I Love How You Capture Not Only Him But The Reader's Heart Too - Tumblr Posts
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