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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