breath sticks in his lungs like tar. Somehow, he manages to answer.
“Dearie me, but you're full of clever ideas tonight.” But the words are air, lacking his usual warmth and vigor and effervescence. Anxiety is crawling through his veins, a familiar prowler. He swallows hard at the lump its forming in his throat.
He turns, his body mirroring yours and lifts his arm. And then you are there, curled against him, pulling his arm down around your middle. He forms a protective shield behind you and the feel of him so close sends an exhale of relief past your lips. The growing darkness no longer feels quite so menacing. The little flame’s slow descent of the wick is not quite so ominous. Clavis feels like the sweetest safety, the most beautiful armor against your fears.
“Thank you,” you sigh as your eyes close.
His breath is warm against your hair when he answers, his voice as frail as spider-silk. “You’re welcome, my dear. Now sleep, if you can. I’m here.”
Your eyes blink open slowly. You can feel your eyelids moving, feel the strain as you try to clear away the blurry streaks of sleep still muddying your mind. But all you see is darkness, a black so heavy it feels like it is pressing down on you, a foot to your chest, a burly hand over your eyes. Panic slowly uncurls throughout your body, hot and stinging like venomous tentacles.
You bolt upright, throwing off Clavis’s arm which is loose in slumber, and rub at your eyes again, looking frantically around the pitch-black room for any source of light that might combat the heavy blanket of darkness.
“Wha…..?” His voice is thick with sleep, but the uneven, staccato sound of your breathing is a waterfall of ice water through his system. Without hesitation, he reaches out, stumbling through the dark until he’s found your hand.
“It’s ok…..I’m right here. Close your eyes again.” He speaks evenly, voice calm as still waters, holding your hand firmly but gently. You do as he asks, closing your eyes and your body turns towards him automatically, your free hand reaching for him. He catches it and with exquisite tenderness guides you towards him, pulling you into the circle of his arms. You press your forehead against his shoulder, eyes squeezed closed. His scent surrounds you, the soothing calm of lavender, and you stay there, still as stone, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing beneath you, unconsciously matching it with your own until the panic unhooks itself from your mind, dragging itself back to the mire from which it came.
He’s been talking to you the whole time, one hand reassuringly rubbing the spot between your shoulders, his touch warm against your skin. The dark has never been his friend. How many nights did he fill its dark corners with cries, and then small whimpers, begging for it to bring back his mother. To bring him someone who loves him. How many lonely nights has he endured without a kind touch, a comforting voice. Holding you is the very least he can do to ease your dismay, to keep the dark from drowning someone else in its flood.
Keeping your eyes closed helps. This way it feels like the darkness is a choice you’re making and not something you have to endure. Your breathing slowly evens out and awareness of how close you are now dawns. You are pressed against him, your arms tucked between your bodies, your cheek resting on the soft linen of his shirt. You should move away, but your body refuses, drawn to the sanctuary of his embrace like a magnet. And with the way his hand is pressed against your back, the other resting on your waist, it doesn’t feel as if he is in any hurry to let go.
“Clavis?”
“Hmm?” He doesn’t trust himself to speak, not with so many different emotions spiraling through his mind, tightening his throat.
The darkness scares you. But it also frees you to speak the question that has been lingering like a specter in your mind since the dance.
“Why didn’t you kiss me?”
You’re so close to him you feel his sharp inhale. Part of you wishes you could look into his eyes, the gilded brightness of them, and search for truth. After all, Clavis is the king of spun-gold answers, beautiful but insubstantial as rainbows after the rain. He can side-step a direct reply like a fencer parrying an opponent’s blow. But now, when he speaks, his voice so close to your ear, there is a hushed truth twined around his words.
“I would never presume that someone like you would want to be that kind of close with someone like me.”
Quiet words, but they hit you like an earthquake. You shift in his arms, using your fingertips to find his shoulder, grasping it.
“Someone like you? You mean someone compassionate and kind and caring? Someone who puts everyone else first?”
His silence is more telling than any words and you feel when he turns his head away from you and the truth which has left your lips on trembling wings of faith. You slide your hand up until you have the side of his face cupped in your palm and you turn him back in your direction.
“You, sir, may presume that someone like me wants to kiss someone like you. Because I do. Very much.”
It takes a second, several in fact, where your own heartbeat thunders in your ears, before he moves, turning his face into your palm and pressing a kiss there, a delicate, hesitant touch of his lips to your skin that sends your heart into a slow spin. And then you both shift in the total darkness, reaching for each other.
You bump foreheads.
And then you both laugh, a sound gentle yet bright, a beautiful entanglement of his laughter and yours.
Your name is the last thing he says before your lips meet and your heart spins off the precipice and into the unknown, into the darkness as you kiss. He is achingly gentle, one hand coming up to trace the line of your shoulder and slide up until he is holding the back of your head, a steadying force in the midst of this new, spring-green connection between you. Your fingers grip his upper arm as you sink into the pleasure of simply kissing him. His touch is tender and with every movement of his lips, you feel affection and admiration and attraction blossoming. Each kiss is a blossom of trust. He’s handing you his heart, bruised and battered as it is, and you in turn are promising to keep it safely locked within your own, cherishing it above all other things.
Every kiss lingers just a little longer then the last until in unison you break apart. And this time when your foreheads touch it, it is intentional.
“Sleep again, my dear,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”
And so you settle back into the safety of his arms. At first you were only eager for morning because it meant getting out of this place. But now you believe morning will have so much more to offer.
hi violet, can i req for gilbert, prompt forbidden love? if it's ok i'll leave it up to you whether if it's gonna be a fic or hc :) thank you
A/N: You all voted for this to be an Angel / Devil AU and here we are.
CW: death, sickness, war
Gilbert x Reader
Word Count: 2650
1095: the Holy Land
The first time you see him it is over a rising cloud of brown dust, stamped from the earth by a cacophony of hooves and sandaled feet charging at each other. Sunlight glints off curved steel and chain mail as blades from both sides bite into flesh, punctuating the haze with red droplets.
Through the blood and dust you see him, walking amid the chaos. He is, quite simply, the most beautiful being you have ever seen. Every movement exudes grace, from the bend of his torso to the tilt of his head. He is so arresting that you stop in your tracks, frozen under the burning sun, watching him across the din until he turns his head. Fatefully, his gaze finds yours. His eyes, the clearest, deepest red you have ever seen, pull you in, like a fishing line cast into the ocean. You find yourself moving towards him, the epicurean tide drawn to the beauty of the ethereal moon, breathless with something. Time stands still, all sound dwindling into nothingness. The screaming of men, the groaning of the dying, the frenzied cries of horses, it all fades when he smiles, your heart suddenly caught in the curve of his lips, the line of his jaw.
And then he sees you clearly, as the dust begins to clear, as the last man lays gasping, calling for his mother. He sees you and his beautiful face darkens with an emotion you are all too familiar with. The shadowed mask of fear.
You blink and he is gone.
1348: London, England
It is nearly a millennium before you see him again. You step outside of the small, dank house, the smell of sickness lingering in the air. It clings to you, the sheen of rot and ejecta, and you are grateful for a moment’s respite. It is then you see him, walking alongside the rickety wooden cart piled high with bodies, some still oozing sickness from their sores.
“Bring out your dead!”
The man pulling the cart and yelling is sweating, salty droplets of water leave tracks in the dirt caked on his sallow skin. His heartbeat is too fast, too erratic but he fights it, the fist squeezing his lungs, wanting to get just one more footstep further away from this thing they call the Black Death.
But then his voice is gone, his knees buckling as his heart finally gives up the fight. Gilbert, draped in robes the color of twilight, kneels in the dirt road beside him. You watch as his pale hand touches the man’s face and soothes back his matted hair. He speaks and whatever you expected his voice to sound like, it is not this. Not like the soft sound of the wind sweeping across rolling plains. Not like the velvet depth of night, when darkness blankets the mortal world.
“Hello Richard." He is gentle, so very gentle. "My name is Gilbert." He cups the man's face with a tender hand. "It’s ok, my friend. There is nothing to fear. It’s simply time to let go.”
Like a being transfixed, you watch as he guides the soul from its prison of flesh and bones, and with a wave of his hand, sends it on its way.
“You look so young.”
The words leave you before you can stop them. You know speaking to him is forbidden and yet, somehow, it feels as natural to you as sunlight.
He looks up at your words and again, the flicker of fear burns in the red brightness of his eyes. He rises slowly and you admire the way he conquers it so quickly.
“I’m older than you.”
He knows he should not answer you and yet he does, turning to face you fully now. You tilt your chin upwards, letting him look, letting him drink his fill of the sight of you.
“I’ve never seen you before.”
Something dances across his face, tears his gaze away from your form.
“My duties were elsewhere for a time.”
The story behind his words is in his eyes, straining to be freed. His lips burn with the need to tell you more.
And then the bell tolls and you both look in its direction.
Time is fleeting. You have work to do.
With great effort you turn away from him, walking toward the next sad building reeking of death. When you look over your shoulder, past the curve of your leathery wings, you find him watching you.
And you smile.
1839: Mazatlán, Mexico
The winds and water have washed away the small town on the coast. There is nothing left of it, aside from bits of broken buildings and bodies lying in watery graves.
An old woman with a broken back lays, panting heavily as the light slowly fades from her dark eyes. You approach her, your heavy robes trailing in the dirty water and mud. When she sees you, her breathing quickens, her eyes widen and her fingers, old and gnarled and broken, scramble to touch the worn silver cross that has hung around her neck for the last sixty-eight years. Little does she know it too has been lost in the storm. You kneel beside her and she whimpers, her whole body trembling as you reach down, laying your hand on her forehead.
