Thank You So Much For The Tag @chaya-reblogs ! I Love How Yours Looks

Thank you so much for the tag @chaya-reblogs ! I love how yours looks🥺💜

Fighting for the rights of the rabbit🤣

Tagging @fluffyneko and @curious-skybunny !

Me starting another picrew tag chain because of how cute this one is 🥺🥺🥺🥺💞💞 look at us!!!

You can find it here!!

Picrew

오뱅이어

💜 개인적 사용, 리터칭 Ok / 상업적 이용 No 💜 Twitter > @Blank_C0 색깔을 바꾸면 생김새가 바뀌는 파츠가 있습니다! 수익이 발생할 수 있는 플랫폼(유튜브, 트위치 등)의 영상에 픽크루 이미지를 사용하지 말아주세요. 💜 sp

Tagging: @queengiuliettafirstlady @queen-dahlia @aquagirl1978 @chaosangel767 @atelier-maroron @devonares @themysticalbeing @mcofthemansion @namine-somebodies-nobody @alby-rei @tiny-wooden-robot @delicateikemenmemes @moonstruck-writing @ikemenlibrary @ifthiswingscouldfly @lordsister

I have a request:

Suitor: Gilbert

From your prompt list: ♡ for one muse to kiss the other with a knife to their throat

THANK YOU, I LOVE YOUR WORK SO MUCH!

A/N: Thank you anon for the request! I was really intrigued and enjoyed working on this 💜

TW: knives, reader is momentarily held by force

Word count: 1595 (I can't help it. He just demands words)

The halls of Himmelsgard are labyrinthian. You wander barefoot over the cold stone floor, trying to make sense of where you are, but it feels as lost a cause as counting grains of sand on a beach or teardrops by a gravesite.

The wall sconces cast their pale orange light on dark gray walls, leaving you enough to find your way even as they birth shadows which seem to follow you. Are they there to guide you to where you have to go or are they stalking you, herding you toward some unknown beast crouching in its lair?

The chill caresses your skin through your nightclothes. Soft, filmy material is a fine choice when you are in a warm bed, but it is hardly any protection against the cold fingers of night. A robe would have been smart, but you had fled your room in a hurry.

As envoy from King Chevalier, you had been sent to Obsidian as a gesture of alliance, a way for the newly-chosen king to make sure that your choice as Belle was accepted by Obsidian, Rhodolite’s most uneasy ally. Along with gifts of wine and food, carefully chosen by you and Yves, you carried a letter, signed in the king’s elegant hand, declaring you under his direct protection. It was a formal, official way of keeping you safe while you were here. And you had lost it. Specifically you had misplaced the reticule it was safely tucked inside of.

Maybe it was in the library where you had stopped for a moment on the brief tour of the palace. Or had you left it in the great dining hall, when you were awestruck by its enormous black, wrought-iron chandelier dripping with thousands of teardrop crystals. You aren’t sure. What you do remember with a clarity as bright as those crystals is the hard look in King Chevalier’s blue, blue eyes as he handed it to you with the warning not to lose it.

This brings you to the present and why you are wandering the halls of Gilbert von Obsidian’s palace at an hour far too late, far too full of half-seen things that live in the periphery of your vision. You breathe in, trying to shake the apprehension that stalks you in the dark. 

In front of you is a set of double doors, the tiger-and-gun sigil of Obsidian branded into the wood. This looks familiar. Your heart pushes itself up slowly off the floor of your chest, hope returning. Yes, you remember this door. You are certain. Reaching down, you pause only for a moment with your hand on the curved, golden handle and then step inside.

The room is heavy with darkness. The only light at all are the pale, silvery beams of moonlight shining through the large rose window. You wait a moment, giving your eyes time to adjust. This isn’t the dining room or the library. It is a study of some kind. Bookshelves full of heavy gold-embossed tomes. An austere table in the middle of the room with parchments spread across it. Maps? Missives? Even the heavy, ebony wood desk is covered: scrolls still tied with black, silk ribbons, several elegant black-feathered quills, a gold and glass inkwell. A chamberstick fashioned to look like a leaping tiger, the wick of its candle still smoking.

