Eddsworld x Reader ☆Done!!!☆

Prince! Matt x reader

Ok so in this, you are a peasent artist who can make many different things, it's your natural talent.

Italics are French tramslation, you are now French.

Thanks for all your guy's support, and sorry I was inactive for a few days.

Let's begin

♡reader pov♡

My delicate s/c hands steadily stroked a small brush, I was painting a picture and I wished for it to look perfect so I must be delicate, mistakes are hard to remove.

I was painting the English castle, and although I have never been I have seen sketches and pictures. (Old photos, there are no smartphones yet)

I have always wanted to go, I've heard it is a beautiful sight with a pond of swans and a grand castle with a majestic courtyard.

But alas, my delusioned fantasies were mere figments of hope as the possibility of myself going to England was miniscule, seeing the palace was even more unlikely.
(Ooh fancy reader chan, fancy)

One of the fleeting hopes I had heard was that the current Prince was searching for a bride, but again, I live in paris, and him in England.

Rumor has it the Prince, Matthew, was auspicious (It means favorable, prosperous) and exceedingly kind.

Evidence showed I was hopelessly infautuated with him, ensnared in a trap of my own affections and I would watch as he married a, most likely, wealthy and alluring woman.

I was neither in my mind, a simple artist who wore an everyday outfit of a white dress, f/c bow around the waist and a matching flower crown of f/c flowers I had plucked from my garden. Not to mention my painters apron which was covered in oil paints of every hue.

Disregarding this, I have received many offers of courtship from the men of paris, but each was unaccepted.

Often I discarded gifts I have received from these men, giving them to others and gently turning down their proclamations of endearment.

My mother had told me before that when you meet the perfect one for you, you will feel it inside you. I haven't felt much for the possible suitors so far, and since I was 24, most my age were courting or married.

I exhale deeply, pulling myself from my internal ramblings as I heard the newspaper delivered on my doorstep.

I turn from my easel, where the painting rested to dry and begin to move to the door.

I always leave the door open while painting or creating art so that a peasent breeze may move through my house and help keep it at an ideal temperature.

I wave to the paper boy who waves back from his bicycle, he delivered the daily information not because I paid him, but because I made flower bouquets for his mother to sell in her shop and create arrangements from.