Asking A Request: I Seen Your Previous Writing For An MC Who's Plus Size And Insecure About Herself.

Asking a request: I seen your previous writing for an MC who's plus size and insecure about herself. Could you write a second one but maybe with Nokto, Luke and Yves? Please, you're first one was absolutely beautiful~

A/N: Because of the nature of the content, it will be posted after the "Keep Reading"

TW: body dysmorphia, self-loathing

Word Count: 1455

Nokto:

Although the ballroom is crowded, filled with glamorous women dripping in gems and handsome men in hot pursuit, he notices you. You’re standing at the edge of light and shadow, allowing the darkness to spill over you, cover you like a shroud. But still he sees you. 

He sees the way you stand, body pressed against the wall, arms wrapped around the curve of your midsection. Maybe if you press yourself hard enough against the polished wood, you’ll sink into it and disappear, surround yourself with quiet and isolation, away from eyes that notice the way your body stretches your gown, the soft, dark material spilling over your curves like water over stone.

One final drink from his glass and then he is on his way to where you are. You look up from the business of staring at your shoes to find his crimson eyes on you, his hands reaching for yours. His smooth voice in your ear, whispering for you to come with him. 

And you do, following him away from the glittering masses, down a darkened hallway, up richly carpeted steps until you arrive at your own room.

He has a key. Of course he does. And he pulls you inside, closing the door behind him. Again you find your back pressed against wood, eyes wide as you look up into his beautiful face, as you feel his hands slide down your waist, over the generous curve of your hips. What are you doing, you whisper as your heart drums a wild rhythm in your chest. 

His nimble fingers find the hooks on the back of your gown as he lowers his mouth, catching your earlobe between his teeth. Reminding you of how beautiful you are, he murmurs. How much I want you.

You shudder, both at the feeling of the heavy gown opening and at his words. Your eyes close as he slides his hands over the now exposed skin of your back. The gown looked horrible on me, you whisper. Nothing looks good on me.

Nokto pulls and fabric cascades to the ground in a whisper of heavy silk. His hands caress the skin of your hips, one skims over your throat to catch your chin in his fingers. You look beautiful in all your clothing he purrs.  However, he continues as he drinks from your lips, without your clothing….you look positively divine. A goddess who deserves worship. 

Slowly, the silver-haired fox sinks to his knees, his hands reverently gliding down your sides, fully intent on showing you just how devout he can be.

Luke

You’re walking through the small store, admiring all the homemade jellies and jams and chutneys. Luke has been wanting to visit this place ever since he heard they sell a specific kind of wildflower honey he has been wanting to try. You are browsing the colorful jars as he speaks with the store owner, listening with an interest he only has for his favorite things: you and honey.

You are admiring a jar of deep red cherry marmalade when you hear it. The snickering. Glancing over your shoulder, you notice the boys, no older than thirteen, staring at you, their eyes bright with amusement and malice. The one leans over, hand cupped over the other boy's ear as he whispers something. They both burst into wicked laughter. You make a cursory glance over your clothing. Nothing appears to be undone. You haven’t stepped in manure. Your hair is still neatly braided away from your face. What could be so funny? And then another sound. A loud mooing. The moment you turn to look at them, to see the source of the mocking noise, they burst into laughter again, nearly tripping over each other in their giggles and haste to get out of the store.

You set the jar of marmalade down with a shaking hand. Your heart feels like it’s been pierced by something sharp, something barbed. It stumbles in your chest, shaking, grabbing your breath to try and stay afloat. They aren’t wrong. How must it look, you, large and unwieldy, staring at a jar of sweet cherry jelly as if you could swallow it whole. Tears of shame sting your eyes and you turn on heel, pushing open the door and stepping out onto the street. The boys are nowhere to be seen but it doesn’t help. The damage is done.

Luke finds you already inside the carriage, hands over your face, body turned away from him. You have fallen apart in the time he was in the shop, your self-esteem in tatters around you, the jagged edges of your heart having ripped it to shreds when it broke. He slides over to where you are, pulling you into his arms, your name whispered over and over until you finally turn, burying your face in his broad shoulder.

