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readerinsertfanfiction · 2 months

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Visionary

Thank you to all who reblogged my post to write in exchange for donations/buying e-sims. Bigger thanks to those who have already done so, like @olivermorningstar who bought 30 day e-sims! Communication is so important and it is only through social media that we get to see the full story of the genocide happening in Gaza.

For those curious what fandoms I write for (it has been such a long time) head to my masterlist. All fandoms I have written for so far are open to choose from.

My offer still stands for those interested. Please consider donating or buying e-sims. For Gaza, for Sudan, for Congo.

P.S: reposted to the right account because I suck at Tumblr now.

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Character: Theodorus van Gogh

Notes: Male!reader, slight identity crisis, mentions of historical events such as the trial and exile of Oscar Wilde. - Frederik van Eeden was a Dutch art critic and author and the first to give a positive review to the works of Vincent van Gogh.

Theo had always believed Vincent to be ahead of their time. The world in which the van Gogh brothers were born simply wasn’t ready to appreciate his brother’s genius, safe from a few like Frederik van Eeden. It were artistic souls like Vincent and Frederik that Theo believed to be visionaries. Not him, the simple art dealer and brother to the kindest and most talented artist the world had ever seen. Not him, not Theo. It were the people surrounding him that made him fortunate enough to have a discerning eye where the old schools failed to recognise and refused change.

A visionary in his life was you, with your bold statements and outlook on life. The future came with a fresh breath of air that summarised itself within you, square shouldered and confident when you confessed your love for him. Him, Theo, who wasn’t a visionary and until the moment of your confession had never thought of the possibility of loving a man.

He had heard the rumours surrounding his brother. He had even read up on the case of Oscar Wilde and the condemnation that followed after from Lord Alfred Douglas. Theo hadn’t been blind, nor clueless, but simply never considered it an option. There was no choice, like marrying Johanna4 had been as natural as breathing. Just as leaving his former wife a widow despite his own revival was another part of the natural path and the only choice to make.

“I like you,” you had started casually, and Theo had nearly gruffed back at you with a sassy remark before realising that you meant more than just a ‘like’, for even through all your confidence he could see that you were steeling yourself. The vulnerability of confessing, of laying your feelings open, when you resolutely changed the word ‘like’ into ‘love’, making the actual confession sound; “I love you,” instead.

It had stolen his breath. His eyes focussed onto you in a mixture of disbelief and confusion. One moment the two of you were talking about the pardon of Oscar Wilde in 2017. Leading up to being informed that same-sex marriages were allowed now in parts of the world, but not all, and that it was still a conversation to be had. Next Theo knew himself to be relieved. Relieved for what he didn’t know, until your confession came after and time froze.

“I-” Theo opened his mouth, but for once there was no answer, no witty remark to make. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say. For he liked you, he truly did, but was it in the same manner as you loved him? Could he when it had never been an option before?

The mansion, somewhere stuck between his time and yours didn’t give him an answer. Not the libraries. Not the world surrounding them or Paris, nor the door.

“If you feel the same way, give me an answer. Else, I prefer the anticipation of speculation,” you had told him, and Theo couldn’t fathom why anyone would like the uncertainty of not knowing an answer to their feelings, even if no answer was an answer in itself.

It made Theo wonder. What is love?

The Greek knew nine forms of it. And Theo knew that he loved Vincent as a brother, like he loved art with his whole heart even if the talent wasn’t in his hand. He had loved his parents and his wife, but was it the same? Did it compare?

Theo had no answer. Not when he saw you smile down the halls, laughing at a joke made that made his heart jump followed with a sharp pang. Not when you stepped away from him ever so casually, the distance between your shoulders to his feeling like a world apart when he realised that you were giving him room. Room that he didn’t want.

You were a visionary, formed and morphed by the time ahead that came in like a breath of fresh air. A visionary that opened up Theo’s world in which he had moved through the motions thinking that there were no other options than the natural path. As natural as love came, for what was love other than the oxygen that filled his lungs, and the blood that coursed through his veins? It had no answer and it needed no answer, none other than the choice to allow it in. Allowing it to enter the space of his heart that Theo had never explored before, like he had ignored so many other parts of himself during his human life.

“Loving you is as natural as breathing,” he confessed. That was all the answer Theo could give, the conclusion to which he had come making him believe that, perhaps he as well, could be a visionary.

#ikevam #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire theo #ikevam theo #ikevamp theo

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readerinsertfanfiction · 2 months

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Ramadan starts soon (Monday, March 11) and I was of the mind to participate, if only to call for attention for what is happening in the world. But what will fasting do when there are people deliberately being starved? What will me fasting do when it most likely will go unnoticed?

Would anyone be interested in donating or buying E-sims in exchange of x reader fanfiction? For every donation or e-sim bought I write something the donator requests?

#rif rambles

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readerinsertfanfiction · 2 months

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IF YOU ADORE NPC LOVE AND FOLLOW ME BECAUSE OF KYUBEI PLEASE READ THE CYRAN STORY THAT WAS MY GIFT FROM VIOLET

My Ikémen Valentine Gift Exchange Masterlist

Thank you all once again for another great and successful exchange! I can't wait to see you all soon :) <3

The Gentle Stag Spell of Love | Keith Howell x MC | by @queengiuliettafirstlady for keithsandwich

A Sweet Taste | Silvio Ricci x Emma (MC) | by @keithsandwich for goustmilk

Love Letters (Artwork) | Nokto Klein x Noele (OC) | by @goustmilk for drachonia

Chocolates & Cake (Artwork) | Jin Grandet x Lenore (OC) | by @drachonia for randonauticrap

Silent Letters to My Beloved | Rio Ortiz x Gender Neutral Reader | by @randonauticrap for coderealizes

A Chance Event | Clavis Lelouch x Female Reader | by @coderealizes for pondlilies00

A Trip Away (Artwork) | Nokto Klein x MC | by @pondlilies00 for maeko-kun

Give Me The Smile in Your Heart (Artwork) | Vlad x MC | by @maeko-kun for tacogawa

Under The Trees (Artwork) | Leon Dompteur x Julie (OC) | by @tacogawa for queengiuliettafirstlady

Together | Cyran Rose x AU Emma (MC) | by @violettduchess for readerinsertfiction

Fate | Comte de Saint Germain x MC | by readerinsertfiction for ikemenlibrary

Valentines in Wonderland | Luka Clemence x Alice (MC) | by @readerinsertfanfiction for bluejay-writes

Puppy Love Picnic | Silvio Ricci x Airin (OC) | by @bluejay-writes for airin-queenz

Sweet's Love (Artwork) | Keith Howell x Emma (MC) | by @airin-queenz for ridiculouslly-ridiculous

Finding Home Within You | Leon Dompteur x Emma (MC) | by @ridiculouslly-ridiculous for chirp-a-chirp

Revolve | Isaac Newton x Mitsuki (MC) | by @chirp-a-chirp for fang-and-feather

A Taste of Domesticity | Isaac Newton x Reader | by @fang-and-feather for bicayaya

How To Take Care of a Sick MC | Keith Howell x Emma (MC) | by @bicayaya for pillowpillowillow

Love Potion for Two | Clavis Lelouch x Emma (MC) | by @pillowpillowillo for kalims-pessimist-bestie

Take a Break | Jin Grandet x Oliver (OC) | by @kalims-pessimist-bestie for olivermorningstar

Evening Ride With You (Artwork) | Licht Klein x Emma (MC) | by @olivermorningstar for xbalayage

A Hidden Feeling | Silvio Ricci x Reader | by @xbalayage for violettduchess

It's You. You're My Kink | Clavis Lelouch x Emma (MC) | by @ohtomatotome for kokorokai

Sweeter Than Chocolate | Lancelot Kingsley x Alice (MC) | by @kokorokai for daegupaksu

Tempering Chocolate (Artwork) | Sebastian x Mitsuki (MC) | by @daegupaksu for ohtomatotome

Smarty Pants | Leonardo da Vinci x MC | by @sunnyikemen for technicolorbirds

Haunted Dreams | Licht Klein x Emma (MC) | by @technicolorbirds for midwinterrmomento

Flower Language | Leonardo da Vinci x MC | by @midwinterrmemento for sunnyikemen

#my ikemen valentine gift exchange

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readerinsertfanfiction · 2 months

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omg omg omg I forgot I put Cyran down and omg omg omg finally some NPC love!!!

Aaah, I love how their shared memories keep on recurring and how goodbye and hello comes full circle and that it was Cyran that ran towards Emma for their reunion.

Thank you for indulging into the NPC love and for participating and for writing!

A/N: This is my gift for @readerinsertfanfiction 💜 The moment I saw Cyran on your list, I was thrilled. I hope you enjoy!

A huge thank you to @ikemenlibrary for her support and friendship and for being a generous, caring host 💜

Prompt: A servant, someone who knew Cyran from before his time in Rhodolite

Cyran x AU Emma

WC: ~4k

Obsidian: the Past

She runs across the cracked, sunbaked cobblestone streets, her treasure wrapped in a cream-colored tea towel and held protectively against her chest Her worn leather shoes make a pleasing thunking sound against the stones as she hurries past dusty shop windows and faded porches, carefully dodging people on the street.

“Langsam, Emma!” someone yells as she flies past but she doesn’t listen to their warning. She can’t slow down. She has somewhere to be.

Finally she reaches the edge of town and takes a sharp left, leaving the cobblestones behind for a ribbon of dirt road that winds its way along tired hills covered with sparse sage-green grass and dotted with scraggly yellow dandelions. Another turn onto an even smaller path, a faint thing that meanders through the knee-high growth and then, finally, the faded barn comes into view.

She smiles, pumping her young legs harder, willing them to swallow the distance faster and faster until she reaches the peeling, splintered wooden doors and haphazardly flings one open.

“Cyran? I’m here!!”

The boy, just shy of fourteen, turns away from the wooden beam he has been faux-sparring with, lowering the dull, well-worn practice sword he is so proud of. His hair gleams like fire in the hazy sunlight that shines through the pocked roof.

Emma hurries over, gulping down huge breaths of musty air as she grabs his thin forearm.

“C’mon. I’m dying to see how they taste.”

Cyran laughs, struggling to sheath his sword as she drags him over to the blanket thrown over the hay in a cozy corner of the barn. This is their favorite place to meet, an escape from the outside world they discovered several years ago while exploring. It is here that Emma sometimes reads to him from one of her treasured books. She’s even shared stories she’s written, romantic tales of princesses and dragons, knights and monsters. Cyran is always the hero, the knight who slays the monsters and rescues the damsel in distress. Emma will change her roles in the stories.

Sometimes she needs rescuing.

But sometimes, she is the dragon.

Often they sneak treats to each other, hard biscuits or smoked meat or, if they are really lucky, sweet berries brought across the border from the lush neighboring country of Rhodolite. Cyran’s neighbors is a servant for some of the merchants that make the risky trips over and when he’s lucky, she manages to tuck away a few treasures just for him.

He settles himself down on the frayed checkered blanket and pushes his bright hair away from his forehead, eagerly watching as Emma drops down next to him, laying the tea towel down. Her face is flushed from her run and from the thrill of what she’s managed to bring him.

“Ready?”

He nods, enthusiastically motioning for her to unwrap it already. He has hands that are too big for his young body, growing the way many boys do at this age, in odd fits and spurts.

Emma leans forward, pushing up the sleeve of her too-big dress and carefully pulls back the edges of the tea towel.

The smell hits them first, the warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of the cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger. It wafts up towards them, exotic and tempting. Cyran breathes in deeply and then sighs happily as he looks at her, eyes bright and admiring.

“It smells so good.”

Cyran had carefully been saving up the exotic store of spices, some of them gifts from his neighbors, others decadent purchases made at the market from his meager earnings made mucking stalls and chopping wood. He knew that Emma would be the one who would create something special with them. Young as she was, she was a talented cook and baker, able to make the most fantastic treats out of the simplest ingredients. And now that she had been given such a treasure trove to work with, she had spun pure magic.

The spiced biscuits are dappled dark brown and gold. When she hands him one, it is with a reverence that echos a priest giving communion or a child receiving a shiny new toy at Christmas.

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Together.”

He returns the nod, staring into the warmth depths of her soft brown eyes.

“Together.”

They bite into the cookies at the same time. Emma breaks into a proud smile as Cyran closes his eyes, savoring the medley of flavor and even better, the knowledge that she made them just for him.

“It’s good, isn’t it?”, she asks, grinning. She sees the look on his face, the way he is practically melting with enjoyment.

He lifts his shoulder in a casual shrug, feigning indifference.

“I guess……”

“What?!”

He takes another bite and leaning back on one hand. “I mean, they’re ok. But you know, Hilde’s biscuits are also really good–OOF.”

She’s tackled him, throwing herself at him with all the force of a frenzied feline, her nimble fingers scratching at his sides. Cyran breaks into a laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to squirm away from her.

“Ok ok Brown Eyes, enough!”

Emma lets him go, sitting back on her heels with a glowing, triumphant smile.

“Never say that about Hilde’s cookies again.”

He pushes himself up, heart pounding furiously in his chest. Only some of it is from laughing. He tears his gaze away from the unsettling beauty of her eyes, traveling up to her hair.

“You’re a mess. You got straw in your hair and your braid is a disaster.”

Emma turns and scoots until she is sitting in front of him. “Since it’s your fault….you fix it.”

Cyran heaves a sigh he doesn’t mean and then settling himself into a comfortable position, reaching forward and with a tenderness and care far beyond most boys his age, begins slowly picking the straw from her messy plait.

Emma’s eyes drift closed as she revels in the attention he’s giving her, the gentle way he untangles her braid and then very slowly begins brushing his fingers through her soft, chestnut-colored hair.

It feels comforting and safe.

It feels thrilling.

It feels like the early evening has come to a standstill and they have all the time in the world.

But their time together is like a rose slowly losing its petals.

A petal falls as he tells her, wide-eyed and shaken, that his neighbor has been killed in her own home, throat opened in the dead of night and left smiling its ghastly red smile until she was discovered hours later. Emma rubs his back, not knowing what else to do. This is not the first death in their village as of late. And it will not be the last.

A petal falls as they lay, side by side, on the blanket in the hay, staring up at the patches of starry sky visible through the holes in the roof. “My parents are scared,” she whispers. He turns his head to stare at her profile and knows it isn’t just her parents who are frightened. “I’ll protect you,” he whispers, voice fierce with youth’s naïve promise. Her gaze remains on the silver stars but she reaches out, taking his hand and squeezes it.

A petal falls as she comes to their favorite spot, face pale as bone, to tell him that her family is leaving. Her father has contacted distant relatives that live far to the north, as far from Rhodolite and the dangers it poses as one can get. Cyran feels like his young heart may break right there in his chest and he will be forced to live the rest of his life with its pieces rattling around inside of him. Though filled with dismay, Emma’s eyes are as beautiful as ever. They shine with tears, rivaling any star they have ever spent time gazing at.

A petal falls as she rushes through the dark, on the night before her family is to leave, her throat burning with feelings she can’t quite name, waves too strong to try and understand for fear they will sweep her away. She bursts through the barn doors and finds him already there, his hair dark as garnet, damp with sweat. He has spent the entire day doing heavy labor, removing heavy wooden beams, hauling ancient and broken equipment, sweeping the dusty, straw-strewn floor. Several lanterns placed around the interior bathe the space in warm, yellow light. The barn is as clean and inviting as he can make it. He wanted to give her one more memory, something beautiful, that she can take with her on her journey away from here. Away from him.

Emma is frozen in place, soaking in all he has done, before finally stopping on the young man at the center of it. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Already his shoulders carry the hint of what manhood will bring him: strength and breadth. Arms that with training will turn hard and sculpted, legs that will lengthen until he is taller than most. He is the faint beginning of what he will become. Emma wonders wildly if she will ever get the chance to see the finished masterpiece.

“Emma,” he says, his voice raw and rough, deeper than she has ever heard it.

She sets down the bundle she is holding, the one she carried so close on the way here, leaving it on top of a weathered wooden barrel.

“Cyran,” she answers, her muscles tense, like a fawn when it hears a crunching in the underbrush.

He starts forward, one hesitant step and that is enough. She flies towards him, throwing her thin arms around his neck and buries her face in his worn linen shirt, clutching him to her. There is power in her small frame, something fierce and bright, a hurricane in crystal. Cyran holds her close, his eyes closing as he breathes in her familiar scent. He’s been teased his whole life because of his last name, but she is the one who reminds him of a rose, who always smells so sweet.

The anticipation of loss that has them clinging to each other slowly ebbs and something else, something that has been burning low and quiet in every laugh, every touch, every glance begins to emerge. She is suddenly aware of the press of her chest against his, of how much taller he is, the earthy smell of his skin. She leans back to look at him and sees the same awareness mirrored in his dark eyes.

Outside a rooster crows, loud and discordant.

Cyran turns his head toward the sound and Emma, sparked by the frantic knowledge that she must leave, grabs his chin, pulling him back to her and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips to his.

It is a sunbeam bursting through gray clouds. A spark breathing life into a pile of dried leaves. It is hope and promise and wonder.

And heartbreak.

With a stifled cry, she steps away, turns and flees the barn, not wanting to see the look on his face as she leaves, not wanting that to be her last memory of him.

Cyran watches with a thundering heart as the door swings shut. Flooded with helplessness and misery, he notices the bundle she left behind. Tenderly he lifts it, undoing the sky-colored ribbon. It’s her favorite handkerchief, white with pale blue forget-me-nots painstakingly embroidered along the edges, and nestled inside are several of her spiced biscuits. His favorites.

Rhodolite: The Present

Rhodolite is so much MORE than she expected. The streets are wider and cleaner and lined with greenery, more trees and flowering bushes and grass than in the entire garden of the palace in Obsidian. There are more people than she expected too, many standing under awnings and lampposts, peeking through windows and around doorways, watchingful eyes in beautiful faces following the royal procession as it makes its way towards the palace.

When she had been told by the Head Chef that they would be accompanying Prince Gilbert and his entourage to Rhodolite, Emma had felt a familiar ringing through the cockles of her heart. Rhodolite is where Cyran was rumored to have ended up. Whispers from the south had traveled her way, over the many years since they parted. He had joined the army when he was of age. He had left Obsidian for the verdure of Rhodolite. He was employed by one of the Princes there. Crumbs of information she had managed to gather, hoarding them tightly like precious drops of mana.

He may not even be here, she reminds herself as her tired gray mare plods along down the street. She and the other servants are at the end of the procession and most of the people have turned away, not interested in anything but the dangerous Prince Gilbert with his sharp smile and blood-red gaze.

Still, Emma finds herself scanning the crowds as they pass, looking for any head of red hair. She spots a few but they are never him.

As the overwhelming elegant palace suddenly rises towards the heavens before her, she draws in a sharp breath.

We’re here…….

…….Is he?

The palace looms closer, a breathtaking monument of pale beauty.

And if so….how in the wide world will she ever find him?

Cyran runs a hand through his thick mass of russet hair as his long strides make quick work of the pathway towards the training hall. It’s late evening and the young, freshly-minted knights are at the end of their training and he needs to make sure everything went well without him there. He knows Lucian is more than capable of leading them through their drills but Cyran has a responsibility to make sure. They are all under his charge.

Entering the hall, he sees several of the knights laughing in a corner. Some are sitting and catching their breath, others are pushing the heavy sandbags they sometimes train with back into their storage room. What he sees reassures him. They look tired and sore, yet satisfied, faces bright with the feeling of accomplishment a tough training session will leave behind.

He’s about to go look for Lucian, expecting a full report when he notices several of the knights standing by the wooden table at the far end of the training circle, the one usually covered with straps for shields and rope and other odds and ends. They’re smiling, far too widely to be discussing anything so mundane as weaponry. Several are chewing. He approaches the table, greeted by his men with smiles and respectful nods. Immediately he notices the tin: it’s round and black, covered with decorative golden swirls.

“What’s this?” He glances towards the first knight at his left, a tall lad with sandy blond hair.

“They were brought here by an Obsidian servant. She said they were a present for us.”

Cyran frowns, a skeptical look on his face as he reaches inside the tin for one of the golden brown cookies.

“And you didn’t think to–” He was going to ask if they thought accepting gifts from strangers was a good idea when the scent hits him, cutting through the sweat and musk of tired men.

The warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger.

He goes still, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Could it be…..

Something in his face hushes the men around him. They watch, curious as Cyran lifts the cookie and takes a bite.

The man who sees everything, ever watchful, closes his eyes as he chews and the knights are transfixed by the absolute stillness that has overtaken their leader.

And then those eyes open and something in them has begun to burn, bright and alive.

The other half of the cookie falls to the dusty ground as he turns on his heel and, practically jogging, exits the training area, leaving behind the half-eaten biscuit and a slew of surprised faces.

The rose gardens are somehow even more beautiful in the twilight of evening. The red petals seem to have darkened, shedding their bright rose-red for a sultry scarlet. Shadows emerge from the trimmed hedges, stretching across the winding stone pathways, giving a visitor like Emma glimpses of hidden benches and secret dirt paths leading into clandestine corners of the gardens.

She has taken several of these more narrow, less-trodden paths, not at all afraid of getting lost. Her heart is a bird, flitting between dark branches, full of a nervous, tightly-wound energy she can’t quite explain.

As the sky darkens to a deep navy blue and the first stars open their eyes, Emma pauses in front of a gray stone fountain. Two swans, nuzzling their beaks together, bodies curved towards one another as a blossoming flower rises above them, water spraying outward in celebration. She tilts her head, the romantic in her sighing at the way the two swans perfectly mirror one another, two halves of a whole, two souls in perfect harmony. So enchanted is she by the fountain that she doesn’t hear the footfall on the path, doesn’t notice the man who has stopped several meters away from where she is standing, the sight of her freezing him in his tracks.

“Emma.”

She jumps at the deep voice, her eyes wide and dark as she turns towards the sound. The owner of said voice is standing, half in shadow, at the place where the small path to the fountain begins, beneath a shadowy arch of crimson roses. She is so startled, she doesn’t even register that he has said her name.

“Oh….s'il te plaît, excuse-moi,” she says quickly, doing her best to remember the phrases of the common language spoken in Rhodolite. “J'espère que ça va…” She trails off, trying to remember how to say she hopes she is allowed to be here but the man takes another step closer, leaving the blanket of shadows and stepping into the fading light.

Even the dusky hue of evening cannot hide the red of his hair.

A gasp as soft as the flutter of a bird’s wing escapes her. The young boy she knew juxtaposed against this tall, broad man before her sends her heart into a tailspin. Her hand flies to her mouth as she takes him in. She sees the same bright light of recognition and admiration and overwhelming emotion plain as day on his beautiful face.

“Cyran?” The word is a whisper, a breathless repetition of the name she has kept in her prayers for decades.

His eyes never leave her, almost as if he has the power to hold her there with his gaze, to keep her from vanishing into the realm of his dreams where she has lived for so long. Slowly, he reaches up and loosens the laces at the top of his tunic. His hand slides inside and when it emerges, he is holding a small square of cloth. As he slowly opens it, her heart falters.

It’s white, with pale blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the edges.

He holds it out to her, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes. That handkerchief has lived next to his heart, in an inner pocket, one he has sewn into every shirt he has ever owned since the day he watched her leave.

“I think…..this belongs to you, Brown Eyes.”

She chokes back a sob, unable to contain the thunderstorm of emotion coursing through her and runs to him, falling into his arms as naturally as a willow bends to the wind, tears falling freely down her cheeks. Cyran wraps his arms around her, sheltering her, holding her the way he has imagined a thousand times. His throat burns with all the words he has ached to say, all those sleepless nights spent remembering the lilt of her smile, the music of her laughter, the bittersweet taste of her kiss.

Emma squeezes her eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him, at once so familiar and yet so strange. Her arms wind around his waist as she presses herself against him, drinking in the sensation of his body on hers.

This is Cyran….her Cyran…..her….

A thought pierces her heart as she suddenly steps away from him, eyes wide, still so beautiful as they glimmer with the remnants of her tears.

“Oh…I…I didn’t mean…..you could be married. I shouldn’t have-”

His laughter is coarse, rough with emotion, a roll of rushing water as it careens over the lip of a cliff.

“As if I could ever love anyone else.”

Love…..

As if summoned by the very word, the moon itself parts the soft gray clouds, flooding the small section of the garden with silvery light. The tinkling of the fountain fills the momentary silence.

Cyran’s cheeks suddenly flush, a hot mixture of embarrassment and panic overriding the elation of the previous moment.

“I…..I don’t mean to presume of course that you feel the same. It has been a long time and…..” He trails off, wincing. Fluster is such an uncharacteristic state of being for Cyran. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I–”

His words are cut off as Emma launches herself back into his arms, hugging him fiercely.

“Please, don’t apologize.” She tilts her head up to look at him, still in awe of how she sees the young man he was and the handsome man he has become in his beautiful eyes, in his exquisite face. “It has always been you.”

Cyran drags air into his lungs, hardly able to believe he isn’t dreaming. His rough fingers capture her chin, his thumb running over the sensitive skin just under her lower lip.

Slowly, he leans down as she stretches upwards, eager and nearly trembling with emotion.

He kisses her, his hand still cupping her face. Gently his mouth moves over hers as he tells her a wordless story of longing, of a bruised heart that learned to somehow keep beating.

He kisses her, a strong arm pulling her closer, his lips and tongue weaving the tale of a young soldier who never forgot the girl with the tender heart and radiant spirit. The soldier who dreamed of her face during his darkest nights and longed for her laughter on days of sunshine.

She meets him, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke, sliding her palms along his broad shoulders, clutching him as she answers his tale, confessing without words how he has never left her heart. How his smile was her light in times of worry and despair. How seeing him again has been her northern star from the moment of parting.

Only the moon knows how long they stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s yearning.

When they finally part, Cyran rests his forehead against hers, still keeping her tightly in his embrace. He may never let go again.

“You’re….in the employ of Prince Gilbert. I am here.” He frowns ever so slightly as he brushes several loose strands of hair away from Emma’s charmingly flushed cheek. “This could get complicated.”

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Yes…..but we’ll figure it out.”

And suddenly he is carried back in time to an evening when her eyes shone just as brightly, just as excitedly, a young girl with something to give a young boy, a homemade cookie, an offering of love.

“Together.”

Her voice echoes across the years, that word wrapping itself around his battered heart, a balm, a blessing.

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes, tenderly stroking the silk of her hair, and answers her now as he did back then.

“Together.”

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @wordycheeseblob

#my ikemen valentine gift exchange

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readerinsertfanfiction · 2 months

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Fate

A surprise gift for @ikemenlibrary because the organiser of 'My Ikemen Valentine Gift Exchange' didn't include herself despite all of the hard work needed to put the event together. You really need to reward yourself a little more. My only regret in this is that I don't know Licht.

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Character: Comte de Saint Germain

Warnings: mentions of death in euphemism

Masterlist

Follow the voice.

That was all the instructions you had received for your assignment. What it meant, you had no clue. How it worked, even less, but you went along with it when the door unlocked and the familiar dark hallways doomed up for you, taking you to wherever you were needed.

“If we meet again.”

A voice, one you didn’t know but felt a pang of familiarity with all the same, doomed up from the darkness. “If we meet again,” it echoed, like a desperate prayer, filled with sadness from the speaker that only knew regret and no religion.

“If we meet again, would you be willing…”

Heart aching you followed the voice, reaching out for the next door and pushed in, praying that you could help whatever regret and wish you would find behind.

Amber golden eyes met yours in surprise, tears streaming out of them ruining the handsome visage of a man brought onto his knees. It seemed he had been kneeling indeed, though there was no apparent religion that you could distinguish out of his form.

“You…” he speaks first and you straighten yourself, taking a deep breath before shutting the door, officially starting your assignment.

“Regret,” Comte, as the man calls himself, repeats after you. A sardonic smile sets on his lips along with clasped hands that stretch the skin out over his knuckles. “Yes, you can call it that,” he murmurs softly, but you can see that he doesn’t quite believe it.

It had taken very little convincing to explain your presence and job to him. Surprisingly so, but you supposed that Comte being a vampire and immortal had helped the matter. Something about being beyond human understanding as a shared trait helped in that. You could appreciate the ease in that, however, knowing that everything that would follow after was harder. Tempting fate was, after all, a world altering matter.

“First we need to figure out what chain started the path we want to change,” you started, finding that explaining alternate universes and paths was surprisingly easy as well to a pureblood vampire. “Usually we do this by working backwards in events, targeting big crosspoints before zooming in, but I can imagine that you rather not re-experience her death,” you mused, a bump in your heart at the thought of this unknown soulmate that Comte had.

