I Don't Know If Your Requests Are Open But I Adore Your Kiss Fics! I'm Wondering If You Could Maybe Do

I don't know if your requests are open but I adore your kiss fics! I'm wondering if you could maybe do a kiss fic for Sariel Noir?

A/N: Here you go anon!

Sidenote: Kiss requests are always open. If you aren't sure which ones I have already done, there is a masterlist which you can check out right here

Sariel x Reader

Word Count: 545

You wouldn’t expect such tenderness from a man known as a devil. You might expect a kiss that bruises, that presses a whimper from your throat the way a flower-press crushes petals. You might expect the grip of his hands to be punishing, fingers digging into your softness like a trowel into soft earth. You might expect his goal to be pushing you to your limit, to dance you to the very precipice of what you can take, dip you backwards over the edge as dizziness swims through your body. The devil, after all, is heartless, relentless, and flirts with cruelty.

But you know better.

You know the side of him that, if it is a devil, it is of the fallen angel kind. He looks up from the papers piled on his desk as soon as he hears the door open, violet eyes suddenly luminous, their amethyst color shining like sunshine through a butterfly’s wing behind the lenses of his glasses. You approach him and he rises, the tide in its eternal, loving servitude to the moon. No words are needed between you as he opens his arms and you step into them, closing your eyes as the world tilts and he settles back into his office chair, you pulled along and held close to him. His embrace is as much strength, the bulwark of protection from the world’s dangers as it is the gentle, protective curve of a hawk’s wing over its young. He reaches up to free your flushed cheeks of a few wandering strands of hair, his hands cool against your skin. You smile and his breath is visibly caught in his chest, his expression that of a man who wants to resist the allure of looking at the sun directly….and not being able to help himself. You shift within the circle of his arms and stretch upwards until your lips touch his.

His mouth is immediately responsive, the softness of your kiss mirrored in the answering press of his lips. You do not move, sinking into the feeling of his lips on yours, the gentle hum of electricity passing between you, words of devotion and affection unspoken yet palatable. He shifts, tilting his head and catches your lip between his, holding you there a moment. Both of you are still, locked in a sweet embrace, two people in a timeless echo of all the lovers that have ever come before you. You are endless and undying, the moment between breaths, the space between heartbeats, a single drop of eternity shared between you and him. And then your lips move, the moment breaks, and stillness becomes propulsion. 

Your kisses grow less gentle as lips part, teeth and tongues uncaged. Where there was tenderness and peace, there is now hunger and want. Satisfaction and discontent are two sides of the same blade: each kiss both quenches and amplifies the fire burning low in your bodies. He tastes so good, he feels so good, what more could you want.

The answer is easy: You want more and more and more.

You have one last, coherent thought as his teeth drag red lines down the soft skin of your neck, as your fingers slide under his tunic, searching for skin: There is nothing as satisfying as giving the Devil his due.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @neoqueen-sailorvirgo @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

hii i saw you’re opening requests for tis the season for love! may i request leon with prompt two? thank you so much :3

A/N: Here you are @leonscape !

A fic for the Tis the Season for Love CCC hosted by @voltage-vixen and @xxsycamore

Leon x Reader

Word Count: 651

The salon is bathed in the warm, flickering orange and golds of firelight, highlighting the dark wood and deep reds of the velvet furniture. You are curled up on the end of the couch, one hand holding a small volume of recently translated Tanzanite poetry. The other is running a continuous path through the lustrous jungle of Leon’s rich, chocolate brown hair. He’s laying, long limbs stretched out on the sofa, golden eyes on the fire, listening to you read out loud. He’s not really paying much attention to the words. He just enjoys the sound of your voice, the rise and fall of it, your inflection and intonation, as you earnestly read poems describing feelings of love and loss and loneliness. You’ve reached the final poem and read the last line:

“The indifferent have only one soul, but when you love, you have two.” 

If sighs could have colors, yours would be the softest, most romantic shades of pink and lavender. What a beautiful collection, you think dreamily as you lay the now finished volume down on the end table, lost for a moment in that ephemeral place that a writer leads you to with their words, a place that dissipates like stardust as reality slowly seeps back in.