Holding you to him, he kisses your temple, resting his cheek against your hair. He does not know exactly what has happened but he loves and knows you enough to be patient. You’ll explain when you are ready. Until then, his body knows what to do. It knows to keep you close. To kiss you. To rock you gently. To make you feel every bit of love he has for you without saying a word.

This is how he loves you. He takes your broken heart in his hands, unafraid of the jagged edges, the ones that bite and slice and scar. He takes each piece of you and carefully fits them back together. It isn’t beautiful nor is it perfect. But when he is finished, when you can finally lift your head from his shoulder, you feel air flow into your lungs again. You have a heartbeat once more.

Yves

He flits around the kitchen like a hummingbird, hopping from dessert to dessert. He is talking to you, muttering about this or that, making a mental list of all the things he is going to improve on before the sweets are perfect enough for the visiting diplomats. You are seated at a small table in the corner, only half listening to your love as he murmurs notes to himself. 

He’s placed a whole tray of desserts in front of you. Tarts that didn’t come out perfectly, small cakes that may have been the slightest bit lopsided, a chocolate mousse whose consistency wasn’t quite up to snuff. Help yourself, he said before spinning off to the oven where his next attempt needed checking on. And you want to…..but then you look down at your fingers, at their roundness, their ugliness. Long, slender, elegant fingers worthy of jeweled rings will never be yours.  Petite Princess hands, dainty wrists, long, thin arms….none of these are yours. You are made of flesh and curves and a body that demands space, demands room. A body that stretches clothes and strains necklines. Certainly not a body that needs or deserves anything as sweet as Yves’ creations.

He pauses in his whirlwind, pushing his blond hair out of his face. You haven’t even touched any of his desserts. Head cocked, he watches you a moment before heading over, sliding onto the chair next to yours. Is something wrong with the sweets? I know they are dreadfully ugly but they should still taste perfect. 

You shake your head, unable to meet his gaze. You claim you’re not hungry. Your stomach has been sensitive. You can’t eat any of it. In fact, you should just get out of his way and leave. You start to rise but a surprisingly firm hand to your wrist stops you. Fingers touch your chin and you flinch, wondering if he notices how ugly that part of you is too. Your name, a tight sound that slips through his lips, grabs your attention and you meet his gaze.

What you see in the blue depths of his eyes unlocks the tightness of your chest. A softness, wounded by the sadness in your expression. A brightness, admiration and desire for you in equal measure. He leans closer, pressing his lips to yours, the taste sweeter than any of his creations. Reaching up, he cups your face, canting his face to deepen the kiss. In his hands, at his touch, you feel yourself slowly letting go of the knife of self-loathing, your fingers going slack with the heady current of want. You know this does not solve how you feel. It won’t make you immediately love yourself and all that you are. 

But feeling his love and his desire for you, the way he is standing, you locked in his arms, pulled up to your feet and then against his body, it helps. Somehow, it does.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @leotoru @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @moonstruck-writing @scorchieart

A/N: Here it is....one final leaf left on the Fall Fluff tree. Unexpected cancellation of a class gifted me the time to finish it.

Thank you for everyone who participated in our event! Chev was my first fic for it and fittingly, he is my last!

Chevalier Michel x reader

Word Count: 657

It happens because of cinnamon and an innocent idea that just won’t leave you alone, one that keeps scratching at the surface of your mind until you decide to give in, buckle down and learn everything. After all, you have to be ready to make your case to the King of Rhodolite.

After several hours, you are ready for him.

He comes to bed, shedding the day's weight with every article of clothing that he removes. You watch him undress, needing only one hand to undo clasps and buttons and hooks where mere mortals would need two. It is here, in the intimacy of your shared bed, that he finally releases the tension in his body, that cold line of strength and diligence that vaults him from human to mythos. His spine curves as it settles back against the satin pillows, the tight lines of his shoulders relax.