“Por favor,” her voice creaks, “por favor.”
“Begging won’t save you now. You know the life you led. The women you sold. The children.” It doesn’t matter what you say. They can always understand you.
Her body spasms as you reach for her, the real her, the essence inside. Her last words die unspoken on her lips as you send her soul to its journey's end..
Rising, you scan the debris, feel the call of so many souls and you are weary. You make your way towards the beach, stepping over the rubble until you have reached the soft, white sand and smooth gray boulders. You slump down against one of them, tired. The sand is soft, the boulders warm with collected sunlight. You have learned to appreciate the simple things of this plane of existence. The sound of the ocean. The smell of the salty air.
“So even your kind needs a break.”
That voice.
He is standing above you, backlit by the sun, and you wholly believe he is worthy of the countless prayers shot to the heavens by pleading lips.
You can’t help but smile. “Come sit with me. Take a break yourself.”
He smiles back and your heart cracks open, bursting with something newborn and unexpected. Something you can’t give a name to, yet.
“Isn’t there a story about a garden and a serpent that starts this way?” But he lowers himself until he is next to you. His arm brushes yours and it feels like holy fire.
“I shouldn’t be here.” Your voice is softer than usual as you watch the roll of the waves along the beach. A single shoe made for a tiny foot bobs alone in the water. Its former owner is his responsibility. Babies always are.
“You’re doing your job.”
“No, I mean here. With you.”
The words sound as loud to your ears as the waves crashing into the rocks scattered about the shallows. Embarrassed, you start to move away from him, from his warmth and his light and his heavenly smile.
And then you feel his hand wrap around yours, the dawn grasping the dusk, and he pulls you towards him.
Falling into his embrace is easy, so much easier than you ever would have believed, easier than you could have dreamed. Easier than all the rules that say it is forbidden would have you think it is. He is light and warmth to your shadow and shade. You drink him in, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close against you. He gasps softly into your hungry mouth, stunned by the feel of you.
His kind have always been told a litany of warnings to stay away from you. That nothing good will ever come of associating with devils. That he would burn in the pit fires of hell if the rules were ever broken. And oh he is burning, just not the way they described.
As he pulls you against him, your softness yielding to the planes of his body, he does burn. He burns with a singular need to kiss you, to touch you, to claim you as his. He burns with a desire far more dangerous than hellfire. It sharpens him, hardens him, shifts his purpose with every movement of your lips against his. Your mouth is ambrosia. Nothing will ever taste as good ever again. He will forever be thirsty for it. The feel of your hands, pressed against his back, just under his wings, is branded into him, changing him, claiming him.
It is only the tolling of the celestial bell that falls like an ax through the haze of your lust. The call to work.
“I must go.” He looks over his shoulder, then back to you, his dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes your fingers ache to touch it. “We’ll meet again.”
He stands slowly, spreads his large, white feathery wings and in a rush of wind, a flash of light, he’s gone, leaving you alone on the beach with the mournful sobs of the dying, the monotonous lull of the ocean’s waves and his kiss burning on your lips.
October 1916: Somme River; Picardy, Northern France
It feels wrong, rushing to meet him with the thunderous sounds of war rocking the world, and the deadly fog of mustard gas rising like a cobra to sink its fangs into shaking men. Even you shudder as the shrill cry of artillery shells and the spitting rage of the machine guns echo hell on earth. Men are dying in record numbers but it is precisely for this reason that you can meet. The bloody ground with its endless sea of death and destruction masks your movements from anyone who may wonder where exactly you are. Too many souls departing too quickly. Everyone is busy, thanks to men and their thirst for war. Angels and devils alike roam the ravaged fields, answering the call of the doomed.
He waits for you behind a burned-out house amid charred, leafless trees. You gasp when you see him. One eye is covered by a swath of black silk.
“What happened?” Your hands are on his face, now familiar to your touch. You have loved him for almost a century, a drop in the ocean of time, and yet, short as it may be, it feels essential. Sacred.
“They know.”
Those two words sink into your heart like a stone, dragging you down into a trench of despair. He has lost an eye in punishment. There will be more coming. The sky above you explodes orange against gray.
There are so many words that they stifle your speech, stacking one behind the other in your throat. None of them will change anything. None of them will save you. He reaches out, pulling you into the shelter of his embrace, a tender kiss placed on the top of your head, between your short, black horns.
“It will be alright. I have a plan.”
You tilt your face up to look at him as the world rumbles, heavy tanks rolling like moving fortresses through the dead fields.
“I will come for you. Give me time.” He sounds so sure.
Dread crawls up your spine with tiny, grasping claws but you nod slowly. You trust him.
He leans down, pressing a light kiss to your lips, a small beacon of hope in the darkness that surrounds you, the darkness that fills you. Then he steps away, unfurls his pristine wings, and vanishes, leaving you alone amid the wreckage.