“The emotions the author manages to convey, the allusions and imagery, the way they describe the depths of grief and the heights of love….” you trail off, your mind still filled with words and phrases and images as you reach for the cup of hot chocolate next to the closed book. “What did you think?”, you ask, glancing down at the head in your lap. No response. The fingers that are still combing his hair stop and then playfully tweak one of the locks that’s sticking straight up. 

“Oi!” he exclaims as he rolls onto his back, head still pillowed on your thigh, his gaze traveling from the firelight to your face. 

“Were you listening at all?” 

His lips curl into a sheepish grin. “Something about love….and two souls?”

The roll of your eyes has him laughing softly, a sound as warm and fulfilling as the cup of hot chocolate you lift to your lips. Yves never disappoints you think as you take a sip of the velvety sweet drink. 

Suddenly the head that was on your lap lifts as Leon pushes himself up, eyes shining now with interest.

“You still have some left?” His own empty mug sits in solitude next to the volume of poetry, empathizing with all the heartbreak within its pages

“Had.” You tip your cup to show him you’ve drained it to the very last drop. 

He tilts his head, at first dismayed by this turn off events, but instead of succumbing to the sadness of there being no more, he is struck by some divine inspiration. 

“I know a way I can still have some.” And then he is leaning towards you, his large hands cupping your face. And his mouth is on yours, parting your lips, a deep, soul-scorching kiss that would normally be kiss number five or six in line and not number one. But he wants a taste of that hot chocolate and will do whatever it takes to get it.

He kisses you breathless. He chases every single bit of chocolatey essence that clings to your lips, your tongue. By the time he is done, you’re left dizzy, your heart spinning wildly in your chest and your mind as melted as the chocolate in your drink.

“We must tell Yves,” he murmurs, “how much we enjoyed the hot chocolate.” You’re both sliding down the couch, his body covering yours in a way that sends a promising heat cartwheeling through you.

“Oh we will,” you answer, wrapping your arms around his neck, admiring the gold of his eyes, the flame in them miniatures of the roaring fireplace. “In the morning.”

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @leotoru @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @neoqueen-sailorvirgo @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart

A/N: This is a joint effort by myself and @thewitchofbooks who I reached out to after falling for her beautiful art. A gifted creator and a super Gilbert fan? Perfect 💜

The title of this fic comes from the well-known Robert Frost poem

Gilbert x female Reader

Holiday / winter fluff

Word Count: 1068

Obsidian is the opposite of Rhodolite. If your home country is soft, velvet roses and rolling green hills and trees staggering under the weight of the fruit they bear, then Obsidian is bushes with sharp, hungry thorns, dusty, cracked earth and trees that look utilitarian at best and menacing at worst. But Mother Nature has a secret, a way to equalize them both: snow. Snow covers the idyllic hills and small villages and gardens the same way it does stone houses, empty fields and barren trees. Snow brings beauty to even the harshest of places.

When you had stopped at the tall, arched windows and seen the blanket of white laid out before you, gleaming despite a wan sunlight muted by voluminous, gray velvet clouds, there was only one person you wanted to rush outside and experience it with.

He agreed readily, setting aside the day’s papers and letters and worries for something just as important, something vital to giving him the strength to continue with all those papers and letters and worries. Time with you.

Now you walk, arm in arm, over the soft snow, following the path that runs along the meager grain fields behind the palace. To your left looms the forest, black-barked trees with bare, spindly arms reaching for the heavens, bedecked in layers of sparkling white.

Gilbert is quiet, his red eye taking in the landscape, black boots ringed with clingy snow. You tighten your grip on his arm. If you were a snowflake, you would cling to him too, this man born of winter, whose skin is as pale and soft as the world around you. And as cold. However you know that under those layers of heavy black fabric and ornate gold and leather is a winter landscape that has trembled at your touch, melted under the heat of your mouth, and flushed at the movement of skin against skin. 

“This way,” he says, breaking the silence. “There’s something I want to show you.” Your arms unlock but his hand finds you, threading his leather-gloved fingers through yours. He leads you onto a small, narrow path that turns left, weaving its way through the trees. At first sight they loomed ominously, a vague sense of foreboding radiating from their bare branches. But now, walking through them, hand in hand, there is something that feels more akin to safety, as if the forest was sheltering you instead of warning you. 