It felt strange to feel envy for someone you didn’t know at all. Comte had been very sparse on the details of his lover and acclaimed soulmate, only revealing that he had been too hesitant in his own feelings and too late to realise the depth of his emotions. Your envy was made even stranger knowing the fate that befell the soulmate.

“No, let’s not do that,” Comte grimaces, hands still clenched together in a tight prayer. You can see how hard he tries to think of a solution, one that will change the fate of a human, a fragile existence even in alternate universes, without having to trial and error her death. “Do you believe in soulmates?” he asks you suddenly, and you wonder why it is relevant what you think and believe in.

It is a question you never really thought of. Not truly. And certainly not a question you expect on the first day of your job. You usually spend it trying to understand the assignment at hand, the client and their wishes. But now that you are and as you think back of the prayer you heard in the hallway, unfinished. The question in which you hope the answer will be one that will lead Comte back to happiness, for the weight of sadness in his voice and the weight of his regret laid heavy on your consciousness.

“Maybe?” you say, not having the heart to say no, not truly believing in ‘no’ either as you think of Comte and the depth of his love that had brought you here.

“A maybe is a no,” Comte chuckles, sounding so helplessly bitter at that moment before a resolution sets in his mind.

“I know a certain way to change her fate,” Comte says, his confidence faltering just a second before he steels himself with resolution, eyes hardening but avoiding yours.

His solution turns out to be a tremendous job. One that you aren’t quite sure will work, for fate worked in strange ways.

“Are you sure?” you repeat, hand once more on the door and his placed next to yours. “It is no small matter striking out the name of another in the book of fate,” you caution, a little nervous at the idea of altering fate at its very core, “the backlash will be great.”

Comte remains confident, however, his hand moving over yours on the door as he forces you to push. Those amber gold eyes never meet yours. They haven’t since he resolved himself.

“That is my burden to carry,” he tells you.

Comte never told you the name you had to strike from the book of fate, nor did he tell you the name that was tied to it. The simple sounding request and the near impossible assignment left a bad taste in your mouth, your gut telling you to cut the assignment short and leave. To deny this request.

“If you met her again,” you repeat the question that led you to Comte in the first place, the familiar hallway empty as ever, but quiet this time as the two of you search for the end, “would you be willing…”

“Yes,” Comte answers immediately, cutting off your question as his hand in yours clenched tightly, meaning the affirmative with every sense of his being, “yes, and a thousand times over,” he repeats, his voice at peace, but the sadness lingering forever as you arrive at your next destination.

“And do you believe in fate?” you ask when opening the door, revealing a room that blinds you before revealing all the names and souls bound together, a red string appearing around your pinky finger that pulls taut.

“Yes.” Is all Comte says, raising the red thread winding around his finger and towards his lips, pressing a first and last kiss to your shared fate before he snaps the thread and the world turns dark.

Follow the voice

It was all the detail you received walking down the dark hallways, wondering what your assignment was and what your last one had been, a lingering question comes to mind as you sound it out yourself;

“If we met again, would you be willing,” you sound, hoping for a yes, your legs moving as you remember the snap of fate and the amber gold eyes that had tried to spare you from a fate he thought worse than the snap of the thread.

“Yes, if we met again I’d be willing to be your soulmate again,” you call out, switching strategies as you beg the darkness for the voice to lead you to Comte again, but it remains quiet as you continue down the hallway that never ends.

“If we met, would you love me again?” you call out, asking the next question that comes to mind as you press against every door that you find, hoping to find one that will give and allow you in.

A thousand promises and countless alternate universes and you knew, you’d love the man with amber gold eyes over and over again, with his sad smiles and his bright ones, even as the world crumbled around you and the hallway endless.

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes,” you call out in the darkness, desperation overtaking you as a prayer swells up and a voice whispers as time restarts along with fate;

“If we meet again, would you be willing to love me still?”

#my ikemen valentine gift exchange #ikevamp #ikevam #ikevamp comte #ikevam comte

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readerinsertfanfiction · 2 months

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Valentines in Wonderland

Long time no see (and long time no fanfiction)!!! Hi @alydra you were my giftee for 'My Ikemen Valentine Gift Echange'. Thank @ikemenlibrary for making it happen by organising the event that prompted me to write fanfiction again!

Fandom: Ikemen Revolution

Character: Luka Clemence

Warnings: food and miscommunication

Masterlist

“Oh, this is bad,” the Black Jack had mumbled to himself. Staring at the one day on the calendar covered in hearts and all the warm things Luka only recently came to know. Set in the middle of the week. On the one day in the week where he was in charge of training the recruits and examining his troops. Set in the next 48 hours in which Luka knew, he was much beyond whatever time he had to prepare.

“Ah, not good,” Alice said to herself, eyes set on her to-do list. Realising how marvellously she had overestimated her timing and underestimated the demand on this very special occasion she had hoped she could spare for herself. How hopelessly short a day seems when there is one day in the year that is selected to celebrate love. Shorter even with all the orders she had received for the one day in the year in which love was expressed through everything sweet.