Wait….still smoking…

It happens as if he has been reading your mind this entire time. One moment you are standing in the entrance to the room, the next you are pressed with your back against the now-closed door, a strong arm across the top of your sternum, a blade mere centimeters from your throat, a face like a beautiful nightmare filling your vision. 

Shock freezes you, the blood in your veins turning glacial. Your lungs are held prisoner by fear, only capable of short, uneven breaths. You can hear the thundering of your heart in your ears and you wonder if he can feel it where his arm touches your skin. A tiny prisoner, rattling its cage. Screaming.

“Why are you in here?” Gilbert’s voice is low, calm, the steady sound of an ocean rocking on a still, summer night. An ocean that holds a hidden world of serrated teeth, crushing tentacles, maws that swallow you whole.

He fills your senses. Your sight is his raven hair, his ivory skin, his wine-colored eye, narrowed with suspicion. Your hearing is his voice, liquid electricity pouring into your ears. Your smell is his scent, the air before rainfall, the cool as day lays back and submits to night. You feel the softness of his sleeve against your skin even as it holds you in place. You taste fear, something bitter and burning.

“I will only repeat myself once. Why are you in here?” His breathing is steady. He isn't afraid. He isn’t nervous. Shock slowly melts away as the fires of indignation and outrage flare up inside you at his placidity. How dare he?

“Remove your arm.” You try to sound forceful, but your voice comes out thinner than you would like, tin instead of steel.

His dark brow raises slightly as something flashes in his eye, like the play of light through leaves.

“You are aware, Häschen, that I am the one with the dagger.” But the pressure on your chest lessens.

“Remove your arm….bitte.” If words could bite, that last one would have sunk its sharp teeth into his hand.

Perhaps it's hearing please in his own tongue. Or the courage you have mustered. He drops his arm from your chest….only to place his hand on the wall by your head, the other still holding the dagger to your throat. At least now you can breathe, even if every exhale shakes.

“My question.” He shifts, a step closer. He radiates control, every movement, no matter how slight, a conscious decision.

“I was lost.” You keep your gaze on his eye. If you look there, if you allow the sanguine color to hold you in place, you won’t think so much about the danger so close to your throat.

He breathes out, his breath carrying the faint scene of the herbal liquor that Obsidian is famous for. Cinnamon bark. Cloves. Licorice. Ginger. You swallow. When you had arrived at the palace, he had taken your hand in his. An unexpected spark had rushed through you when he then raised your hand to his lips in the coolest of kisses, a tendril of night across your skin, and welcomed you to Obsidian. That same heat now rears its head, joining fear and anger in the roiling of your stomach.

“He sent you to spy, didn’t he?” His voice is suddenly as sharp as his blade, honed by years of anger and hatred. You immediately know who he means.

“King Chevalier did not send me to spy.” Despite your uneven breathing, you speak calmly, your chin tilting upwards in a small gesture of disdain at the very idea.

Gilbert shifts again and you can now feel the kiss of the blade at your throat. His eye gleams with intelligence, with something bordering on primal. It is almost jarring within the elegant setting of his study. He holds your gaze, silence stretching between you, growing heavier the longer it goes on. 

“I can taste if you’re lying.” 

His words are drawn out slowly, measured and weighted. They wrap themselves around your throat, as dangerous as the dagger in his hand. They press the air from your lungs. They are oil to the fire inside you. Fear is blackened and shriveled, burned to a crisp by the white hot blaze of sudden craving.

You blame it on the hour, on the knife at your throat, on the scent of him, the sight of his face, lust etched into its perfect lines. You blame the words that come out of your mouth next on a desire that vanquishes you.

“Go ahead and see.”

He needs no other prompting. Knife still at your throat, he leans forward and his mouth is on yours. It is instantly demanding, hungry. He kisses with the intent to ravage. He makes good on his promise to taste you, over and over, swallowing every gasp that tries to escape.