He stops walking, raising one arm to point upwards. “There. This is what I wanted to show you.” You follow the long line of his arm up until you spot them. Nestled within the bare branches of the trees are bright green bushels of leaves dotted with tiny white berries. There is something almost whimsical about it, the vivid green amongst the dark, empty branches against the gray sky. 

“Do you recognize it?” Gilbert walks around, stopping behind you in order to wrap his arms around your middle, holding you against him. You lean back, tilting your head until it rests against his shoulder, gaze still admiring the view. There is something familiar about those plants. That vibrant green with its small bright white pearls. While you are thinking things over, racking your brain to place them, he lowers his head, his cheek pressed against yours. You can feel the smile on his face. “Really, Häschen? I thought you would know it immediately. After all….” He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “It is one of your favorite holiday traditions.”

Those words suddenly take the vague ideas swimming around in your mind and sharpen them, lock them in place to create something recognizable.

“That’s mistletoe!” Wonder fills you as you look at the beautiful green gifting the gray landscape with vibrant color. “I’ve never seen it in the wild before.”

“Mm hm.” He’s decided your gaze has been up in the trees long enough. He wants those luminous eyes on him. Sliding his hands to your waist, he turns you until you’re facing him, lips curved artfully. “And what did you explain to me one does under mistletoe?”

Something warm blooms inside you, a joy at the sultry, teasing note in his voice, a thrill at the way his hands are holding you tightly against him. You thought the green of the mistletoe leaves was beautiful within the panorama of gray and white surrounding you, but now, the jeweled red of his eye, glinting with the promise of something inciting, is the most exquisite color in sight.

“We are surrounded by an awful lot of mistletoe, my love” you murmur even as his hands leave your side to cup your face, the feel of those soft leather gloves as dear and familiar to you as his skin. The gesture, though gentle, still sings of his possessive nature. You wrap your fingers slowly around his wrists, holding him. You can be possessive too. He leans down slowly, his gaze still on you, your lips only a breath away from his. He smiles and you feel it, the power it has, the way it fills your heart and the space between heart beats. He is as essential to you as air under a bird’s wing or water to the creatures of the deep. 

“Then I suppose,” he says softly, “that one kiss will not be enough.” His voice pours molten gold into your ears and sends a ripple of warmth across your skin. 

“Probably not,” you whisper in answer. And then your lips touch, a metamagnetic force pulling you together, irresistible and inescapable. His lips are soft and cool against the warmth of your kiss. You feel the way he melts under the movement of your mouth, like snowflakes when they fall on flushed skin. Gilbert is cool starlight over a snow-covered field, the glimmer of frost when it kisses the petal’s edge. The air around you may be chilled, but the point of contact where your mouths meet is a warm spring from which love and lust are reborn, over and over again, with each and every kiss.

Wrapped up in each other, neither of you notices the soft fall of snowflakes as they begin tumbling from the smoky clouds, small, cold, feathery flakes that land on your clothes, your hair, adorning you and all that surrounds you in soft, heavenly white. 

A benediction. 

A blessing.

Artwork by the incredible @thewitchofbooks 💜 Thank you for working with me, Nadia. I am so grateful you had the time and so in awe of your talent.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @neoqueen-sailorvirgo @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly @joiedecombat

Hello amazing Violet! 💖 I hope you have a great day and I'm also wishing you'll feel better soon!🥺

For the writes ask: Do you have a favourite fic you wrote?

Hello sweet Nadia!

Picking one is really hard but one that I can definitely say is a favorite is this one:

Devoted Affection- Comte de St Germain

It came out exactly the way I wanted it to and that's always a nice feeling.

Christmas in Cradle 2022

Due to what we knew was coming and the official announcement in Ikerev EN, I have created a Ikerev specific Event. 

This is open to everyone to join if they want to and I am open to requests for this Event. I will not be limiting which prompts or IkeRev suitors I do. 

Please just tell me the pairing and the rating, all of these are open to both fluff and smut prompts. 

I am open to writing suitor/suitor, suitor/mc/suitor, suitor/mc  suitor/OC ( only mine), or suitor/kid. 

