I Believe You Asked For Napoleon And Kuromi ~ Full Version Coming Soon

I believe you asked for Napoleon and Kuromi ~ full version coming soon

「うん、寂しいから一緒に行こう。お散歩 🫴 」

A/N: A little fic inspired by @vioisgoinginsane and her delightful Cyran in Pyjamas art

Cyran x Reader

WC: 638

Head librarian of the royal palace is a job that suits you to a tee, but it comes with long hours, especially when arranging the procurement of foreign titles. By the time you are done with all your correspondences, first to the librarian in Jade and then the royal library of Tanzanite, the moon is hanging high in the inky black sky, a perfect crescent of silvery light. You hurry, feet whispering over the tiled floor of the palace, then crunching over the straw and grass along the path to the armory and then scuffling over the coarse gray stone of the armory steps. 

Above the collection of toothy weaponry is Cyran's bedroom: your destination on this warm, breezy night.

The oaken door, scarred and worn, opens on silent, well-oiled hinges. Cyran takes care of his things. One of the many admirable qualities about the Obsidian soldier that made you stumble and then fall for him. 

"Cyran?" 

You step into the room, lit only by the amber glow of the oil lamps. Your eyes need a moment to adjust before you spot him.

He's asleep at his desk, his check pillowed by strong forearms. Around him papers are neatly stacked. Quill and inkwell tidied away. Everything is ordered and structured, except…..

You smile softly. His hair falls messily across his forehead, a curtain of red, deeper than the blaze of the blacksmith's forge. It is the red of the sky on the tipping point of night. The dark crimson of the Scarlatta rose, whose petals have been singed by loving kisses of darkness.

You cross the creaky wooden floor as quietly as you can, soaking in the sight of the man who never shows exhaustion, who handles every challenge, from Clavis's wild whims to military training maneuvers, with a stoic sense of pride. Your touch is gentle, trailing the back of your fingers across his cheek, rough with several days worth of russet stubble. 

The caress reaches him beyond the place where sleep reigns, his mind breaking from the soft cocoon it has woven around him. He stirs, his dark eyes blinking away the last strands of dreaming that cling to his consciousness like cobwebs.

"You're back," he murmurs in a voice sandpaper-rough with sleep. 

"Mm hmm." His hair is one of the most luxurious textures you've ever touched. Soft and fine as spun silk. It flows through your fingers like water over stone. "Come on, Red. Bedtime."

He grumbles as you lean forward, taking his strong hands in yours and urging him up and away from his desk. It's only when he's standing you notice he's already changed for bed.

Running a hand down the soft linen of his sleep shirt, you raise your gaze, your smile curved with curiosity, soft with affection.

"If you already changed, why didn't you get in bed?" You know how long his day was, stretching from the early rosy-fingers of dawn brushing the sky until the first diamond-edged star cut its way through the dark sheet of night.

He yawns, his words slow and honey-thick with sleepiness.

"I didn't want to fall asleep without you so I went to my desk…." He yawns again and your heart feels like it might burst with the swell of affection that floods it. He went to his desk to stay awake, to wait for you.

Gently you lead him to bed where he falls back onto his pillow with a heavy thump. His eyes are already closing as you pull the thin woolen blanket up over his broad chest.

"You're coming?" His voice is foggy with another yawn.

You lean down, anointing his forehead with a petal-soft kiss.

"I'll be right there, my love." Your smile is lambent with affection as you drink in the sight of him, this wonderful man who shelters your heart so tenderly in his calloused hands. "I'll be right there."

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

🎉🎊🎉 1K!!! 🎉🎊🎉

I'm so happy for you!!!!! You deserve all the love and admiration, my dear. Not only is your writing fantastic, you're sweet and I definitely consider you a friend of mine here. I appreciate you 💕

Now... could I request Theo and kissing to prove a point for your 1k celebration? I feel that's very him haha.