2023: St. Anne’s Nursing Center; Regina, Canada.
The old man sees you, although his eyes stopped working years ago. Ignoring the exhausted muttering of the overworked nurse, his drawn face, etched with lines and mottled with brown spots, turns towards the doorway where you stand.
You are never who they want to see. You with your black wings and horns, with your fiery eyes and ashen skin. You, devil. His heart, worn and faded, skips its final beat as you walk over, curling your cool fingers around his frail wrist.
He wants to scream but all that comes out is a wheeze of fetid breath. Holding his wrist in your hand you lean down, lips close to his ear.
“It’s time.”
Every last living cell in his body wants to fight and you sigh, tightening your hold on him. It’s not a pleasant end when they fight, especially once they realize where they are going. And this one has reason to fight. His soul is as tainted as can be, a history of violence and hate and a pile of bones that will eventually be unearthed in the far corner of his remote property. Too many for just one person.
He submits, his soul needing to be pried from its cage of weak bone and flaccid muscle before you are finally able to send it down, down, down where it belongs.
There are others here, dancing on the edge of this life and the beyond, but none require your attention. Not today. You leave the now still body, making your way down the generic beige hallway and across the dated, olive-green tile of the entrance until you are outside, breathing in the cold, clean winter air.
Above you, the sky is black, the moon only a sliver of silver amid the twinkling stars. You’re about to move on when you hear it. The unmistakable beat of wings.
You turn and you see him, dropping down to the ground in one elegant movement. What you see brings both hands to your mouth, snatches the breath from your lungs.
Gone are the soft white feathers of his wings. They have been plucked out, burned away. The bloody leftovers re-formed into the stretched black leather of bat wings, darker than yours and wider. His robes are darkest obsidian, his hair midnight kissed by stars. And sprouting from it, the surest sign of what he has done: long, black horns, curled like a ram’s and deadly sharp.
“No…..no……” You know what this means and it brings you to your knees, right there on the icy pavement. His red eye is aflame with determination as he walks over to you, leaning down to take a strong hold of your arms and lift you again.
“It was the only way.” His voice is steady, gentle but sure.
You shake your head. “You are Fallen. You know what He will do. What you will have to do to prove yourself.” The Morningstar is cruelest to those just like Him.
Gilbert brushes your soft hair back, his skin pale as bone, now cold as ice.
“I will not only endure it, but I will conquer it and prove that I have earned a place among His agents. Perhaps….even….conquer Him.” His expression softens as he cups your face, his thumb stroking the line of your cheekbone. “I can master anything. You are by my side. You,” he pauses, his voice a whisper that roars louder than thunder, “are the reason for it all.”
And then his mouth is on yours and you melt against him, love for him clouding the danger of his words, the fear of what is to come. You wrap your arms around him and you return his kiss hungrily, greedily, covetous. His teeth sink into your lower lip, his wings extending to black out the sky before wrapping themselves around you, his hands grasping at your robes, yanking handfuls of it away from your skin until he can take hold of the soft underside of your thighs. With a deep growl he lifts you, pulling you against him, his unbound lust finally free.
OMG OMG OMG I JUST THAT THIS IS THE LAST DAY TO REQUEST TvT. I hope I'm not too late. I wanted to ask for Sariel, Litch, Chevalier and Clavis. Secret lovers. Pairing with MC ofc. Again I hope I'm not too late. Lots of love from me. I love you. AAAAAAH I LOVE YOU😩 YOU'RE AMAZING
Ok tq sorry for the sudden love declaration but I still love you💅
A/N: Here you are, @ludivineikewolf 💜 Thank you for the kind words and for the request!
Word Count: 1706
Licht Klein
There is something fearful in Licht that still has its claws sunk deep in his heart. Something that still breathes hot worry through its chamber like Dust Bowl wind across a faded prairie. He knows he is not a faction leader, but his prowess on the field of battle is known. He is renowned for his military mind, for his expertly trained soldiers. Licht Klein is a name that would make most men think twice. And it is because of this, he says, that he wants to keep your relationship secret. He has enemies and they must not know how close you are to him.
Night has fallen over Rhodolite and deep within the heart of the palace, you lay in his arms. Though his skin is warm against yours, though you are safe within the circle of his embrace, though your limbs are heavy with the exhaustion of your lovemaking, you can’t help but tilt your head up to look at him in profile, wakefulness buzzing in your mind like a swarm of insects. Thankfully, Licht is asleep. His rubine eyes are closed, his breathing is slow and even. His face holds a peace in it that almost breaks your heart at how rare the sight is.
You love him with the strength of your whole heart, with the force of every breath you take, with a ferocity that could bring a mountain to its knees. And all of that is held tight, locked inside yourself, but threatening to burst free at any moment. Because how can you keep your gaze from finding him across a room? How can his voice, the one you know can be soft and cloying and whisper its desperate need and gentlest love for you, how can it not turn your head? A boot presses down on your heart every time you force those feelings down and away, back into the shadows.
He is uneasy, afraid of what loving him may cost you. But you ask yourself, as your gaze wanders his sleeping visage, could the cost of hiding it be even greater?
Sariel Noir
You know it’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong. There are so many reasons why it is simply wrong. He is your tutor. He is an important member of the administrative arm of the palace, if not the most important person aside from the princes themselves. You are his student, learning all you can about your role as Belle. You are a commoner, unfamiliar with the palace aside from it being some distant entity that has always loomed over your life like a star in the night sky. Far away, untouchable, yet ever-present. All this and more should be enough to keep each other at arm’s length, to maintain those boundaries between you as solidly as a stone wall of propriety.
And yet....even now....your feet are carrying you down darkened hallways, up winding steps within narrow tower walls, dusty with disuse. At the top your hand finds the dull, worn brass door handle and pulls, the wood creaking a testament to age and dereliction. You shouldn’t be here, sneaking around like a thief in the night...but there. There is his figure silhouetted by moonlight. He stands at the small window, looking down on the distant, empty courtyard. Your breath catches in your throat. The moon is a loving artist, painting his pale skin with radiant silver, his dark hair in glistening argent light. For once, he is not moving, not writing, not reading, not hurrying from one meeting to the next. He is perfectly still, his dark violet gaze never leaving the glass. Maybe you should leave. Some part of you, some tiny thorn that has dug its way into your mind, is telling you that would be the right thing to do.
You step backwards and the floorboards creak underfoot. He turns and you are lost. One look at his face, at the way his breath caught at the sight of you, at the sudden flash of light in those amethyst eyes, and you know that backwards was never an option. It will always be forwards, always towards him.
You meet in the middle, mouths finding one another, bodies pressed tightly together, held that way by strong arms and blazing hearts. As you drink him in, as you stumble together over the wooden floor toward the bed of this long-forgotten guest suite, the one whose sheets have been unobtrusively replaced with clean, soft linens, you know in the deepest part of your heart and quietest part of your soul that for him, for this, the risk is worth everything.
Clavis Lelouch
You and Clavis have been through many obstacles during your time as Belle. And while that time has come to end, the challenges haven’t. Because of all the things Clavis may be, he is still a prince. And you are still a commoner. And in the eyes of the nobility, your worlds are as incompatible as oil and water. But you love him, this one-of-a-kind man of yours, this golden-eyed song your heart can’t stop singing. And he loves you. Of all the people in all of Rhodolite, you have captured his affection and devotion and passion and there is no way you are ever going to let it go.
And so your love for one another has become good at sliding through shadows. A visit for tea with the princes that ends in a dark alcove, exchanging kisses sweeter than any baked treat. A stroll through the palace gardens in palest moonlight, arm in arm, whispered laughter drifting across roses as dark as pomegranate seeds. Nights in your small bedroom, in your cozy cottage, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops on your roof while nestled together safe and warm under your patched bed quilt.
Now the sun is just readying itself for its daily climb, the first rosy-fingers of dawn testing their grip on the dusky, pre-dawn sky. Clavis groans, his hands clasped tightly over yours, whispered curses at the sunrise already falling from his lips. You burrow closer against him, your body wrapped around his from behind. As much as you love feeling sheltered in his arms, you can’t deny there is a satisfaction in being the one to hold him like this, to press your forehead against the bare skin between his shoulder blades, as if willing all your thoughts of love and lust to sink into his skin, to become a part of him.
“I have to go, my love.” If ever a man sounded like he disliked the feel of words in his mouth, it is Clavis right now. With a groan to emphasize how much he hates what he said, he rolls over, turning to face you. “Oh no,” he murmurs as his gaze locks with yours. “This is so much worse. Now I won’t be able to leave at all.” He reaches out, his fingers pushing your loose hair away from your bare shoulder, then drops his hand to the soft skin there, his touch lingering. A sigh is torn from your chest and he shakes his head. “I know that sound. You’re going to be cruel.”
“It isn’t Chevalier you’re meeting with today. And you were late last time.” If it were Chevalier, Clavis may very well stay in your arms for another few hours. The King never once said a word about his brother’s more frequent absences or tardiness. You know Clavis has been pushing himself even harder, getting all his work done and then some so Chevalier would have no reason to complain. But you also suspect the king already knows and does not care. Maybe some part of that cool heart is even happy for Clavis. But the men he is meeting with this morning would not be happy if they knew. Not at all. They are nobility of the old guard, the kind who look down their noses at anyone without a title and would certainly file official complaints if they even suspected a prince of Rhodolite was acting so callously as to have an affair with a commoner. Even if it was one who had been chosen as Belle.
He knows you are right and it hurts to see the way his eyes dim. His hand slides across your shoulder to the back of your neck. Leaning forward, he pulls you close for one last kiss. He tastes like the sweetness of adoration tinged with the bitterness of necessary departure.
There is a knock at your front door. Two short raps, then one final, stronger one. Cyran’s code for “Get moving.” The kiss breaks as another soft curse leaves his lips before he summons all the willpower he has to pull away from you. You slide out of bed, not one to linger there when he has spent the night. His absence only makes it feel empty and cold. You dress, neither one looking at the other. The lightening sky brings misery along with it. Not wanting him to see the pain in your eyes, you keep your back to him, a hand pressed over your mouth to stifle any soft cry that escapes the tight back of your throat.
He knows anyway. He feels the same noose tightening around his heart. There are no jokes, no quips. He slides one arm around you from behind, pressing a kiss just behind your ear. “Just a few days. Then you’re coming to the palace to deliver those books for Chev.” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to stop the flow of tears that threaten to spill over. “That’s the weekend of the Diplomat’s Ball. I can’t stay.” Too many nobles, too many unfamiliar servants, too many eyes and ears. His moment of silence speaks louder than any words. A heartbeat. Two. Then he speaks. “We’ll find a way, little bunny. We always do.”
Cyran knocks again, irritation practically traveling along the soundwaves. Clavis kisses your cheek, the tenderness almost rendering your heart in two. He whispers against your soft skin: “Remember who loves you.” And then he is nothing but the sound of boots as they leave your bedroom, hurry down the short hallway and turn into the slamming of the door. Closing your eyes tightly is a failure. The tears streaming down your cheeks have triumphed, once again.
Chevalier Michel
He does not see the point in hiding your relationship. Anyone who does not like it, be damned. Or meet the end of his sword.
for the angst ask (thanks for opening them btw) vlad and illness? he waited so long for his mc (gn) just to watch them slowly dying in front of him, their last moments and what that entails? I want to be crushed haha
A/N: Hello anon! I took a little bit of artistic liberty here because I had an idea so its not illness, but rather an accident. The rest of the request is still honored.
CW: death, loss
Vlad x gn reader
Word Count: 1783
A Pureblood vampire has nothing but time. It becomes their only constant, the one fixed thing they can depend on as the world around them evolves and changes. The flow of time brings mighty mountains to their knees and changes the course of rivers. It has seen man crawl, then walk and now, in the late 19th century, begin to run as technology makes leaps and bounds within shorter and shorter time spans. And one sure thing about time: it never stops.
How does one bear the weight of years and decades and centuries? Vlad has found a way. Something that fascinates him.
People.
He has loved them with a ferocity sharp and deadly. That their lives are so fleeting, rising like sparks from a fire only to blink out of existence and return to darkness within mere decades, is what makes them precious. Worth fighting for. And he has never loved a human, or any other being, as much as he loves you.
You were the one he waited for. The one who imprinted yourself upon him like a brand, your essence burned into his soul with a heat that never subsided as he waited all those long years for you. And when the time came, when you understood who he was and what you meant to him, when you returned those extraordinary feelings of love and desire, he understood the words Shakespeare had penned when writing his greatest love story:
“My bounty is as boundless as the sea
My love as deep.
The more I give to thee,
The more I have,
for both are infinite.”
You gave his world a beauty far beyond that field of roses he holds so dear. Vlad’s heart holds entire universes of love only for you.
Which is why, when you told him you did not want to be turned, despite the consequence of death, he never once questioned it. He had simply raised your hands to his lips, his claret eyes closing as he pressed a kiss into your skin, accepting your decision.
And decided then and there he would dedicate every moment you had together to bringing you joy. He would show you the world and in return, give the world the gift of your smile.
Which is why you were in London, exploring the world’s largest city and breathtaking capital of the British Empire. You were staying at Claridge’s, one of the grandest hotels London had to offer, and swept up in the whirlwind of pleasures Vlad had arranged: an outfit tailored just for you at London’s most exclusive boutique, high tea at one of the oldest tea houses in the city, a boat ride on the Thames. As you disembarked, hand in hand, a young boy was waiting with a message for Vlad. A mystery item he had commissioned was finished and would he care to come pick it up or have it delivered to the hotel? His rose-colored eyes had gleamed, his excitement dancing within their depths and along the curve of his lips. He would come right away. When you had asked what this mysterious item was, he had simply smiled softly. You would see soon, beloved. Go, the carriage that would take you back to the hotel was waiting just across the street. He would meet you in the hotel’s salon for supper.
You parted, his smile still warming your heart against the misty London air and you took the time to watch his tall figure grow smaller and smaller as he walked with the young boy down the street, eventually disappearing from view as they rounded a corner. Your heart could not be any fuller, your soul could not be more content. Vlad was the key that unlocked the truth about love: it mattered, more than anything. He mattered more than anything. Loving him had transformed your world into something so perfect it could be called heaven. You were so lost in your starry-eyed thoughts, your mind floating in the clouds on a breeze of affection and anticipation, you did not pay attention as you stepped onto the street.
You did not see the carriage with its spooked horse barreling towards you.
You did not hear the shout of warning.
You stepped out into the street.
And your world went black.
It’s tucked safely into the inside pocket of his jacket, carefully wrapped in the softest black velvet. One look at the pin, a detailed red rose made from the purest rubies with its emerald leaves and curving stem, made by one of the finest jewelers in Europe, and he knew it was worth every cent. It was a work of art and he was proud of the design he had created. He wanted something unique, something custom-made that no one else the world over could have, a symbol of his feelings for you and a sign to all who saw it that you, like the rose, are a rarity worth remembering, a beautiful spirit worth marveling at.
He turns the corner onto the street where you had gone ashore after your boat tour, his mind running through the way he imagines you will smile when he presents his gift, a smile that rivals the sun in all its brightness. All thought however screeches to a halt as he notices the crowd gathered, blocking most of the way. There are police wagons and officers doing their best to keep people away from something on the road. Vlad passes an elderly man sitting on the filthy flat pavement meant for pedestrians, his dirt-streaked face blanched with shock, hands shaking as he tries to drink from a flask. He hears the mumbled words, repeated over and over to no one in particular:
“The horse stepped on a nail. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t stop it. It stepped on a nail. I couldn’t stop it. They came out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop it-”
Uneasiness begins to slowly creep down Vlad’s spine like a spider descending on its silken thread. He was planning to walk around the crowd, his long legs swiftly taking him away from the buzzing and gawking of the crowd so he could get to you, his light, his love, and make sure you were ok. He will never be able to answer why he didn’t stick with this. Why instead of walking around the crowd, his feet begin taking him through it.
Each step feels like the earth is trying to stop him, gravity is desperately pulling at his legs, trying to slow him. His feet feel like they are made of granite, dragging along as he shoulders his way through the dense, foul-smelling mass. Each beat of his heart becomes louder, the crowd’s murmuring becomes distorted. Fate has wrapped his heartstrings around her cruel fingers and pulls, forcing him to shamble his way toward a truth that will sunder his very soul.
He breaks through the throng.
And sees you lying there, your soft hair touching the filth of the street, your head pillowed by hard, uneven cobblestones.
Someone has thrown what looks like a shabby picnic blanket over your body, but Vlad can smell the blood through the fibers, through the grime of a London street. Your eyes are open, blinking rapidly, your lips trembling as you mouth one word. He recognizes the shape of his name.
“I’m here, beloved.” How he manages to speak through a throat full of thorns is a miracle, another question with no answer. He sinks to his knees beside you, feeling the dampness soak through his trousers, the hard stone biting at him. “I’m here.” You turn your head and the effort that costs you is evident in the flickering light of your beautiful eyes. He reaches out with a shaking hand, the movement slow as if underwater, and manages to brush your hair off of your forehead with infinite tenderness. His fingers are stained red with the blood trickling down your temple. He repeats the motion anyway.
Your breathing is labored and erratic but you refuse to look away, holding his gaze for as long as you can.
“I’m…..sorry.” Your voice wheezes, rough with strain.
His heart shatters into a thousand pieces. Tiny shards that embed themselves into his own lungs, that twist his stomach into a Gordian knot, that pierce his very soul and cling, barb-like and heavy.
“No, my love. My dearest one. No.” He smiles. It is a reflex, a gesture of comfort. His lips shift without him even conscious of it. Words continue to find a way through his blocked throat. Because he knows you need them. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” His hand, still trembling lightly, slides down, cupping your face, the one he has loved for ages, the one white as bone and red with blood. “I love you.”
A shudder wracks your body and your eyes close. For a moment you don’t breathe and panic seizes him, gripping his mind with hands of steel. No, no. Just another moment. No.
And then you manage another breath. Your eyes open again, seeking his. Your lips part and he leans down to catch your labored, whispered words.
“I’m….scared.”
The truth of it bears down on him. He has seen death so often that it had become as innocuous as the changing of the seasons. Spring follows winter, autumn follows summer. People are born, live out the time they are given, and then die.
And yet your words have turned the world upside down. Death is no longer an abstract, cyclical idea. It is real. It is on that grimy cobblestone street, leaning over you, reaching down, seconds away from taking you away from him forever. Stealing every place you never went. Every kiss you haven’t shared. Every declaration of love yet to be spoken.
Vlad presses his lips to your cold forehead, his hand still cupping your face.
“I’m here, beloved. I promise, it will be okay. I’m with you.”
Your eyes are on him, but they are no longer focused. The flame of life inside of them is sputtering as the curtains slowly close on your mortality. Your breathing becomes rapid, uneven, louder. The sound forever burns itself into his memory.
You draw one breath.
His soul quakes. Don’t go, beloved.
And then another.
Beloved……I’m scared.
And then you are still, sightless eyes gazing into nothingness.
Could I please request some unrequited love headcanons for Comte, Theo, Arthur, and Leonardo?