Those morning glory eyes are sharp with curiosity as he notes the book in your hands. Why is a simpleton reading something as tedious as a treatise on foreign agriculture? That question is the opening you need. You sit up straighter, laying the open book down between you as you begin to explain your idea for a greenhouse in the far corner of the royal gardens, an isolated area without much in it aside from a bare stretch of grass and a few, unenthusiastic hedges. He says nothing so you press on, explaining why cinnamon would be a perfect choice for said greenhouse. You regale him with information about light and soil conditions and temperature. You catapult facts about cinnamon types and harvesting and propagation. You shower him in the medicinal uses for cinnamon, ticking things like ‘anti-inflammatory’, ‘antioxidant’ and ‘good for your blood pressure’ off with your fingers. You make your case using every bit of knowledge you have gleaned over the past few hours and end with the admission that yes, you know it's one of your favorite spices but really, this whole idea benefits everyone. 

And even then he says nothing, that gaze trained on you as you speak, not looking away once. Unbeknownst to you, he has been memorizing the play of expressions across your face, that face he holds in such esteem. He follows the way your lips move and your eyes gleam as you explain everything you have learned. The lift of your brow, the tilt of your head, even the untamed fall of your hair over your shoulder please him beyond measure.

Words run out and you stop talking, waiting. He shifts, reaching down to move the book away from where you laid it between the two of you. You watch the deliberate movement, the slow grace of it, and wonder why such a small gesture has sent your heart into such a sudden tailspin. 

And then grace dissipates as he reaches for you, his grasp a bit rough, lacking in finesse. The gleam in his eyes explains why, the frostfire that burns in them, the heat of wanting something. He has you in his arms and covers your mouth with his. The king may be ice but the man is fire, his hands sliding over your bare arms, sparks to your kindling. Your fingers slide around and under his arms, grasping his shoulders as he bends his long body over you, his lips moving over yours roughly, turbulent and almost messy with hunger.

You gasp as he drags his mouth away from yours, leaving a trail of careless, fiery kisses down your jaw and the side of your neck. Somehow the part of your brain that controls speech is still functioning, albeit on very shaky legs.

“All this because I researched cinnamon?” Your voice is breathless, a whispered sigh in the night.

His husky laughter against your skin fans the sparks already marching through you, heat now spilling from your veins and flooding your whole body.

“I admire dedication,” he murmurs into the hollow of your throat, his arms caging you in. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @leotoru @ariamichel @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @moonstruck-writing @scorchieart

Perfectly explained 😌👌🏻

Cyran has been behind everything and has been living his life as a secret agent. Now we know his intentions 😌

Intern-kun is the ultimate nickname🤣 And thank you very much!

⚔🌹Cyril Rose Theory🌹⚔

Speaking of Cyril from Ikemen Prince, I've had this theory for a long time. What if Cyril was working for cybird? 🤔(There are no spoilers, just something random😂)

Cybird—Cyril

Both start with "Cy"

If you take the letters "ir" from "Cybird" and put the "r" before the "i", it becomes "Cybrid".

Then, if you take the letters "b" and "d" back to back, you'll get "db". Which later will create an "l", if joined.

So, if you match the letters from the beginning, you'll get "Cyril" 🤔

Thank you for reading, here is a random sketch I made a while ago as well😂 (This is what I think he may look like) :

LUCIAN x READER

Dispel Veil

ONESHOT . ANGST . DISTURBING IMAGERY

minors/ageless blogs please do not read/like/reblog any of my works with this warning (you will be blocked)

x o x o x o

He feels like a ghost to you. Any given hallway you might find yourself in alone is always a hallway filled with two. And yet his footfall is soundless, his breath nonexistent. There is not enough of him to create a shadow, or disavow your imagination of fanciful thoughts.

A war of assassins is underway and Chevalier has been forced to play one of his most valuable pieces, in your favor. Until you decide the next king and make yourself scarce from the castle, Lucian is to be your protector around the clock.

But who is he?

You've only ever seen him once.

On a moonless night inside the chapel he bent the knee to you and promised his oath. Quiet, nondescript words in a voice like water that no memory, no matter how perfect, could ever clasp onto and soak in. And that is by design. To do his job well, Lucian cannot be allowed to exist.

So what does that do to a man?

"Lucian?" You whisper into the twilit alley as you board your carriage. "Are you here?"

It makes no sense, does it? But it makes no difference either, if you whisper or shout (not that you've ever screamed the name of your secret protector out loud for all to hear).

Lucian is not supposed to answer. If he answers, then something has gone terribly wrong.

A pair of crows barter past your feet. The rainwater reflects something on top of the carriage. But when you turn to look, you're only met with wide, vacant sky. Red with no black.

Later, back at the castle, when your head hits your pillow and the last of the candle-smoke pirouettes into the dark, you find yourself holding your hand out over the edge of your bed.

You have five more days before the rose sheds all its petals. Will you get to thank him before then? Shake his hand? Feel a pulse?

Again you think, you're being absurd. You're fascinated with the idea of him, but that doesn't change the fact that you don't know a single thing about him.

Only that he must have killed people. Many. Countless. Killed them so quickly that the air and the earth never tasted a drop of blood.

Chevalier is bladed spectacle. Lucian is something else.

But if all you know about him is that he is a killer, what in the hell are you doing chasing after him?

Two nights later you find out.

x o x o

The blade never touches you. A cry in front of you is muffled and cut short. Something heavy slumps to the ground. Something wet seeps over the flagstones. The smell. You'll never forget it.

A hand takes yours, and then you're running. There's scenery, and eventually there's people again, but all you can register is the body lying dead in the alley and the warmth against your palm, without which you'd be...

...You don't have a word for it. Your mind is pulling apart against itself, and there's worms in your stomach, knotting around your intestines like laughter coils around a tongue. There's bits of flesh tucked into every thought you think.

You can't run anymore. You need to stop. You need air. You need help. You need something to make you sleep.

Someone is holding you.

Your sobs come out as soundless, choking breaths.

Someone is holding you.

It's only then you realize that Lucian has a shape. Tangible beyond the hand that severs a life. That saves the one next to it.

There's enough space within his awkward embrace that the winter chill finds you everywhere it shouldn't. You're dully aware that part of his arm is muffling your mouth.

It's not like your tears will echo.

The humiliation is endless.

Lucian. Of course. He's always just been a dream of yours, to occupy you during this anomaly of a month. You designed him. And that Lucian is not here. That Lucian exists even less than the one holding you.

And holding you.

And holding you.

And then he says, in a voice meant for your memory, for you a day from now, a week from now, ten, twenty, fifty years from now to recall, lovely in how it sounds, lovely in how it sits outside your dreams but ignites inside your heart:

"Take your time."

CYRAN x READER

More Questions Than Bodies Have Answers For

ONESHOT . SMUT . ANGST

minors/ageless blogs please do not read/like/reblog any of my works where this warning appears (you will be blocked)

x o x o x o

"Cyran... Rose... You are... the..." Your voice sounds strange to your ears.

That last moan from you, that hideously lewd mewling that no bookstore employee has ever made, echoes fresh in your memory, and fresh onto the slender, freckled hand between your quivering legs.

Has he done this before? You're certain now that Cyran is pressing shapes into you that very much do not exist in reality. And the way his low panting, at once dreamy and bestial, matches his strokes is nothing short of hypnotic.

But you can't let yourself runaway with it.

Cyran's not on break, exactly. What are the chances Clavis even remembers whatever errand he sent him on this time? The castle grounds are vast, and there are avenues galore to a particular destination. Detours are completely natural. Probably.

You happened to be in the wine cellar running an errand for Jin, and Cyran happened to... happen by... and...

The exact sequence of events has been lost to heady mouth-plundering, and most of it rattled from your train of thought when your back hit the side of some shelf in the damp dark.

"You're nervous." Cyran ends his sibilant consonants the way an Obsidianite does, but his terse half-lilt is through-and-through the mark of a Rhodolitian knight. And his voice--something you can no longer divorce from the tongue of an amorous kisser--is so terribly warm and balmy.

So why don't your nerves settle into its safety?

Cyran seems unsure of what to do for a moment. His gaze is drawn to your lips but he pulls it back to read your eyes every time he strays. With each flicker his irises catch the hanging lantern's rippling firelight, somehow making him even more bewitching to look at. And that does the complete opposite of putting your breathing into order.