A/N: Here you are, @yarnnerdally 💜

Theo x f reader

Prompt: A Kiss to Prove a Point

Word Count: 1203

It has taken days of planning and many sleepless nights, but now you are finally done. The petite art gallery on the west side of Paris is decorated with elegant floral garlands and soft, twinkling fairy lights, all highlighting the theme of the collection: Romance. You’re tired, but it is a satisfied kind of tired, the kind that settles into your muscles and bones like a lioness sinking down onto the soft Savannah earth after a rewarding hunt. The artist behind the collection had been no one, just another street painter trying to sell his offerings to mildly interested tourists when you had noticed him and his work, stopping dead in your tracks to admire a painting of a couple locked in a warm embrace. They lay in a field of green grass and small pink blossoms, wrapped in one another’s arms. They're bathed in soft yellow sunshine, locked together in an eternal summer kiss. Something about the painting had felt so inviting, so real, you had pressed the tips of your fingers against your lips, your heart swelling with a wave of longing to be kissed the same way. By a certain someone.

Theo had agreed with you, once you had managed to drag him away from the mansion and back to the park where the artist was slowly packing up his wares. Buffeted by the man’s potential, you had worked together on putting together a showing of his paintings, drumming up funds from various patrons until you had enough for your showcase.

Now you walk through the small gallery, drinking in the fruits of your labor. 

“There you are.” Theo’s deep voice cuts through your reverie and you turn to see him approaching you, glass of sparkling champagne in hand. He hands you one which you take with an appreciative smile.

“Cheers,” you say, lifting it towards him.

“Proost,” he answers, clinking glasses with you. Your gazes hold (you could swim forever in all that blue) Before the moment stretches into something too long to be insignificant, you both raise the delicate crystal flutes and drink. The cascade of bubbles feels like it's not just rushing down your throat but through your entire body. You blink, turning towards the painting you are closest to. 

It’s the passionate couple, kissing in the summer field. The one that had so immediately caught your attention. You sigh, a light, dreamy sound that pours itself over Theo like silk, sending an unexpected rush of heat through his body. He rubs his face, turning away to hide any color that may have risen to his chiseled cheeks. You don't notice, eyes glued to the figures as you allow yourself another sip of champagne. Now, in the dimmer lighting of the art gallery late at night, there is something even more sensual about the way the couple is holding each other. His hand pressed against the rounded curve of his lover's hip, her fingers curled against the side of his neck, intimate, possessive. 

“This is as satisfying as a real kiss,” you murmur, head tilting as you continue to admire the art. What pulls you out of your rose-colored haze is the decidedly unromantic snort from your right. 

“If you think a painting can replace a real kiss, then you haven’t been kissing the right person, hondje.”

He’s smirking as he takes a sip of his drink, his impossibly blue eyes looking over the painting. The fairy lights are having the same effect on him as they do the artwork: he looks unfathomably beautiful, his golden hair darker than in the daylight, his face a sculptor’s dream of perfectly balanced features.

Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the intimacy of the late hour. Maybe it’s the fact that you have been spinning from one task to another all day long without a chance to spend any time with him. It has to be something because the following words come out of your mouth:

“Prove me wrong.”

Three little words that stop the earth from turning, that grab hold of Theo’s lungs with such force that the next inhale shakes. Three little words that hang in the air between you, vaguely foreboding like flickering neon or distant thunder.

Warning flashes through your mind and you want to kick yourself and your big mouth. Why did you say that? Whatever possessed you to even think that Theodorus van Gogh would be interested in kissing–

Theodorus van Gogh sets his champagne glass down on the edge of a table full of brochures and then turns. He reaches out with both hands, cupping either side of your face and leans down, capturing your mouth with his. You freeze, both arms at your sides, the champagne in your glass sloshing around like a tiny, storm-tossed sea. 

Is he…..

Oh….

…..he is….

He’s kissing you, his lips moving over yours in a shockingly gentle caress, his hands holding you still, not forcefully, but carefully, like you’re something valuable, something he should handle with care. He displays a tenderness you would never have dreamed possible in a man as large as he is. Every movement of his mouth against yours sends a ripple of warmth through your body. One hand shifts, the back of his fingers stroking the softness of your cheek. 

Your surprise slowly melts under his touch, disappearing like water droplets in sunshine,  and your free hand rises to clutch his shoulder. You hold on tightly, reveling in the electricity every brush of his lips sparks. But before you can part your lips in invitation, before you can start truly returning his kiss, he pulls away, the movement causing a short, forlorn gasp to leave your tingling lips.

Quiet descends upon you both and for a long, tense moment, neither one of you speaks. Words seem impossible as you stare into the summer-sky of his eyes. He clears his throat, shaking his head as if trying to wake himself out of a dream. At that moment you feel him pulling away, the warmth of his kiss and the tenderness of his hands fading into memory. Your heart lurches in panic.

“Theo.” 

He grunts, unable to meet your gaze. 

You step towards him, setting your champagne glass down next to his. Your hands are now free to reach out, steadier than you expected them to be, and take his, holding his strong hands tightly in yours.

“I believe…..I am starting to be swayed by your persuasive argument. But I do think I need more proof before I am fully convinced.”

His head snaps up and on his handsome face you see a dazzling array of emotions, starting with surprise and ending with a slow smile that sends your heart spinning. He pulls you towards him, unhurried, a man who now knows he has a delicious treat waiting just for him.

"More proof, huh,” he murmurs, unlocking your hands so he can slide his around you, large palms eagerly learning the curve of your hips, the slope of your waist.

You plunge your hand boldly into the thicket of his golden hair as he bends his body down to kiss you for the second time that night. 

By the night’s end though….you will have lost count entirely.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bubblexly

A/N: A little fic inspired by @vioisgoinginsane and her delightful Cyran in Pyjamas art

Cyran x Reader

WC: 638

Head librarian of the royal palace is a job that suits you to a tee, but it comes with long hours, especially when arranging the procurement of foreign titles. By the time you are done with all your correspondences, first to the librarian in Jade and then the royal library of Tanzanite, the moon is hanging high in the inky black sky, a perfect crescent of silvery light. You hurry, feet whispering over the tiled floor of the palace, then crunching over the straw and grass along the path to the armory and then scuffling over the coarse gray stone of the armory steps. 

Above the collection of toothy weaponry is Cyran's bedroom: your destination on this warm, breezy night.

The oaken door, scarred and worn, opens on silent, well-oiled hinges. Cyran takes care of his things. One of the many admirable qualities about the Obsidian soldier that made you stumble and then fall for him. 

"Cyran?" 

You step into the room, lit only by the amber glow of the oil lamps. Your eyes need a moment to adjust before you spot him.

He's asleep at his desk, his check pillowed by strong forearms. Around him papers are neatly stacked. Quill and inkwell tidied away. Everything is ordered and structured, except…..

You smile softly. His hair falls messily across his forehead, a curtain of red, deeper than the blaze of the blacksmith's forge. It is the red of the sky on the tipping point of night. The dark crimson of the Scarlatta rose, whose petals have been singed by loving kisses of darkness.

You cross the creaky wooden floor as quietly as you can, soaking in the sight of the man who never shows exhaustion, who handles every challenge, from Clavis's wild whims to military training maneuvers, with a stoic sense of pride. Your touch is gentle, trailing the back of your fingers across his cheek, rough with several days worth of russet stubble. 

The caress reaches him beyond the place where sleep reigns, his mind breaking from the soft cocoon it has woven around him. He stirs, his dark eyes blinking away the last strands of dreaming that cling to his consciousness like cobwebs.

"You're back," he murmurs in a voice sandpaper-rough with sleep. 

"Mm hmm." His hair is one of the most luxurious textures you've ever touched. Soft and fine as spun silk. It flows through your fingers like water over stone. "Come on, Red. Bedtime."

He grumbles as you lean forward, taking his strong hands in yours and urging him up and away from his desk. It's only when he's standing you notice he's already changed for bed.

Running a hand down the soft linen of his sleep shirt, you raise your gaze, your smile curved with curiosity, soft with affection.

"If you already changed, why didn't you get in bed?" You know how long his day was, stretching from the early rosy-fingers of dawn brushing the sky until the first diamond-edged star cut its way through the dark sheet of night.

He yawns, his words slow and honey-thick with sleepiness.

"I didn't want to fall asleep without you so I went to my desk…." He yawns again and your heart feels like it might burst with the swell of affection that floods it. He went to his desk to stay awake, to wait for you.

Gently you lead him to bed where he falls back onto his pillow with a heavy thump. His eyes are already closing as you pull the thin woolen blanket up over his broad chest.

"You're coming?" His voice is foggy with another yawn.

You lean down, anointing his forehead with a petal-soft kiss.

"I'll be right there, my love." Your smile is lambent with affection as you drink in the sight of him, this wonderful man who shelters your heart so tenderly in his calloused hands. "I'll be right there."

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

Happy 3rd Anniversary Ikemen Prince!