Christmas in Cradle 2022

December 10th - December 31st 

Keep reading

can you describe your favorite body parts of Chevalier, Clavis, Gilbert and Keith

A/N: Here you are, anon. This was an interesting one to think about.

Word Count: 878

Chevalier: Hands

His hands are beautiful. A perfect balance of elegance and power. Hands that as easily grip the pommel of a sword as a black-feathered quill, and both with the same fierce intensity. His fingers are long and shapely, their form belying the strength and agility they possess. Those fingers touch the delicate pages of ancient tomes as well as modern treatises, meticulously careful, reverent even in. They smooth down the edges of rich parchment as he writes in his neat, slanted lettering, not a drop of ink wasted. Not a word too much or too little. They are the second most important tool in Chevalier’s arsenal behind the majesty of his mind. 

You love those hands because you know another side to them. The side that isn’t perfect or controlled. You know fingers that can be clumsy in their show of affection. Hands that hesitate before touching, uncertainty wrapped around his fingers like rings. But you love them because they are genuine and real. And once they touch your body, they are hands that are unafraid to seek out what makes you tremble. What makes you fall apart in his arms. What makes you shake with his name on your lips. 

Clavis: Eyes

His eyes are pools of gold whose shimmer and shine hide the true depth of his soul. You’ve seen them sparkle like gold dust when he is planning something, a window into the sunshine of his mind. He burns bright when he is truly delighted, when he has come up with a plan he is proud of. That golden gleam has sent many in the palace running, at most afraid, at least uncomfortable. That shine can’t mean anything good, they think. But you would rather see the shine of mischief over the dull, burnished gold of pain that can flash in them when he clashes with his brother, that figure that looms larger than a deity in his life. Chevalier can snuff out the light in Clavis’s eyes with a look, or light the fires of determination with a word, a fire that burns on the edge of control. 

But for you, and only for you, those golden eyes grow soft, tenderness interwoven with vulnerability. With a touch, you can bring back their light, the bright and beautiful Aurelian gaze that looks at you with grace and gratitude, love and disbelief. Yes, Clavis, you are worthy of love and you want nothing more than for him to see all that he offers is reflected back at him in your own gaze. 

And when you want to show him, to prove to him bodily how much he means to you, then those whiskey-colored eyes ignite with a different sort of fire and burn bright with yearning.

Keith: Shoulders

Keith’s shoulders are wide and strong. A sanctuary where you can lay your weary head and forget the day’s burdens. A place of comfort, of protection. They shield you from the wicked, from the things in this world that snarl and claw and hiss. They are your fortress. Curled up against him, they shield you like angels’ wings, a barrier to everything that could hurt. When you stand behind him, they are a wall. When you are wrapped in his arms, they are a shelter. And when they are bare, you skim the palms of your hands across them, enamored of their breadth, the sublime curve of muscle and sinew. Your fingers find every small dip, every indentation. And sometimes they bite, nails sinking into those muscles, marking him with the evidence of your desire for him.

Yes, those shoulders are safety and security. Until they turn cold. Until the line of them is rigid and unyielding with tension. Until they go from shelter to barricade, keeping you away, holding you at a distance from those too-clever, malevolent golden eyes, the ones that now look at you like you are prey instead of partner. The power in them now does not inspire admiration, but apprehension. Uneasiness. Fear. 

Gilbert: Mouth

That mouth. That beautiful, dangerous, talented mouth. The one whose smile is a thousand shades of silver. The one that can be sickle-sharp and glacier-smooth at the same time. The one that can spin lethal poison into nectar, threats into effervescent bubbles, sentencing into a whimsical communiqué. Soft words that carry grievous consequences pass through comely lips that always seem to be on the verge of a sharp smile. Gilbert may possess an armory of smiles, but there is one there that is reserved for you. The one that is softer, gentler. The one that reaches the red of his eye, illuminating the vivid cerise like a votive candle in a cathedral. 

You know the taste of that mouth. The cool bite, the wild storm. Those lips can be soft. They can baptize your warm skin with kisses like snowflakes. They can send your pulse into a flurry and freeze the very air in your lungs, all of you locked in an icy cage of longing. And those lips can part, baring sharp, white teeth that savor the feel of your body and leave a wanton trail of rose-red marks in their wake. 

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