Finally Cyran slides the hand he has over your breast under your arm to wrap around your back. His calloused fingertips run reassuring lines up and down between your shoulder-blades. His other hand pulls away from your center and begins massaging your leg in a similar rhythm. The feel is still hot and sensuous around the edges, but his intent is clear. He's even put some distance between you two, as you can no longer feel his ardor against your inner thigh. And of course that's upsetting too.

"I don't know why I'm being like this," you answer honestly. You pull him closer and rest your forehead against his disheveled collar. He'll be able to hide that love-bite easy enough.

Your eyelids feel heavy all of a sudden, with a false drowsiness that comes from overstimulation. It's Cyran's scent. It truly drives you mad.

Cyran's scent becomes more and more familiar to you with every encounter. Soldier's musk, sweat, but those are mere windfalls against the full-bodied bouquet of sunshine and summer that imbues his skin. Yet it's not wild like unchecked garden growth. Everything about Cyran feels ordered and disciplined. Like he's shopped through time and placed every new vial of himself into a gorgeous display for anyone to appreciate.

At their leisure. Even when princes linger in the same room.

Cyran is a wonder.

But that order and discipline seem shaken now. You don't know if you're projecting or if Cyran is every bit as nervous as you are. This is what, though, your third time doing this together? There is nothing forbidding you from having any sort of affair with...

Wait, is this just an affair? Is that what's bothering you?

...Is this the best time to have that conversation?

Should that conversation have been had three trysts ago?

You don't like that word, you think. You and Cyran are not that word.

Cyran is staring at you wide-eyed. "Why are you making that face?"

You bite your lip and tuck your head against his shoulder again. "What face? Don't read too much into it, please. ...What face?"

"I don't know!" Cyran panics, dropping both hands and surrendering you to the cold cellar. "I'm sorry, I should just-"

"No, please!" You wrap your arms around him. Your heartbeat seeks his out where your chests connect. "You feel so good." It's true but also not what you mean at all.

Cyran falls silent for a moment too long. You count three drops of water from a loose tap somewhere in the shadows. Then he sighs and gently unlatches your arms. "We should-"

"Talk?" Your voice is pulled taut. "Can we?"

"I really have to go soon."

"Cyran..." But hope springs to life when you notice his expression twist at his own words. Maybe he's saying the wrong words too, just like you are?

Still, he walks backward from you, boots strangely silent over the stone floor, until he hits the shelf opposite. "What happens when your month here ends?"

"I go back to town." No. No, you want to say so much more but the words are getting lost somewhere, because Cyran Rose is a knight, and Cyran Rose is kind and beautiful, and maybe you and Cyran Rose never should have happened and-

"And would you think of me?" A voice that vulnerable has no business being this far away from your listening ears. "Do you think of me?"

"Cyran, I wouldn't touch you like this if you weren't on my mind literally all the time."

"All the time?" You can hear the embers of a smile. "Even when... you're, um... alone?"

Your cheeks are a furnace. Certainly it's only natural for Cyran to ask this, and you'd be lying if you weren't immediately, presently, thoroughly occupied with what his answer would be to the same question. You wonder what his bedchambers look like, or if he has to stop himself and duck into some alcove between training, ashamed and cheeks burning, or even...

You blow out a mouthful of air and scuffle your toes against the ground. You were thinking of Cyran very intimately just this morning before Rio brought you your tea. "Would the truth make you uncomfortable?"

"If the truth is what I want it to be then I think it would make me incredibly..." He suddenly turns around and faces the shelf. "I'm sorry. This conversation has gotten so weird, and it's entirely my doing. I'm so sorry."

The sight of this usually so placid knight cowering from you in a cellar draws and quarters you between disbelief, adoration, confusion and a sudden desire to tease.

"Are you still in a rush to leave?"

"Honestly? I'd love to just evaporate away right now."

You wait. You wait an entire minute, not saying anything. And at no point does Cyran make any move to leave. In fact, he even looks over his shoulder, and the look in his eye...

Emboldened, you take several steps toward him and hug him from behind. Emboldened, you slide your hand over the front of his pants, hoping...

Cyran's unfiltered groan fills the entire cellar. Then he bonks his head against the shelf in front of him. "Fuck. Excuse me. Wow. That was loud."

"It was." You press your chest against his back and writhe upwards, finding it strangely easy to be coquettish. "It was really hot too."

Cyran clears his throat. "Shouldn't we be talking?"

"Shouldn't you be leaving?"

"I'm rather, uncomfortably comfortable right where I am, thanks."

Another two drops of water fill the silence. Then the tension bursts into mutual laughter.

If Cyran's voice is lovely with hellos and small-talk, it is pearls on a necklace with laughter. As rich as any prince.

And the way his laugh seems to dance perfectly around yours? How many couples can say that?

Couple. Now that's a word you like. But it's up to Cyran to pull that into his vocabulary for you two.

And there's still a chance that he...

You drop your hand but Cyran catches your wrist and guides you back.

"Cyran...?" You turn your head and rest your cheek against his back.

"Please. I like it when you think of me."

Your heart surges. "Can I take that to mean what I hope you mean?"

He cups your palm around him, rubbing slow, languorous strokes along the hardened length. "I wouldn't want to be touched like this unless you were the one touching me." His breathing is hypnotic with how controlled it is, how it compliments the movements of his and your hand.

You do, you really truly do. Want to runaway with him.

Again, and again, and again.

Lost in the moment, in Cyran, in his quiet beauty, you press a light kiss into his back. "Then maybe... you could show me your bedroom sometime?"

--

credit as always to thewitchofbooks for cyran info and inspiration

on Violence

Chapter 5

Chapters: [1] , [2], [3], [4], [5]

Fandom: Ikemen Prince | Nokto Klein / Adam Kain | Words: 2k

Tags: Scriptfic, screenplay format, Political stuff, Slow burn, Route spoilers

Summary :

Confrontation.

tagging: @altairring @tiny-wooden-robot @kissmetwicekissmedeadly

notes: Just for clarification, in my format the underline is for emphasis, while italic means something is said in another language besides Rhodolitian. When something is said in Yashpari, it's actually in Javanese. The translation would be right below the sentence.

ACT FIVE

INT. THE OUTSIDE OF ADAM'S CELL - MIDNIGHT 

A warden lays unconscious on the floor. No one dares to approach the door towards the stairs, not even to check on him. 

Because, they’ve been told that...

Prince Nokto is inside with his arms up, and a person disguised as a guard had a gun pointed at him. They want the other Rhodolite princes. If anyone else attempts to get inside… it’s his life on the line.

Sweat running through his skin, he could only see Adam standing behind his cell door, having all the power in the room.

NOKTO

You planned for this.

ADAM

...A little.

NOKTO

You’re a bunch of Obsidianites, after all, huh? I should’ve known.

ADAM

No. Sura doesn't speak Rhodolitian. At least she’s willing to compromise with a language you’ll understand.

NOKTO

She?

The person behind him did not sound like a woman. Before he could care any further, the door to the cell block blasts open, letting in numerous heavy footsteps inside.

In the instant that Nokto turned around, Sura had already stepped behind him again, now pointing their gun towards his befuddled brothers that had just witnessed the scene. 

He saw Licht amongst them first.

LICHT

Nokto!

NOKTO

Licht, don’t step closer!

Someone steps closer anyway. There’s no other man that silhouette could belong to but Chevalier Michel. He draws his sword faster than Nokto’s eyes could register.

BANG!

The gun’s explosion blows right past Nokto’s ears. His heart stopped dead. But Chevalier’s sword hitting the ground sounds more deafening.

CLANG! The bullet had shattered the sword hilt, missed his fingers by a miracle. The blade then lands behind him.

ADAM

There are six round bullets in the chamber. That was the first. There are five of you in the room.

All attention points straight towards Adam, and his shooter. That small, peculiar firearm produces so much smoke, it’s engulfing the nose, eyes, and throat. Noone had seen something that compact making that sort of sound, much less an explosion. Chevalier, Licht, Leon, and Clavis, they all stare with faces just as shocked. Who knows where the rest of them are. Nokto couldn’t hold in his coughs— Licht wants to jump towards him before he is immediately restrained by Leon.

ADAM

—Five. It’s enough for each of you. Now listen carefully.

[Read more on AO3]