“You are a spy,” he growls against your lips.

“No,” you exhale and he covers your mouth again, drinking the words like fine wine. Your hands desperately curl into the rich material of his clothes. You should push him away but you can’t. You can’t. You are holding on, limbs brittle with longing.

“You are his.” His mouth is by your ear, words molten.

“No.” Again he devours you, your tongue and lips his feast. The blade at your throat begins to waver in his now unsteady hand.

“You want me.” His lips are still on yours when he whispers, his voice crushed velvet and rough sand.

“No….” The word, a weak and wanton thing, escapes you on a sigh of pleasure as he bites into your bottom lip.

He plunders your mouth again, the hand with the knife having now fallen to his side. You are burning, aflame from the inside. Everything, every lick of fear and anger and hesitation has burned to ashes at his touch and only want rises, a phoenix blinding you both to anything but each other.

“Your first lie, Häschen,” he rasps against you. 

The knife falls from loose fingers to the hardwood floor, forgotten. His hands grip your hips, pull you against him, ravenous.

“Heute Nacht gehörst du mir.” 

Tonight, you belong to me.

*

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelier-maroron @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @queen-dahlia @moonstruck-writing @gilbertvonobsidian

𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐, 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛. 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔? 𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.

𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃

𝙸𝚔𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚘𝚔𝚞

1. EVENT: BE MY VALENTINE [hosted by @xxsycamore and @chaosangel767]: LET'S GET NAUGHTY [Masamune Date X Female MC]

2. EVENT: BE MY VALENTINE [hosted by @xxsycamore and @chaosangel767]: NOT A VALENTINE'S DAY TO REMEMBER [Mitsuhide Akechi X Female MC]

3. EVENT: SPRING BOUQUET CONTENT CREATION CHALLENGE [hosted by @atelier-maroron]: A TALE OF A FOX AND A RABBIT [Mitsuhide Akechi X Female MC]

𝙸𝚔𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎

N/A

𝚃𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜

1. EVENT: BE MY VALENTINE [hosted by @xxsycamore and @chaosangel767]: A SURPRISE PROPOSAL [Artem Wing X Female MC]

𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚘𝚞𝚜

1. MY FIRST POST ON TUMBLR: A KENSHIN UESUGI EDIT

2. PICREW TAG GAME!

Thank you so much for the tag @chaosangel767 ! (The last name Clemence is searching for you👀)

These are mine

Concerned, but the emo vibes😂

Tagging (if you haven't done it already/only if interested!) @queen-dahlia , @fluffyneko and whoever wants to do it!

NO CHEATING: You’re starring in a movie with the last person saved in your camera roll and the last song you listened to is the title. Who/what is it?

thank you for the tag @https-stay 💕💕💕

tagging: anyone who wants to play along!

Thank you very much for the tag @queen-dahlia ! It's a very pretty picrew!

Tagging: @chaosangel767 and @fluffyneko as well as anyone who wants to take part of!

Another super pretty picrew I wanted to share with you!!

I'm feeling quite " >:) ❤️ " today and this matches perfectly with my mood and I love it *does the ojou-sama laugh*

You can find it here:

Picrew

묘파 픽크루

묘파 (@myommission) ⭕️ 커뮤 합발폼, 프로필사진, TRPG 인장, 커미션 신청을 위한 자료 등 상식적인 범위 내에서 자유롭게 이용해주세요. 출처는 꼭 남겨주시면 감사하겠습니다 >//< 2021.05.19

Tagging (no pressure): @kisara-16 @namine-somebodies-nobody @ifthiswingscouldfly @mcofthemansion @delicateikemenmemes @atelier-maroron @aquagirl1978 @chaosangel767 @queengiuliettafirstlady @queen-dahlia @devonares @themysticalbeing @tiny-wooden-robot @moonstruck-writing and whoever else wants to join!

Hi Violettduchess!!!!!!!! Just saw your blog!!!! Wow you're amazing!!!! I really hope you're having a lovely day today!!!

