Hi hi Violett, welcome back! So happy to see posts from you again!
Could I request 07:12 am with Silvio? Can be any direction I'm just craving more silvio content 😔
Thank you so much if you end up writing this, I hope you have a wonderful day/night ^^!
Silvio, 7:12 am
“Harder.”
“It’s gonna hurt and you’ll be yappin’ all damn day that I did that to ya.”
“I need you to push it harder. I wouldn’t ask for it if I couldn’t handle it.”
“One word ‘bout how sore you are and I swear–”
“Silvio, just do it!”
“Fuck, ok, ok.”
......
“OUCH!”
“I fuckin’ told ya! It ain’t gonna fit in there!”
“But….I really want–”
“What you want and what’s possible ain’t always the same thing, woman.”
“Ugh. Ok. Maybe you’re right. It hurts. Take it out.”
“Me? Why do I gotta take it out? You got yourself into this shit.”
“You shoved it in.”
“You told me to!!”
“FINE! Forget you. I’ll do it myself. Just need to pull–Oof– just a bit–OW–a little more–”
“I can’t watch this shit.”
Silvio leans down and, with fingers nimble and strong from years of sailing, yanks the delicate, heeled boot off of his wife’s foot.
“Ohhhhhh…….”
“Feels good, don’t it?”
You shoot your husband a Look, wiggling your toes and enjoying the freedom from the vice-like grip of the boots that you were desperate to wear but are truly, honestly, tragically too small for you.
A grunt is all he gets in response but it doesn’t matter. He was right and you both know it. Satisfaction is written all over his face, topped with a shameless, cocky grin.
“C’mon. I know a guy who’s got the best shoe shop in this part of Benitoite. We’ll find somethin’ nicer than these crappy things.”
He holds out his hand and with a sigh, you take it, letting him pull you up from the edge of the bed. Slipping your feet into a pair of well-worn flats, you give the sparkly boots one final, forlorn look.
“They’re so pretty…..”
Silvio scoffs and grins at the same time. “And your hooves are too big for ‘em.”
“My WHAT?”
He yanks you towards him, a laugh as bright and sharp as lightning ringing through the room. “You make the funniest faces. Now let’s get goin’ before all the decent shoes are gone.”
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A/N: A continuation of this headcanon, here is the same scenario with Chevalier and Licht, a small child entering their bedroom in the middle of the night
WC: 1.3
The child's white bedroom door, painted with a silvery moon and twinkling stars, opens slowly, a whisper in the still of the night. A small head pokes out, knuckling sleepily at eyes still heavy with the remnants of dreaming. A look left, then right.
The hall is empty.
Tiny bare feet tiptoe across plush carpeting.
One hand clutches a stuffed animal, the other reaches for the curved handle of your bedroom door and which, on a quiet exhale, opens.
Chevalier
The door slowly opens and a pale head of blond hair, silvery in the moonlight that spills through the bedroom window, peeks around the corner. Chevalier is still awake, reading by the warm glow of the oil lamp on his nightstand. You are sound asleep on your side of the bed, your feet stretched out and resting against his legs. It’s a small thing really, but he cannot deny the way it feels to know that even in sleep, you seek him out.
He lowers his book, making eye-contact with the little girl who is still peering around the door. “Yes?” It’s invitation enough. She enters, her stuffed white tiger tucked under one arm, both hands clutching a book to her chest. She approaches his side of the large bed, shoulders squared as she looks at her father, quiet determination in her expression. Chevalier glances at the silver clock, ticking quietly away on his nightstand, next to the lamp. “You should be sleeping.”
She nods, drawing a breath. “I know, Papa. But I have a dilemma.”
He forces himself not to smile at her very serious expression but the warmth is there, winding its way around his heart as he regards her. “Do you?”
Carefully, she lays the book she’s been holding down onto his lap. He recognizes it as the book of fairy tales he has been reading to her for the past few nights, the one you had gotten for her birthday a fortnight ago. “I would like you to finish the story we began this evening. The one about the fae and the knight.”
Chevalier tilts his head, regarding her. “I believe we had this discussion an hour ago when it was your bedtime and I told you we would finish it tomorrow night.”
She clears her throat, looking at him with eyes as blue as the endless sea, eyes that perfectly mirror his own. “I know and that is my dilemma. However…I’ve thought about it. And I have a good reason why we should continue now.”
His eyebrows raise ever so slightly. “Go on.”
She takes a moment, gathering her thoughts. “You see, the story was so interesting that I have not been able to sleep. In fact, I have been kept quite awake wondering what is going to happen. As you said Papa, this has already cost me an hour of rest. But…” She takes a deep breath, reading herself for the heart of her plea. “If you were to read me the last three pages, it would take you approximately fifteen minutes. And then I would know how the tale ends. And I could go to bed. If not, I worry I may continue to toss and turn and my sleep will be further interrupted.”
He does not answer a moment. His words momentarily robbed by the strange and heady mixture of pride and love for his daughter that is squeezing his heart, an emotion she so often evokes and that never fails to leave him amazed. She waits, the only sign that she is eager to hear his response is the impatient wiggling of her toes. Finally, the corner of his lips lift in a soft smile.
“You make a very compelling argument.” He sets aside his book and then gets out of bed, taking her fairy tale book in one hand and holding out his other to her. “We’ll finish the story in your room, in our reading chair so that we don’t wake your mother.”
She smiles, brighter than the full moon, and suddenly he sees you, his beloved wife. There you are, the echo of your warmth and joy painted across her young face. The warmth and joy that reached through the walls around his heart and gathered him close, taught him not only was he worthy of love but he could love back just as fiercely.
And here, your daughter, the living embodiment of that very love, grips his large hand happily as she leads the way back to her room. Impulsively she turns her head and kisses the top of his hand. “Thank you, Papa.” Chevalier answers her affection with a tender smile and a squeeze of her hand in return. “You are very, very welcome.”
Licht
He stirs the moment the bedroom door opens, having not quite sunk into the well of dreaming yet. Pushing himself up, his first instinct is to reach for the nightstand drawer where his dagger is waiting to bite into any intruder. But his hand stills, midair, when he sees who is peeking her pale head around the door. “Papa?”
He murmurs her name and motions for his daughter to come in as you sleepily rub at your eyes, rolling over to see what’s going on. She rushes to the bed, her stuffed wolf held by its bushy tail. It’s only when she’s close that he notices the watery eyes, the rapid way her small chest rises and falls, the paleness of her cheeks.
“Sweetheart? What’s wrong?” She climbs onto the bed and launches herself into her father’s arms, burying her face in the soft white linen of his sleepshirt. “I had a bad dream,” is her muffled reply.
Licht’s breath hitches in his throat. He is far too familiar with the phantoms that still sometimes haunt his nights, the dark tendrils of fear and terror and pain that wrap themselves around his mind at its most vulnerable. Noticing the way he’s frozen, you reach over, placing a reassuring hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing gently even as you reach with the other hand to touch your daughter’s bare foot, letting her know you are there for her.
Licht breathes in, your touch bringing him back from the shadows. He adjusts his arms around her, then strokes her moonlight-hair with a steady hand. Your touch on his back soothes him, sending calm waves of warmth through him, the same steady flow of love and reassurance he is giving to your child.
“Dreams can feel very real,” he murmurs, speaking slowly and tenderly, his lips resting on the top of her head. “And it’s ok to be scared.” You nod, resting your chin on Licht’s shoulder and brush the back of your fingers against her round little cheek. “We’re here for you, my love. Always.”
She leans back, sniffling and Licht tenderly brushes her hair away from her flushed face. “Can I sleep here tonight?” He nods immediately, a smile gracing his lips as she climbs her way over the both of you to wiggle herself under the covers. Her wolf tucked close to her chest, she throws herself against her father, eliciting a soft laugh before snuggling up against his side, her head on his chest.
Licht glances at you over her head, his eyes the soft red of sunset as he extends his arm in invitation. You slide closer, curling up against your daughter, your head pillowed by his arm.
No nightmares trouble any of you for the rest of the peaceful night.
A/N: I don't know where this came from. I just had an idea for it and wanted to write it down. A small, quiet moment with Gilbert.
Gilbert x Reader, comfort fic
WC: 500
Daylight wans. The sun begins its slow descent, acquiescing the reign of the sky to the night. The moon rises, regal as a queen, bringing with it a court full of cold, diamond-bright stars. Your slippered feet move silently across black and gold carpeting, the lace hem of your nightgown brushing light kisses against your ankles. You pause outside his door, the massive dark wood carved with prowling tigers as if protecting the study and all of its secrets.
But you are not afraid of their claws or sharp teeth.
With a steady hand, you press down on the gilded handle and enter.
He is sitting at his desk, writing, working, always working. He’s shed his cloak, his gloves, his belt, his cravat, all the golden ornamental trappings of his authority. The sight of him, stripped down to his gray shirt, his dark pants and socks, flattens your lungs, swells your heart. One elegant hand is pushed into the midnight silk of his hair, his head tilted away from you as the dark feathered quill scratches continuously along the parchment. Moonlight spills like ethereal paint through the arched window, fighting with the soft, orange glow of the chamberstick over who is allowed to illuminate the planes of his face, which type of light is allowed to tenderly caress that pale skin, the gentle slope of his neck.
One step into the room and the quill freezes, his head turns and he sees you there. There are shadows under his brilliant, blood-red eye. You worry he is not feeling well, he is pushing himself too hard, he is drawing on a finite source of energy that may run out.
“Come here.”
The command is still a command, however gently he may speak it. But you go willingly, crossing the room until you are at his side. He shifts his body, pushing the heavy desk chair back slightly and then pulls you onto his lap, sighing when he feels your weight against him, as if it is relief, as if it is oxygen.
You are here.
The quill lies abandoned on the desk, losing its last few drops of ebon ink.
You are here and everything else will wait.
He wraps his arms around you, pulling you so tightly against him that every breath you take pushes against his hold. You don’t mind. He nuzzles against the silk of your robe, roughly pulls it until it drapes off of you, leaving him your bare shoulder and one thin silken nightgown strap. He buries his face just there, hides his unearthly beauty away from the world so that he may get lost in your darkness, your scent, the warmth of you. Your hands slide across his shoulders where you feel the tension coiled within, the serpentine stress that bites at him daily, sinks its gleaming fangs into him over and over without remorse. Your hand comes to rest on the back of his neck and you cradle him, loving and secure, against you. His breath is hot, unsteady as you tighten your grip on his nape, firm and unyielding.
Hello Violett!! How are you? Hope you're doing well! Happy to see you back 🫶✨
If you're already accepting the prince requests, then 2:36 PM for Chevalier? (◕ᴗ◕✿)
Also, congrats to another school year done! You deserve an r&r ☺️ We've also had our end of semester here but the grades still need to be computed and submitted 😂
Chevalier, 2:36 pm
The carriage rumbles along the dirt road, leaving behind small clouds of dust kicked up by the horses hooves. It’s a more rural area of Rhodolite, not all that far from the palace, but still distant enough for the road to be less worn, the dirt less packed, than more-traveled paths. You do your best to hide the discomfort the jostling is causing you, the way the dips and curves disturb your already precarious bodily balance.
After all, you had insisted on accompanying him today, despite the protests of your midwife. Yes, it shouldn’t be long now and you should be resting but you’ve memorized every single painting in the palace, every arched window, every gilded doorknob. You needed a moment away from everyone’s watchful eyes, some soft with understanding and sympathy, others sharp with anticipation. And maybe, some of those eyes held something just a touch more sinister. After all, an heir is automatically born with a target on its back.
Motion pulls you out of your somewhat gloomy reverie. Chevalier has moved from his side of the carriage, coming down to sit beside you on the padded bench with a swoosh of his pristine white cloak. You’re immediately flooded with the scent of roses.
“Chev?”
He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close and anchoring you to his side. You’re tucked safely into the strength of his body, a boat nestled into safe harbor.
“We’ll be back within the hour.”
The carriage still winds along the bumpy road. But Chevalier is holding you close, sheltering you and your child from the worst of it, keeping you both safe. As always. You breathe out slowly, reaching for his free hand. He is compliant, allowing you to thread your fingers through his, a silent thank you, a gesture of affection.
He lifts your hand, bringing it quickly to his lips, a short, almost too-hard kiss placed on the top before lowering again and holding it in his lap.
You smile, closing your eyes as the carriage continues its undulous journey.
Now, the prospect of the ride home doesn’t seem quite so bad.
Welcome back to writing, I still re-read your works because they are so good!✨. I request Licht 🧁 at 11:23pm. No pressure and have fun with all your requests😊
Licht, 11:23 pm
You wake up because his side of the bed is empty. Frowning, you brush the sleep from your eyes, and yawning, step onto the pale blue carpet. You’re not exactly worried….there might be a very good explanation as to why your husband isn’t in bed.
And yet......
It might be the shadows, the ones that still lurk in the furthest chambers of his heart, places the light of your love for him glows but never completely illuminates.
That doesn’t stop you from trying. And right now that means searching for him.
Quietly you tiptoe towards the bedroom door, opening it very slowly before stepping out into the hall. One glance to the right answers your question, dampening the flame of worry that was flickering through your veins.
The door to her room is ajar just enough for a beam of pale orange light to slide through, brightening the patch of silvery carpet that it kisses. Gently you push the door open all the way and your heart jumps, knocking against your ribcage at the sight before you.
Licht is laying on your daughter’s bed, his long legs barely able to rest on the mattress. He has one arm curled around her enormous stuffed pony, Dariole. The other holds her close, her small cheek pressed against his heart, rising and falling with each even breath he takes. Their grey hair shines in the glow of her nightlight, twin stars resting on a cloud. If they were to open their eyes, you would see the exact same shade of crimson, sunset's flare, a ruby's twinkle.
She must have had a bad dream. She calls for him when she does, but often he is there before she even cries “Papa”, so attuned is he to her needs and wants.
Or maybe it’s simply a lifetime of recognizing pain, of understanding its beckon and responding without hesitation. Maybe it’s his scarred heart playing hero, refusing to allow hers to follow the barbed and twisted path it has dragged itself through, fighting with all it has to keep her safe and loved.
Your own heart drums a song of tenderness as you take in the two people who fill it so completely.
As quietly as you came, you step back, leaving father and daughter to sleep in peace, together.
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A/N: My gift for the incredibly talented @dicenete 💜 as part of the excellent @flash-exchange
Prompt: Make It Quiet
Clavis x Reader
WC: 552
“Ah…..there you are. I was just wondering where the brightest jewel in this sea of noble gemstones had ventured off to. I have been speaking to some of our esteemed guests and I’m sure you would have delighted the Azurite prince–”
“You have to come with me.”
He blinks. “Now?”
“Right now.”
“Oh my, my lamb seems rather impatient. Don’t you want to have a quick dance? The orchestra is just finished warming up and–”
“C’mon.” You seize his hand, a prisoner held tightly in your satin glove.
“What a delightful turn of events. Are you perhaps hungry -Pardon me, sir- Yves has outdone himself overseeing the food -Excuse me, madame- although it lacks originality if you ask me-…Um…Darling? This is an exit.”
“Exactly. Come along.”
“I see I never knew the true strength of your grip. You are very insistent, my love. My, how dark the hallway is compared to the bright lighting of the ballroom. Are you sure–”
“Just a little further.”
“Your laughter tells me I shouldn’t be so suspicious. What sort of adventure is my sweet one taking me on? I- Wait, why are we stopping? There’s nothing here.”
“Wrong. THIS is here.”
“An alcove? Are you sure, sweetheart? There isn’t even a statue or painting or decorative anything! It’s nothing but darkness.”
“So perceptive. Come closer.”
“Have I mentioned how astoundingly strong your grip–”
“Stop. Talking.”
Shrouded by the shadows of the alcove, you cover his mouth with yours, fingers curled into the soft velvet of his lavender lapel.
Clavis does not speak. He can’t. He is powerless in the face of your radiant desire. All he can do is return your fervent kisses. He wasn’t entirely wrong about your appetite. Each kiss is hungrier than the last. His back is soon pressed against the smooth, cool wall, a startling contrast to the hastening heat of your body which he can feel through your layers of silk and brocade.
You graze the elegant line of his neck with your lips as you speak.
“I saw you talking to all those people-”
“Esteemed guests, my sweet,” he gasps, his hands grasping at the folds of your voluminous gown as if he needs something to hold on to, lest he fall.
“And you looked so…..” You take his bottom lip between your teeth and bite, just hard enough for him to inhale sharply. “So at ease, in your element. So collected and calm.” Your hands slide down his sides, slip inside his waistcoat. “I suddenly had the burning desire to see you….unsettled.”
Your hands slide down further, over expensive silk and shiny golden buttons and butter-soft leather and metal buckles.
Is he….trembling?
“I believe,” he says breathlessly, “you are getting what you desire, my darling.”
Your smile is hidden in the darkness but he can taste it on your lips.
“Almost.”
“Ah….my love…..” He is losing this battle, falling backwards off the cliff of reason and hurtling towards the sea of no return. “Anyone….could walk by.”
But you both know his protest is hollow as his hands are already under the heavy folds of your skirts, gripping your thighs, pulling you towards him.
”Don’t worry, my prince,” you murmur against his ear, a music that rivals the greatest of orchestras. “We’ll make it quiet.”
Ooh, such a clever story prompting idea. If you don't mind, I would love to know what Cyran is up to at 3:33pm. Just a tingle of spice would be entertaining. Thank you in advance! 🥰
Cyran Rose, 3:33 pm
You know his training with the newer recruits must have come to an end. The yard is empty, aside from a few stragglers, some rubbing sore shoulders and weakened arms, others still slightly dazed from the intensity of the drills Cyran put them through. Warmth born of amusement and pride blossoms into a smile on your lips. Cyran has a way with young, arrogant soldiers, able to cut through their bluster and cockiness with singular determination and an unwavering dedication to the importance of discipline.
Turning away, you hurry towards the armory, wondering if that’s where you’ll find him. But the large space is empty of anything but steel and leather. The barracks only turns up more soldiers, none of whom are helpful in locating your love. Not even Clavis, who you catch on the way to an afternoon tea, knows where his aide is. (Part of you wants to ask him why he is carrying bowls filled with a gelatinous, green substance ... .but you restrain yourself because honestly, you probably don’t really need or want to know what the prince is planning on inflicting upon his guests.)
You’re about to give up, pausing on the sunlit path that leads out of the royal gardens, when suddenly the bright sunshine gives you an idea. Lifting your skirts, you hurry at a light jog down the trail, through the iron gates and then continue along the ribbon of brown that winds its way into the forest. At the fork, you take the less traveled path to the left, slowing as it dips down, until you turn off the path entirely, picking your way through the brush as the trees thin to reveal the small lake on the eastern edge of the forest.
You stop at the last tree, the final guardian before the forest ends and the ground continues in a gentle slope down to the water. Peeking around its smooth trunk, you see him. His clothing is folded neatly on the water’s edge, the dark leather pants, the meticulously polished black boots, the crisp white tunic. The man himself is waist-deep in the water, running his hands through his red hair, now dark crimson with water. The sun is adoring, turning every droplet into a brilliant diamond that lovingly traces its way down the hard contours of his body. Every muscle illuminated, every motion a work of art. He glows like Apollo, is sculpted like Adonis.
Your sigh, absolutely impossible to contain, is audible over the sound of his moving in the water and he glances over, bright eyes sharp as a cat’s.
“I see you.”
Oops. Well, you weren’t exactly being subtle in your ogling, now were you?
Sheepishly, you step out from behind the tree and make your way down to the lake’s edge.
“Why are you skulking about in the trees, love?” He’s trying to sound annoyed but the slight quirk to his lips tells you otherwise.
You grin at him, bright as the sunlight on the water. “I was admiring a wild Cyran in his natural habitat.”
He laughs and it rivals all the beauty any sunrise could ever muster.
“Wild, eh?” He suddenly sloshes forward, pushing towards you. Your breath catches as the water recedes from his waist, then his narrow hips. And then even further, until he is standing right in front of you at the lake’s edge, the water left desperately reaching for him, only managing to caress his ankles.
It is with great effort that you raise your gaze to his face, where you see love and desire, as vivid as summer’s brightest days, alive in his eyes.
He reaches for you, pulling you fully-clothed against his wet, bare body. You can hardly have a care for the state of your clothing when Cyran is holding you in his strong arms and kissing you like you’re oxygen, a hand pressed flat against the small of your back. Your silk blouse is darkening as water seeps into the material, pricking your skin with small bites of cold, a shocking contrast to the heat of his mouth.
He nips his way gently down the slope of your neck, pausing when he reaches your collar and then, showing remarkable self-control, steps away from you a moment, drinking in the sight of you, dazed with want and damp from his embrace.
“Looks like I’ve made you wet, my love.” The wicked gleam in his eyes combined with a knowing grin send a rush of warmth to your face.
“Cyran!”
Laughing, you’re pulled back into his arms. “No false modesty from you now. I know the woman who owns my heart well enough to know that you’re not scandalized.” He leans in, playfully biting your ear. “You love it.”
Kissing him is the only answer you have, joyfully wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing yourself fully against him once more.
It doesn’t take long until there are two piles of clothing laying at the lake's edge, drying in the afternoon sun.
Outside the arched window of the study, the night wind is busy. It tears red and gold leaves away from stark branches, kicks up piles of brown leaves from the chilled earth and howls furiously all the while, as if demanding the moon come out from behind her thick wall of clouds. The moon and her court of stars decide to remain safely hidden from the tumultuous wind as it rips along its discontented path.
The light from your desk lamp is valiantly combating the autumn fury that raps at the window panes, but there is little oil left and soon it will sputter into darkness. Your quill scratches faster against the parchment, the white feather waving like a tiny flag of surrender as you write, trying to conclude your thoughts.
You’re so concentrated on your missive that you don’t notice the door open.
Gilbert enters, quiet as a wraith, soundless as a moonlit shadow. The door closes behind him and for a moment, he is still. He watches your movements, the tension in your arm and shoulder as you dip the quill into the peacock-blue ink you love so much and continue writing. He knows who you are writing to. Only a letter to him would cause you such distress.
The quill pauses, hovering over the end of your last sentence. Should you go on? How many ways can you entreat him to understand? The man who was a father to you, who loved you with his whole heart, cannot fathom why you’ve chosen this place, this man, this…darkness. But you desperately want him to understand. You want him to see that you haven’t been manipulated, that your heart found its match in Gilbert’s fierceness, his sharp mind, his iron determination. The ruler of Obsidian carries you delicately in his claws, teeth bared and ready to tear anyone who threatens you asunder.
You’ve written him countless times….and somewhere, deep down, you know this will be just another arrow in the wayward wind, destined to never reach its target. But you have to try.
You’re only aware of Gilbert when you feel a cool touch against the back of your neck.
“It’s late, Häschen. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Little Rabbit in his native tongue. More precious to you than your own name on his lips.
Laying your quill down, you turn towards him and reach out without rising from your chair. Instead of standing, you wrap your arms around his waist and press your forehead against his midsection. He hadn’t expected that. For just a moment, a candle’s flicker in the night, he is caught by surprise. But then he exhales, lifting his hand and resting it on top of your head. He slowly strokes down the length of it, gentle but firm. This is a side of the fearsome ruler that is yours alone. Only you have felt that the hand which has taken countless lives is capable of a caress filled with infinite tenderness, that the lips which have casually condemned men to their doom can kiss you with a gentleness that moves you to tears.
Gilbert continues to run his fingers over your hair, feeling the way the tension slowly seeps out of you with every stroke. It is soothing. It is possessive.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine to touch, to soothe.
Mine.
You stay that way for several moments, the ruler of Obsidian petting your head, your forehead resting against his ribs.
The oil in your desk lamp comes to its mortal end, sputtering its dying breath before plunging the room into shadow. With a heavy sigh, you pull away but only so that you can stand, roughly pushing your desk chair back. Then you are in his arms again, pressing your whole body against his, your hands sliding up his neck, fingers threading themselves into the mass of dark hair behind his head.
Your lips brush his, a paintbrush skimming canvas. “Take me to bed?”
You feel his smile rather than see it, a thing of soft shadow and razor-sharp pleasure.