A/N: Hello anon! I've left Leonardo out because he just got a very long fic and the others don't have quite as many requests so I wanted to let them have their time to shine. I hope that's ok!
Word Count: 964
Comte de St. Germain
Pushing aside the heavy velvet curtain, Comte has a perfect view down into the sunlit garden and a perfect view of you. Of both of you. Leonardo has set up his easel and is watching you attempt to paint the wooden gazebo with its clinging vines and flowering bushes. He leans over your shoulder, reaching around you and covers your hand with his, guiding your brush strokes. Comte’s sharp golden eyes zero in on the way his long fingers curl around your delicate wrist, the flirtatious, downward cast of your eyelashes, the sensual smile playing over Leonardo’s lips.
You turn to look at Leonardo, your faces so very close, and Comte’s breath is held prisoner in his lungs. Your eyes, even at this distance, are bright as stars, your cheeks rival the pink petals of the roses you’re trying to capture. His chest begins to burn. There is undeniable longing in the tilt of your head, the inviting pout of your lips. What would he give to have that perfect expression of admiration and yearning aimed at him?
Leonardo leans forward, as unable to resist you as the tide could the enthralling pull of the moon. The paintbrush falls from your fingers, abandoned, as you wrap your arms around him, your body melting into his impassioned embrace.
Leo deserves happiness. This is the mantra that gallops through Comte’s mind, over and over, even as he tries to ignore the agonizing ache in his chest. He closes the curtain once more with a trembling hand. Now he stands, slumped in darkness, his heart a flower without sunlight, without water, slowly withering away.
Theodorus van Gogh
One of the best things about walking through Paris on a clear afternoon, just before evening breaks and spills its lavender and orange and pink across the sky, is using the fading light that is left to admire the street artists and their work.
Vincent’s fingers are laced through yours, strong and protective as you move across the Pont des Arts, taking in the different paintings, all sizes and subject matters, that the different street artists are displaying, trying to make a sale. You pause in front of a painting of tiny calico kittens in a basket. “Oh look!” Vincent smiles, soft and affectionate as he nods, immediately engaging the artist in a conversation about brush types and which paint they used. You are content to listen, unable to hide the sunshine of open admiration you have for him. Your smile is radiant with it. Your eyes sparkle with it.
Theo pretends to be deeply interested in a smaller painting of a doomed ship out at sea during a violent storm. Normally he would spend time studying the black, thrashing waves with their white caps, noting the way the artist created movement, how they captured the chaos of nature gone feral with their brushstrokes. But he is distracted. Because rather than stare at the painting and study it, he is staring at something he considers a perfect piece of aesthetics: you. He has long since memorized the line of your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, the perfect symmetry of your lips. Your eyes are a color that has never existed for him until he saw them. They are the bright window to the part of you he admires most: your kind and gentle heart, that luminous part of you that shines resplendent as a harvest moon.
And now those eyes are fixed on his brother as if he were the one who hung all stars in the sky. Your fingers are locked tight with his, laced together, a perfect pairing. His jaw clenches as he turns back to the painting of the wild, roiling sea. He has that same turbulent ocean inside of him every time he sees you look at Vincent that way. It floods his heart, dragging it down into the black depths of despair, leaving him as windswept and lost as the small, broken ship in the painting.
Arthur Conan Doyle
Of all people, why Newt? Newt with his wide, cherry-blossom eyes and slight frame, his dislike of people and a good time. His mind which so easily winds its way through impossible equations but cannot small-talk its way out of a paper bag. That Newt is who you have chosen to love. The one you have decided is allowed to receive all of your warm smiles, your tender touches, the melody of your laughter.
He caught you one night. Strolling back from a tryst with one of his regulars, the sweet taste of blood stilling lingering on his lips. He entered the mansion through the garden gates at the back. As he made his way quietly as a shadow around towards the front, a certain sound caught his attention.
He stops, ducking behind the gazebo when he spots you and Isaac. Evidently you had come out into the garden at night to do a bit of stargazing. Isaac’s telescope is set up, pointed toward the sky. But it is abandoned, left to gaze on its own. You and Isaac seem to have gotten distracted, laying on an oversized picnic blanket, wrapped in each other’s arms. Gripping the wooden railing of the gazebo, Arthur’s sharp blue eyes note the details: the way your fingers are white, curled so tightly against Isaac’s shoulders; the way his leg is pressed between yours, the tilt of your head, baring your sensitive throat to him. And that sound, the one that caught his attention, the sharp gasping of your breath as his lips feast on the bare skin of your shoulder, the slope of your neck.
Green-eyed jealousy roars inside of Arthur’s heart. His fingers are bloodless as they grip the railing. The lingering taste of another woman’s blood suddenly turns sour, curdling like rancid milk on his tongue. He doesn’t want her, or anyone else. The woman he wants, the one he dreams of, is currently in the arms of another man. And all he sees now is red.