“I am screwed,” both said in unison, though neither could hear the other nor did they think of the possibility of such a grand miscalculation happening on both sides.

Even worse was the conundrum when both found the other in the kitchen. Late at night. On the eve of.

Here was Luka, ready to start his late night preparations to make Alice her favourite sweets. He already had his sugar ratio ready, having slowly, but deliberately tested his recipe on his beloved and carefully gauging her reaction.

There was Alice, knowing that Luka didn’t enjoy sweets, sneaking around the compound as she thought of the savoury heart formed pastry she had developed for him, carefully tested out on the various members of the Black Army who hadn’t gotten a clue of the experiment performed.

Both had worked long and hard around the schedule of the other, taking advantage of their gaps of separation to prepare for the best Valentine they were to spend together, yet.

“Luka!” Alice exclaimed, flushing a bright red with the items of eggs, flour and butter in hands.

“Alice!” Luka gasped in panic, a wooden spoon in one hand and sugar in the other.

“Get out!” the both of them blurted out, instinctive in their manner of protecting their precious surprise and clumsy in guarding the heart. This time the unison could be heard by both and some more.

“Late night snacking?” Fenrir had piped up as if summoned. Seth had followed in with a similar question that sounded closer to a demand into the direction of Alice. Even a sleepily looking Ray came in, for once managing to wake up to join the party that filled in the army base kitchen.

How hopelessly the plans of two love doves fell apart, faced with a group of hungry men fresh out of sleep and with the attitude of a toddler. Blessed was the appearance of Sirius that caused all to flee, terrified at the frown between his brows when faced with the distress of his two favourite people in the army.

“What’s going on?” the Queen of Spades commanded, to which both Luka and Alice responded in unison;

“Nothing!”

A denial that struck the other all the more for lying was neither’s forte. Too embarrassed to come clean now as they each fled into the night, into the direction of their respective room.

And so it happened that neither had anything prepared when midnight rolled around and Valentines started.

“How terrible I am,” they both sighed in unison, but again neither could hear the other.

The murmur of the soldiers running in formation didn’t escape Luka, the words harder to ignore when their eyes so clearly turned into his direction. “Last night,” he heard, wincing at the memory.

Alice wasn’t doing much better delivering the orders commissioned from her, the quips of ‘lovely’ boosting her esteem until the customer thought to ask about her plans for Valentines.

“Oh, I’m not sure,” she grinned, gritting her teeth and clenching her heart.

It took the appearance of the Queen once more to fix the obvious heartbreak between the two.

“You are dismissed for today,” Sirius told a stubborn Luka, handing Jack a basket filled with food.

“Express orders from the Queen,” Fenrir had told Alice, uncharacteristically formal for once when handing her an invitation card.

“Luka?” Alice calls out to the nervous looking man with a picnic basket in hands.

“Alice!” comes the exclamation, surprise at the sudden appearance of his beloved.

“I am sorry!” The both of them blurt out in the next instant, cheeks flushing red and eyes wide in hope as they met each other.

How anxious they both felt. How clumsy! How very much alike! Like a heart beating as one, like an unit that had gotten the wrong count.

“Were you?” their voices united, blending in as one and pausing at the same time. “I was,” they started again, realising that the other was speaking and pausing once more to wait for the other.

They didn’t need many more words to really understand. The story suddenly unfolding itself clear as day as their hearts flushed full of love, like the day of work they had.

“Do you want to,” Luka asks, never finishing his question when Alice ran into him, arms thrown over his shoulders for a tight hug.

It was all they needed to understand.

“I wanted to make you a savoury pastry!” Alice admits, throwing out the full truth. She is holding his hand tightly, never parting from his side even as the forest path narrows.

Luka in turn doesn’t allow Alice to part from his side, a smile adorning his lips as he listens, nodding carefully at the recipe that she had been developing for him, as if tasting the very dish she was describing.

“That sounds wonderful,” he sighs, already excited to taste this new dish when the day comes.

And as the forest path narrows, disappearing altogether, the couple walks off the beaten path, revealing bushes of roses that hid a little church.

“Is this,” Alice questions, floored at the beauty of the abandoned place they had walked into. “Wow,” is all Alice manages after, poking one of the roses blooming through the filtered light from the trees.

“Seems so,” Luka says, admiring the way the colours reflect from the stained glass. “It is beautiful,” he echoes Alice’s thoughts as they admire the magic crystals embedded in the glass that allows for the roses to grow.

“We need to repay Sirius,” they both exclaim as eyes meet, glad that they share so many thoughts.

“Happy valentines,” Luka finally tells Alice, glad that the day was saved as he leans in for a kiss.

#my ikemen valentine gift exchange #ikerev #ikerev luka #luka clemence #ikemen revolution luka #I am rusty in my romances

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