I was wondering if your requests are still open?

If not then please ignore and I'm very sorry!

I was hoping to perhaps request a fanfic of Faust from ikevamp! I've always wanted to request something about him!!!

I saw prompt 20 of the touches ask game which is bandaging/stitching up a wound! And I'd really love to see Faust do that for the reader if that's ok!!!!

But if that's annoying or difficult to do at the moment I completely understand!

And mostly I just wanted to come say hi!!! And say that you're amazing!!!

Hugs!!!

A/N: Thank you for the request @mcofthemansion!! I love Faust but this was my first time writing him! What a treat. I know this prompt usually takes you into fluff territory but this one took a bit of a different direction. I hope you like it anyway! 💜

TW: stitches/ needles

Angst with a dash of spice

Word count: 1518

The last thing you remember is the world upending itself. One minute, you were practically being lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the carriage. Rain was falling as steadily as a heartbeat against the roof. You felt safe and sleepy, a babe in its mother’s womb. 

The next thing you knew the entire carriage exploded with light. The horses pulling the carriage screamed in terror. And you tumbled into blackness.

…

Consciousness returns, insistently tugging at the curtain of darkness in your mind, yanking at it until you feel your eyes flutter open.

“You’re awake.” An accented voice. The smell of disinfectant. Mechanical humming. You try to focus on where any of these things are coming from, but it feels like a train is roaring through your head, its blindingly white headlight filling your vision.

“Nee,” the voice chides sharply and you feel strong hands pressing you back. Apparently you had been lying down. “Do not attempt to sit up. You will only injure yourself further.”

Pain and frustration leave your lips in the form of a heavy groan. You keep your eyes closed for a moment, willing the roaring to subside, the train to stop rumbling, the world to stop wobbling. You feel a large hand reach behind your head, helping you lift yourself slightly. It’s strength gives you a sense of comfort, of stillness. A glass is pressed to your lips.

“Drink.” It is a command, authority deeply embedded in a voice so rich it soothes. You part your lips and do as it says. Cold water fills your mouth and you swallow gratefully. You reach up to take the glass, to drink more of it but it is cruelly moved away.

“No. Enough.”

You attempt opening your eyes again. This time it doesn’t send you reeling. Slowly your eyesight adjusts, the world coming into focus, like when corrective lenses restore the world to faulty eyes. Speaking of eyes…you find yourself staring into a pair as green and sharp as broken pieces of sea glass. A tremor runs through you and you aren’t sure if it's from the accident or that viridian gaze.

“What happened?” Your voice feels sticky in your throat and your head is still pulsing. The man is seated on a stool by your side as you lay on some kind of examination table.  One sweeping glance around the room tells you that you’re in some kind of laboratory. You turn back to him. “Are you a doctor?”

He regards you a moment, then stands without answering. You take in his dark clothing, watch the movement of his broad shoulders as he prepares something at a counter. When he turns, he holds a metal basin with a cutting needle and thread. He moves back to his stool by your side, setting the basin down on the small stand by the head of the examination table.

“You were in a carriage accident.” His voice is smooth like polished brass. “Lightning spooked the horses. Unfortunately they panicked and ran right off the road into a ditch. You’re lucky I found you.” His words are crisp and short, relaying information and nothing else.

The news is too much for your addled mind to take in all at once. “W-what?” You start to push yourself up, panic rising like bile in your throat. The room begins to sway and again, his strong hands catch you, steady you. 

“Lie still. You have a head wound. It is foolish to attempt moving until I have closed it.” His voice is authority laced with displeasure as he again forces you back down. You try to collect your thoughts as he threads his needle.

“What happened to the driver?” The doctor, or at least you assume he is one, leans down, his fingers brushing your hair away from the cut on your forehead. His touch is cool, distant, as if he willed all warmth and comfort out of his hand the moment it made contact with you. 

“Be still,” he snaps as he leans closer. His face is now close enough that you can see just how green his eyes are, forests fringed by guardians of dark lashes. The lines of his face are almost aristocratic, high cheekbones,  sharp chin. He smells faintly of rubbing alcohol and valerian root. You can’t help but wince as the needle begins its work. But his hands are steady and after a moment, the stinging ebbs. In less time than you thought, he is finished. He leans back, placing the needle in the metal basin before reaching down again to hold your hair back and examine his work. His hand on your skin feels cool. An odd sense of relief fills you as his hand lingers, sharp eyes reviewing his stitching.

“Sehr gut,” he mutters more to himself than you. 

“Doctor….?”

“Faust.” 

“Dr. Faust, how is the driver?”

He stands up, movements abrupt and brisk. “He was killed. His neck broken in the fall.”

You inhale sharply. You can still see the driver’s kind smile, his white beard and blue eyes, framed by deep wrinkles as he waited for you outside the concert hall. You had been at one of Mozart’s concerts and the evening had run late. Much to your chagrin, it was then made even later by your being roped into a conversation with a very drunk, very insistent red-headed baroness. The driver had assured Comte he would get you back to the mansion safely before the storm arrived. 

You lower your head, heavy with sorrow, at the idea that the compassionate man with eyes like summer had died alone, in the dark, so suddenly.

Fingers suddenly grasp your chin and force you to look upwards. The doctor is looking down at you, his expression puzzled.

“Why are you crying? Did you know this man?”

A tear slides down your cheek, over Faust’s fingers. He doesn’t move them. If anything they tighten their grasp on you.

“No…I didn’t know him well. But he was a person. And he didn’t deserve to die.”

Faust is watching you, those hemlock eyes of his probing, looking for a way in. Like he would love nothing more than to break you into pieces and examine each one.

“Everyone dies. It’s not a matter of merit.”

You blink, unable to stop the tears. He keeps a hold on your face, forcing you to look at him, forcing you to let him watch you cry. His fingers are now damp with your heartache.

“But to die like that….without family? In the dark? Poor man….he was doing me a favor, staying so late. I…I can’t help but feel responsible.”

If you expect empathy or comfort, you are in the wrong company. What you get instead is a loud scoff from his sculpted lips.

“People rarely die in comfort. And everyone dies alone.” His words are curt, but there is something in them, a heaviness born of personal experience, a weight that pulls on your heart.

“You must have a lot of experience with death.” His eyes flash, the blinding glare of a lighthouse spotlight rotating into your field of vision. His fingertips press into your jaw as if to stabilize himself. More words spill out of you, a haphazard attempt at course-correcting.  “I mean, with you being a doctor and everything.”

Faust runs his poison-ivy gaze over you and you burn as if touching the real thing. His hand is still holding your face when he leans down, his face now very close to yours. His fingers loosen their grip, become cloying and gentle as they trace over the line of your jaw. They skim the planes of your cheeks, still damp with grief, until they finally reach the corner of your eyes. His thumbs wipe away the tears on the verge of falling. One hand tilts, cupping your face, holding it in his palm. The other travels back down, thumb boldly running over the curve of your lips. Your breath is a wisp, small and light, fluttering inside your chest. You hold it inside, afraid if you move, he’ll stop. Afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t.

“You must taste divine,” he murmurs. 

At his words, you instinctively jerk away and the moment breaks like cobwebs in a strong wind. His hands leave your face and he steps back, his mask of indifference briskly back in place.

“Another carriage is waiting outside to return you home. The storm has passed and your injury is mended.” He walks away from you, back turned, busying himself in front of several vials and glass tubing.

You push yourself off the examination table, your emotions a swinging pendulum between never wanting to see him again and inexplicably wishing you could stay.

“Good night, Dr. Faust. And thank you.” When he doesn’t turn around or answer, you collect your things and make your way to the door. 

What you don’t see is the way he turns, his green-eyed gaze following you as you leave, then lingering on the closed door for a long, long time after you’re gone.

*

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelier-maroron @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks