#Crimson Bellerose

[thenamelessentity]

Name: Crimson Bellerose

Gender: Male (he/him)

Age:  28

Height: 6′5″ (even taller in heels)

Singing Voice claim: Somewhere between Steve Perry (Journey) and  Damiano David (Maneskin) with a hell of a range

Music genre: Self-proclaimed “Slutrock” (think Maneskin) with some disco/alt undertones at times (fairly eclectic)

Inspiration: Peter Allen (specifically the Boy from Oz), Freddie Mercury

Random facts:

Triple threat (can sing, act, and dance)

A classically trained pianist with a love for musicals (would probably be on Broadway if he wasn’t so flighty)

Surprisingly good cook and loves making food for the band

English is his second language, French is his first

Fully aware of the way he dresses but loves the absurdism of it

Absolutely loves rock/disco from the 60s, 70s, and some 80s

Would be more coordinated if he payed more attention (has gotten tied up chords and stuck in objects many a time)

Would rather laugh something off than get angry but some things can push him over the edge

Though he’s big and bombastic on stage, he can actually be pretty insecure about his music

Fastest way to this man’s heart is to complement his music (fell unbelievably hard when Orion left his job for them)

Highly promiscuous but a hopeless romantic at heart

The worst at professional communication (will send Orion snapchats through email if he has to)

Still has the tattoo from when he was dating Seven but is planning to get a cover up (has been on the fence about it for a while)

Has the vibe of a big dog that thinks it’s small and will wedge himself in seats/situations that are way to small for the giant that he his

Though he does have flights of fancy, he shockingly doesn’t fall for people very often, and because of this it takes him a long time to get over someone he actually has feelings for

Playlist: 

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4PwyaGFnQOlEl2tiN9QGZR?si=3b18c229a727491a

I’ve been seeing all the great bios people have been putting together so I decided to make one for my boy since I can not stop thinking about this character. Also figured this was a great chance to show off some of his horrendous (and amazing) outfits. 

So fucking hyped!! @infamous-if

#realizing now I forgot his nose ring completely so ignore that haha #infamous-if #crimson bellerose #character bio

[violettduchess]

A/N: A little fic inspired by @vioisgoinginsane and her delightful Cyran in Pyjamas art

Cyran x Reader

WC: 638

Head librarian of the royal palace is a job that suits you to a tee, but it comes with long hours, especially when arranging the procurement of foreign titles. By the time you are done with all your correspondences, first to the librarian in Jade and then the royal library of Tanzanite, the moon is hanging high in the inky black sky, a perfect crescent of silvery light. You hurry, feet whispering over the tiled floor of the palace, then crunching over the straw and grass along the path to the armory and then scuffling over the coarse gray stone of the armory steps. 

Above the collection of toothy weaponry is Cyran's bedroom: your destination on this warm, breezy night.

The oaken door, scarred and worn, opens on silent, well-oiled hinges. Cyran takes care of his things. One of the many admirable qualities about the Obsidian soldier that made you stumble and then fall for him. 

"Cyran?" 

You step into the room, lit only by the amber glow of the oil lamps. Your eyes need a moment to adjust before you spot him.

He's asleep at his desk, his check pillowed by strong forearms. Around him papers are neatly stacked. Quill and inkwell tidied away. Everything is ordered and structured, except…..

You smile softly. His hair falls messily across his forehead, a curtain of red, deeper than the blaze of the blacksmith's forge. It is the red of the sky on the tipping point of night. The dark crimson of the Scarlatta rose, whose petals have been singed by loving kisses of darkness.

You cross the creaky wooden floor as quietly as you can, soaking in the sight of the man who never shows exhaustion, who handles every challenge, from Clavis's wild whims to military training maneuvers, with a stoic sense of pride. Your touch is gentle, trailing the back of your fingers across his cheek, rough with several days worth of russet stubble. 

The caress reaches him beyond the place where sleep reigns, his mind breaking from the soft cocoon it has woven around him. He stirs, his dark eyes blinking away the last strands of dreaming that cling to his consciousness like cobwebs.

"You're back," he murmurs in a voice sandpaper-rough with sleep. 

"Mm hmm." His hair is one of the most luxurious textures you've ever touched. Soft and fine as spun silk. It flows through your fingers like water over stone. "Come on, Red. Bedtime."

He grumbles as you lean forward, taking his strong hands in yours and urging him up and away from his desk. It's only when he's standing you notice he's already changed for bed.

Running a hand down the soft linen of his sleep shirt, you raise your gaze, your smile curved with curiosity, soft with affection.

"If you already changed, why didn't you get in bed?" You know how long his day was, stretching from the early rosy-fingers of dawn brushing the sky until the first diamond-edged star cut its way through the dark sheet of night.

He yawns, his words slow and honey-thick with sleepiness.

"I didn't want to fall asleep without you so I went to my desk…." He yawns again and your heart feels like it might burst with the swell of affection that floods it. He went to his desk to stay awake, to wait for you.

Gently you lead him to bed where he falls back onto his pillow with a heavy thump. His eyes are already closing as you pull the thin woolen blanket up over his broad chest.

"You're coming?" His voice is foggy with another yawn.

You lean down, anointing his forehead with a petal-soft kiss.

"I'll be right there, my love." Your smile is lambent with affection as you drink in the sight of him, this wonderful man who shelters your heart so tenderly in his calloused hands. "I'll be right there."

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri cyran #cyran rose #fluff #ikemen fanfic #ikemen fanfiction #otome fanfiction #violettwrites

[aquagirl1978]

First I wanna say, you're such an amazing writer!

I seen your New Year, New Celebrations

If possible could I request

Nokto Klein + touch prompt #12 + 🌶

Please and thank you!

Thank you for your kind words and this request! I'm sorry in advance if this ended up more angsty than spicy, I went where the muse took me 😭

Red Rain - Nokto Klein x Reader (Ikemen Prince)

A/N: Part of my New Year, New Celebration event

Pairing: Nokto Klein x Reader

Prompt: reaching for the other in the dark

Tags: none

Nokto hated the rain. 

Rain was cold and dreary – it could turn a day gray and miserable and make everything wet. 

And it was raining that day in the forest, the day of the hunt. The day when he ripped open his every wound and exposed himself to you as the scarred beast he was.

Nokto winced, squeezing his eyes tight, as if each drop of rain outside stung his skin. Why did he have to wake up in the middle of a rain storm?

He rolled over onto his side and watched as you slept peacefully. You, the one he loved more than anything; you, the one who loved him despite his past. 

How he wanted to wake you and tell you how badly he needed you right now. How he needed to be held in your arms, a place where he was safe from his past. 

But that would be cruel to wake you. To burden you with his demons. 

So instead, he watched you, his crimson eyes gazing at you adoringly as your chest rose and fell with each soft breath. Unable to help himself, he reached out to you, his thumb ghosting your cheek. 

“Nokto?” your voice slurred with sleep as you stirred in your spot. 

He froze, pulling his hand away immediately.

“Did the rain wake you?” he asked softly.

You rubbed your eyes as you glanced around the room seeped in darkness, the pitter-patter of the rain growing louder. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Come here,” he offered, his arm outstretched, trembling slightly, waiting to hold you close against his chest.

Accepting his offer, you pressed your body against his, your bodies fitting together perfectly like puzzle pieces. He stroked your cheek, then tilted your jaw upwards before his lips met yours in a kiss. 

His hands wandered down your back, eager and needy as he pulled your body closer to his, the heart in his chest thudding rapidly against yours. 

You parted your mouth, deepening the kiss, the sound of the rain dampened by the soft sighs leaving your lips, the heat of your passion radiating between your bodies that would end in an evening of pleasure.

Tagging: @redheadkittys @alixennial @rhodolitesroseforclavis @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @chaosangel767 @queengiuliettafirstlady @queen-dahlia @ikehoe @ikemen-writer @talfollowingstuff @kpop-and-otome @kisara-16 @altairring @lucyw260 @lordsisterxotome @violettduchess @umi-adxhira @bellerose-arcana @yarnnerdally @crypticbibliophile @scorchieart @tele86 @nightfoxqueen @wendolrea @aceuuuu @randonauticrap @aria-chikage

#new year new celebration #ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #nokto klein #ikepri nokto #ikemen nokto #ikemen fanfic #ikepri fanfic #otome #otome games #otome fanfic

[hanhrn]

2023 Original Characters ft. Friend OC [5]

🌹 Nova Bellerose Academia ⭐

🦁 Crimson Leon: Brave, Hot Blooded, Loves Challenge ❤

🦌 Aurorus Doe: Kind Spirit, Virtuoso, Loves Nature 💛

🦚 Beau Twilight: Beauty, Intelligence, Loves Knowledge 💙

🕷 Arachne Dusk: Unique, Mysterious, Self-Improvement 💚

#original character #hanhrnoc #original artwork #art #original work #witch school #witch

[mogai-starlight]

➽ rose themed names !!

requested by; anon

Primrose (variations: Primula, Prima) - "first rose"

Zaria (variations: Zariyah, Zahrah) - "flower"

Rosabel (variations: Bellerose, Rosabella) - "beautiful rose"

Rhoda (variations: Rada, Rue) - "rose"

Carmine (variations: Carmen, Carine) - "vivid red"

Rosamel (variations: Samel, Rosa) - "rose and honey"

Rhoswen (variations: Roswyn, Roseann) - "white rose"

(( pronouns under the cut ! ))

➽ rose themed pronouns !!

ro/se/rose/roses/roseself

🌹/🌹/🌹s/🌹s/🌹self

tho/thorn/thorns/thorns/thornself

flow/flower/flowers/flowers/flowerself

crim/son/crimson/crimsons/crimsonself

fra/grant/fragrant/fragrants/fragrantself

rom/antic/romantic/romantics/romanticself

re/red/reds/reds/redself

beau/beauty/beautys/beautys/beauself

🥀/🥀/🥀s/🥀s/🥀self

#starlight suggestions #mogai safe #name help #neopronouns #pronoun help #rose names #rose pronouns

[somethingthatsaysbubbles]

THE RIPPING CASE OF MS. DELIA RODWICK | Chapter Three: It’s Cold Outside

WARNINGS BY CHAPTER:  MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY. Mentions of Prostitution. Stage Names. Explicit Descriptions of Arousal/Genitalia. Masturbation/Mentions of Masturbation. Graphic Descriptions of Gore and Violence. Murder. Corpses. Death. Crime Scenes. Mentions of Blood. Spoilers for Seasons 1 and 2 of The Alienist.

Word Count: ~3.4K

Fandom: The Alienist

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler x AFAB GN!Reader

Insert Guide: (E/C) = Eye Color. (Y/N) = Your Name. (Y/L/N) = Your Last Name.

A/N: Sorry for the delay! Thank you so much for all of the love and support! I’m so happy that people are enjoying this. As always, let me know if you catch a typo, missed warning, or you would like to be added to the taglist. In this chapter, the reader wears period-accurate, assumed-masculine clothing. I apologize for any historical inaccuracies. Enjoy!

Masterpost

Neither you nor Dr. Kreizler said a word while you danced, guided by Gaskin’s silver-toned, Irish tenor spinning on the turntable. When the gramophone’s crackling croon came to a close, you continued to sway—the needle skipping over the record. Only the sound of feathers on skin and Dr. Kreizler’s soft, shallow breaths saw you through the rest of your dance. By the end of it, you were sweating—glowing in the glimmering candlelight. A few wild hairs were plastered to your temples, framing your face and dilated pupils. Beneath the cloud-like feathers of your fan, hidden from the doctor’s eyes—your inner thighs were slick with arousal. Your hands ached to touch yourself—to trace along the swollen, trembling parts of you.

Dr. Kreizler didn’t look much better. Halfway through your dance, he crossed his legs—his fingernails carving crescent moons into the arm of his chair. His eyes eclipsed themselves—his pupils swallowing his beautiful, brown irises—a lone, brunette curl falling onto his forehead. His velveteen mouth hung open; his teeth parted to allow the tip of his tongue room to wet his bitten lips. His chest heaved as he panted heavily. The skin of his throat was stained a captivating crimson. It suits him, you mused, marveling over how well he wore it. The good doctor looked downright debauched. You longed to see him laid out on your bed, his obscenely white shirt torn open—his perfect, accented purr moaning for more.

For a moment, all you did was caress each other’s cheeks and lips with half-lidded eyes. You envisioned each other in different stages of undress, different moments of desire. You imagined that it was not the middle of winter; you imagined that what awaited you outside Bellerose was not snowy streets or the crushing weight of your dear Delia’s death. You imagined that Dr. Kreizler was neither a customer nor an alienist sent to solve the murder of another nameless prostitute; you imagined that he was your lover, and you were luminously happy.

Wordlessly, you rose from the lounge where you laid—limp and panting. My robe, you reminded yourself—moving to the door in a daze as you used your fans to hide your body. Grabbing the silk garment, you snuck behind the lounge’s high, swooping back—shielding your lower body from view as you dressed yourself. Dr. Kreizler said nothing as you abandoned your fans on the floor while approaching the gramophone; you moved the skipping needle away from its record with a resigned sigh. It was quiet, too quiet, in the room’s contracting candlelight. Neither of you wished to break the spell you so wondrously weaved about the room, but it was getting late. Mr. Clayton would come knocking at any moment.

“Have I answered all of your questions, Dr. Kreizler,” you whispered, hiding your face from his ever-observant eyes.

He swallowed thickly. “Yes, I—”

“—If I may,” you interjected, your hands trembling on the tie of your robe. “I have a question of my own to ask you.” The good doctor simply nodded, and you felt something in your chest shatter like your mother’s fine china the day you tried to turn your stuffed horse into a Pegasus. Every carefully constructed wall around your heart and soul collapsed; Angel de Beauchene disappeared, and Dr. Kreizler found a frightened child hidden behind your beautiful, (E/C) eyes. “Do you really believe that you’ll catch him...the killer?” You continued before he could answer—your small, scared voice wavering like a flickering flame in a winter wind. “Delia was one of the closest things to family that I had left, and my world is...grey without her in it.” 

You laughed—a wet, wild sound pushing past your teeth. “Though that matters little to most! She was a prostitute, after all; nobody worth mourning.” Gesturing to the door and the world outside The Water Lily Room, you said, “The police didn’t even bother to give her a proper autopsy. Did you know that?” Gasping, Dr. Kreizler’s face blurred as the fear and grief you worked so hard to stow away swallowed you. Your fingernails dug divots into your upper arms as you sobbed. “Will you promise me that you’ll catch him?”

Your legs bowed like tree trunks in a tornado, and your knees hit the floor—a single, shaking hand holding in the horrified screams that tore at your teeth. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s—

A foreign warmth filled the side of your face, and you blinked furiously—a soft, sure pressure dragging along the underside of your eye. Dr. Kreizler kneeled before you, his left hand cupping your cheek—his fingers tracing into the line of your jaw. The good doctor’s thumb wiped away your tears, and the heat of his hand left you grappling for breath. His eyes widened in worry, and you reached your hands up—pressing his palm tighter to your cheek. His skin was so soft, so perfect. You turned your nose in toward his wrist and closed your eyes, weaving your fingers between his. A deep, unbalanced breath rattled Dr. Kreizler’s ribs. “I promise,” he whispered, holding your sorrow in his hand—wondering over the weight of his own actions. 

You moved your mouth to speak, to thank him—to beg him to never take his hands off you. Say something, you screamed at yourself. Anything! 

Before a single sound could leave you in The Water Lily Room’s dwindling light, three brutish bangs shook the door. You flinched, dropping Dr. Kreizler’s hand as if his fingers were on fire. “Just a moment,” you called, your heart hammering inside your chest.

Stifling a sob, you anticipated the good doctor would gather his things and leave you—letting you put yourself to rights in privacy. Any other customer would, but Dr. Kreizler was—as you kept realizing—different from most clients. Using his cane, he hauled himself to his feet before offering you his free hand—his thin, ambiguous smile almost cold in comparison to his earlier gentleness. If it weren’t for the warm worry that swirled inside his wet-earth eyes, you would have believed his kindness was imaginary. Instead, your lungs seized as you recognized your own pain pitied against you in his gaze—keeping you out of his soul like the tall, gothic walls of a cathedral. This isn’t sympathy, you realized. This is empathy. He knew your pain personally, and that sudden, intimate knowledge hurt worse than the death of your dear Delia.

You laid your hand in his, and he grasped it gingerly, helping you to your feet. Who have you lost, Dr. Kreizler? Who hurt you? You ripped your hand away reluctantly, afraid of your desire to draw him close—afraid of your want to be with him—afraid of your need to be near him. You knew that if you let yourself loiter, you’d fall for him. You’d fall for him hard and fast, and you didn’t know if he could catch you or if he would even want to. We’ve only just met. How can I feel this way about a man I just met? 

The plush comfort of Dr. Kreizler’s palm lingered long past the separation of your hands, and—subconsciously—you brought his heat to your sternum, staying it inside your chest.  In the silence, the alienist reached inside his suit jacket and retrieved a handkerchief—presenting it to you purposefully. You smiled—soft and uncertain—and took it, cleaning the bleeding kohl from your cheeks. “Mr. Clayton will show you out when you’re ready to leave,” you said, handing back his handkerchief. You paused—watching wide-eyed as the good doctor delicately tucked the small, soiled piece of fabric into his jacket. 

“Thank you,” he replied. Though, you weren’t firmly sure what he was thanking you for. Nevertheless, you nodded and moved toward the door—your hand hovering over the simple, ceramic knob. 

“Dr. Kreizler,” you gulped—turning to meet his gaze. He looked just as lost as you felt. “Stay safe? It’s cold outside.” Wrenching open the door before he could respond, you rushed past Mr. Clayton—the bodyguard’s concerned stutter calling after you. You said nothing, letting your feet lead you to your vanity where you collapsed and cried for reasons which had nothing to do with Delia. 

It was more than a month later—in February—when Dr. Kreizler saw you again, and The Brothel Butcher—as he was affectionately named by The New York Journal—didn’t stop killing. By the good doctor’s count, The Butcher had five bodies under his belt; though, the first two were drastically different from the more recent murders. The first was a young, Irish immigrant by the name of Cara Murphy. She was employed at King’s Court, and her wounds were unsure and shallow; she bled out slowly on the banks of the Hudson. The second victim was a middle-aged, Italian woman named Eula Marcello. She owned and operated a brothel off Bleecker Street. Her wounds were more controlled and confident; a series of gaping, T-shaped gashes ran the length of her chest and wrists. The third victim was Delia Rodwick, and her death was by far the most monstrous to date. The Issacson’s counted a total of twenty-one stab wounds sundering her body, mostly centered around her face and hands. Her heart was removed and, as of the murder of Ms. Reed, not yet recovered. 

“The latest victim was cut from throat to navel just like Mrs. Ellis and Ms. Rodwick,” Ms. Howard outwardly pondered, pacing in front of the chalkboard situated in Dr. Kreizler’s sitting room. After the conclusion of their last case, the group moved their headquarters to the alienist’s house until Ms. Howard could formally secure the abandoned building off Broadway—deciding it best to hide their gruesome business from the curious eyes of the institute’s children. Sighing, Sara faced the board, documenting the details of Ms. Reed’s murder. “Heart removed. Blunt force trauma to the skull and torso. Broken ribs. Ruptured lungs—” Ms. Howard pinched the bridge of her nose, a headache building behind her eyes as she turned to face the two men helping her on the case: Dr. Laszlo Kreizler and Mr. John Moore. 

“No excessive displays of aggression as with Ms. Rodwick, but Ms. Reed’s wounds are…precise.” Sara paused, putting down her piece of chalk in a huff before turning her attention to Dr. Kreizler. The good doctor was ignorant to his friend’s frustrations, staring forlornly into the sitting room’s fireplace. He watched the flames dance solemnly as he stroked two fingers along the bond between his mustache and beard. A white handkerchief, soiled with subtle streaks of kohl, sat in his right hand; the detective asked him about it before, but the alienist refused to answer her inquiries. “He isn’t hesitating anymore, Laszlo.”

At the sound of his name, Dr. Kreizler snapped his gaze over to Sara and the morbidly messy chalkboard behind her. “He’s perfected his craft,” he offered. “He’s gaining confidence. Before, our killer only hoped that killing would bring him the release he desires. Now, he knows it will.”

Across the room, John Moore rolled his eyes. “Fantastic,” he sarcastically replied. “What does that mean for our investigation?” 

Laszlo stood up from his seat, adjusting his waistcoat as he approached the chalkboard—searching for some small, overlooked bit of information that would lead them to their killer. “It means the man we’re hunting has become even more unhinged,” he pronounced, stuffing the stained handkerchief into his pocket. Dr. Kreizler’s gaze narrowed as he picked up the piece of chalk Ms. Howard abandoned—accenting Ms. Rodwick’s name. “He’s evolving...” 

“—It means our killer is dangerous. We must find him before he escalates,” Sara asserted, moving aside to give the good doctor space while he studied the board. Popping open the pocket watch that dangled from her skirt, the detective sighed; it was nearly midnight.

John reclined on Laszlo’s couch with a groan. “As if we haven’t been trying to do that for months. Face it, Sara, we have nothing!”

“Perhaps, if you focused more of your attention on the investigation—John—we would have more to work with,” Ms. Howard barked back, and the pair broke into a heated argument which morphed into white noise in Dr. Kreizler’s mind.  

Everyone working The Brothel Butcher case was exhausted, but Sara and John were busy before ever taking on the extra responsibility of finding a serial killer. Ms. Howard balanced the case alongside her endeavors to establish a detective agency off Broadway; meanwhile, Mr. Moore was adjusting to his new job as a news reporter for The New York Times. By comparison, Laszlo’s life changed very little after the John Beechem case. The Kreizler Institute for Wayward and Abandoned Children was still the culmination of Laszlo’s career as an alienist. Mary was gone, and her memory sent cold, sporadic spikes of dread through his heart, but Cyrus and Stevie were still around even though Cyrus procured his own bar downtown and planned on leaving Laszlo’s employ. The truth was that, following the death of Japheth Dury, Dr. Kreizler’s life remained the same if a little emptier; his work carried on just as the world continued spinning and the seasons slunk by—spring squirming under winter’s white, withering embrace. 

Or, that was what the alienist told himself for fear of giving into his grief entirely. By staunchly committing to solving the murders perpetrated by The Brothel Butcher, Laszlo could find purpose. Dr. Kreizler trusted that this hunt wouldn’t leave him empty handed; he hungered for answers to the questions that Japheth Dury and Jesse Pomeroy left the world with. What drives a man to do evil? What drives a man to murder? After closing Dury’s case, Laszlo found no satisfaction for his famished soul—for the questions that unquieted him. He knew how to capture a killer, but he was no closer to knowing how to cure them—how to help them—how to purge humanity of its horrors. For all his expertise, Dr. Kriezler didn’t know what to expect from the evils he hunted; and, for all that he tried to anticipate, you surprised him.  

After his trip to Bellerose, memories of you tormented Laszlo’s mind. They snuck into every silent moment—started as nothing more than sweet glimpses of your glistening, (E/C) eyes. While he trimmed his beard the morning after your meeting, his train of thought turned to the way you smiled—tender and teasing—when he said something that pleased you. As he ate, listening to Verdi’s “O Patria Mia,” he recalled the way your hips rolled—bouncing to Gaskin’s “After the Ball.” He remembered the keen way your lips kissed his champagne flute, feathering over the memory of his mouth. Only a week later, Laszlo sent Stevie out to buy the same record you danced to; and, his memories morphed into imaginings. He dreamed of you gracing his dinner table, your hand in his—the soft, sultry skin of your palm pressed against his own. He thought of your feather, the one you ran up the length of his neck, and how the sensation made his stomach clench—a shiver working its way up his spine. He thought about seizing the feather from your fingers and dragging it down your corset. He imagined his hands stroking your stockings. 

Laszlo daydreamed about pressing his lips to your plush, perfect thighs—your eyes closed in pleasure. He was ashamed to admit that he touched himself in those moments. When he was alone in his room—the mid-winter moon hanging high in the sky—his hand found his hard cock, warm and waiting, in the dark, and he stroked himself to the thought of you—the heavy grace you gave his name like he was an intimate, salacious secret—like he was worth your time—like you really wanted him—

“Excellent news,” Marcus Issacson announced, entering the doctor’s sitting room excitedly. Behind him, Lucius barely managed to keep up with a full briefcase cradled in his arms. “My brother and I went to the latest crime scene, as directed by Ms. Howard, and—” Marcus stepped aside, sweeping his arm out toward his brother, and Lucius rolled his eyes—resting his briefcase on the table as he produced a portfolio of photos. Sara’s impatient hands interjected immediately, taking the photos from him. 

“Is that—”

“Blood,” Marcus offered, and Ms. Howard looked over the photos wide-eyed before bestowing them on Dr. Kreizler.

“A message left by our killer,” Lucius elaborated. 

Laszlo crossed to his desk, digging around for his glasses while John got to his feet. “A message,” Mr. Moore asked. “What does it say?”

Lucius’ response was cut short by Stevie bursting into the room. “Dr. Kreizler!”

“Not now, Stevie—”

“—There’s a visitor for you. Says it’s urgent.”

The room quieted as the alienist quit his search and regarded Stevie with suspicion. “Who?”

“Angel de Somethin’,” Stevie said with a shrug.

John choked on air. “Angel de Beauchene...from Bellerose?”

Ms. Howard’s lips lifted upward—intrigued by the way Dr. Kreizler’s cheeks ruddied so readily. “Yes,” the good doctor said as he cleared his throat, handing off the crime scene photos to John as he adjusted his waistcoat. “Yes. Of course. Please, Stevie, send them in. Marcus. Lucius. The chalkboard.” Stevie left with a lively nod.

“The burlesque dancer,” Sara inquired, “the one Ms. Rodwick mentioned in her diary?”

“The very same.” John grimaced as he gazed at the photos, placing them face down on the table in front of him. 

Marcus looked between John, Laszlo, and Sara with confusion while he and his brother worked quickly to cover the chalkboard. “A burlesque dancer?”

“—Dr. Kreizler,” your voice called, echoing in a breathless panic as you entered—accompanied by the muted thump of your buttoned, ankle boots. You froze at the sight of four strangers and swallowed skittishly. “Apologies for the intrusion—” 

“—No apologies necessary.” The alienist jumped to your aid, gesturing to each of his companions around the room. “Please, allow me to introduce you to Ms. Sara Howard, Mr. John Moore, and Detective Sergeants Marcus and Lucius Issacson.” Laszlo considered you with a soft, concerned smile. “They are assisting me on The Brothel Butcher case.”

You nodded in acknowledgement, looking each of your new acquaintances in the eye. “It’s a pleasure to meet you—”

One of the Issacsons, Marcus, interrupted your attempt at manners. “—Sorry. When Mr. Moore said you were a burlesque dancer, I didn’t expect you to be wearing a suit.” The other Issacson, Lucius, regarded Marcus with regret—staring him down as he landed a solid smack against the back of his brother’s head.

You blushed—looking down at your plain, tweed trousers and simple, suit jacket. Shrugging, you eyed Marcus mockingly—deflecting any worry you felt by wringing the newspaper held tightly between your hands. “Would you prefer I was naked, Detective Sergeant Issacson?” Marcus’ face flushed a brilliant red, and he averted his gaze with a cough. You smirked—turning your attention back to the alienist. Dr. Kreizler watched the interaction unfold with an amused smile, his eyes aglow with something almost akin to pride. “I need to speak with you about the case, Dr. Kreizler,” you began, closing the distance between you. “Is it true that the killer left a message at the most recent crime scene?”

Ms. Howard’s earnest, blue eyes bore into you. “Yes. Written in the victim’s own blood, it would seem.” 

“Sara,” Mr. Moore hissed cautiously before continuing, “How did you become privy to this information?” Forcing your fists to unclench, you handed over an issue of The New York Times. John looked over the newspaper’s headline with building rage. “Dammit, Bernie,” Mr. Moore muttered as he tramped past you, telling Dr. Kreizler that he needed to use his telephone.

Digging through his desk, Laszlo finally found his glasses with Sara’s help and inspected the photos the Issacsons provided. The body of the newest victim, Ms. Reed, was abandoned near her business in downtown New York. She was cut from throat to navel, and her ribs were broken open like bars on a rusted birdcage. Her heart was missing, and—as expected—a message was smeared on the brick wall behind her body. It was simple: two words.

“A name,” Laszlo said. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N)...” 

The good doctor set his glasses aside, fixing his gaze on you. His eyes were intense and unreadable, but you thought you saw concern there—the kind of panic that makes a permanent home in one’s heart. “Does this mean anything to you?”

“Yes,” you answered. “It’s my name.”

TAGS:  @scuttle-buttle @bruhlsbees @apparrio @livvyshmiv @ajeff855 @imalsonotsure @bubblegum28universe @frozenhuntress67 @uncomfortablebagel​ @janine-007​

Read it on AO3!

[Next Chapter]

#The Alienist #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo kreizler x you #dr laszlo kreizler #laszlo kriezler x reader #laszlo kreisler x reader #laszlo kriezler #laszlo kreizler fanfic #laszlo kreizler imagine #Daniel Bruhl #daniel brühl #gender neutral reader #afab #reader insert #gender neutral fanfic

[merlybird500]

Home.

Harry Potter and Sanders Sides crossover au.

Word Count: 1766

Summary: Harry, Patton, and Roman arrive back at their home in America.

Warnings: Deceit mention, I think that’s it. If I’m missing anything, let me know.

Characters: Harry Potter, Patton Sanders, Roman Sanders, Logan Sanders

Relationships: Romantic Royality, Platonic Harry & Patton, Platonic Harry & Roman, Platonic Roman & Patton & Logan

Notes: Notety note man I love making notes. I don’t think there’s anything that I need to state in here, apart from the fact that I couldn’t be bothered researching where Pat&Ro lived, so I made up a town.

edited 5/05/20 - changed deceit’s name to Janus

Patton and Roman’s home was beautiful, Harry decided. 

After a far too long plane ride (it was very exciting at the start, it was the first time he’d ever been on a plane, but still got boring after a few hours), and a bus ride that would also have been far too long if he hadn’t slept through most of it, he found himself in a quaint little sea-side town.

Patton and Roman’s home was maybe a twenty-minute walk from the town, along the coast. They had to walk, Patton informed him, because they’d driven to the airport with their friend Logan, who’d then taken the car back to their home. 

There was a cobbled pathway that wound alongside the beach, with just half a dozen metres of grass between the path and the sand. Speaking of sand, while the path was definitely once made of cobbled-together stone, it’s long since been mostly covered with a layer of sand and tiny pieces of shells. There was the occasional bit of stone peeking out, but the white sand had the monopoly on it. 

After maybe ten minutes, and the tidy buildings of the town had disappeared behind a wall of trees and signposts, Roman took off his shoes to walk barefoot on the path. Harry didn’t blame him, the heels he was wearing did not look fun to walk in, especially on sand. Patton giggled and proceeded to take off his far more sensible sandals. 

Harry looked down at his own feet. When at Roman’s family’s house, they’d seen the too-big state of all his clothes and dug out some of Roman’s old things. He did have to admit, the clothes fit much better than Dudley’s hand-me-downs. They were also all so much softer, and much more colourful. His favourite piece of clothing that he’d found was a well-worn red and white sweater, mostly white with a sash of red across the front and a golden crown at each shoulder. Roman’s aunt, who’d insisted on being called Auntie Vi rather than the Mrs Bellerose that he’d initially called her, said that she’d made it for Roman’s fourth birthday and that he’d refused to take it off for a month. 

After a moment of deliberation, Harry started to take off his own shoes: a pair of white and gold sneakers that had also belonged to Roman. (Child Roman seemed to have a colour theme to his clothing. Most of the clothes that he’d lent to Harry were red, gold or white in some form or another.) He’d never actually been to the beach before, and he wanted to know what the sand would feel like between his toes. Would it be as soft as it looked?

Turns out, it was actually softer than it looked. 

Patton and Roman’s home, when they reached it, was potentially one of the prettiest houses Harry had ever seen. Clad in white, rose gold and varying shades of pale blue, with a trellis of crimson climbing roses against one wall. To one side of the house was a large garden, probably the size of the house itself, with a pathway winding around various plant pots and flowerbeds. The pathway looped around the garden and then out, to a spiralling stone staircase down the beach. At the entrance and exit of the garden stood matching arches, crawling with pastel sweet-pea, flowering pink, lavender and indigo. To the other side of the house stood a carport with another trellis of climbing roses against one wall, and a dark red car was situated underneath, behind an elaborate gate made of curling white metal. Parked outside the gate was another car, this one a deep dark blue that seemed almost black. 

Seeing the car, Patton and Roman exchanged fond glances, and made their way towards the house’s front door, white double doors with stained glass set into them.

The inside of the house was equally as pretty, if less flowery. They entered into a hallway, with white skirting and walls painted a cheery yellow. A white cabinet stood against one wall, the top almost completely filled with framed pictures. Harry could see both Patton and Roman in most of them, but there were plenty of unfamiliar people featuring in them as well. More framed pictures hung along the walls, both paintings and photographs. 

Patton turned into a doorway to the left of the entrance, and Harry followed him into a cosy-looking living room. The walls were clad in cream wallpaper, windows framed with butterfly-patterned curtains. In the corner of the room sat a grey-purple L-shaped couch, and above it, on the wall hung an incredibly lifelike painting of Patton and Roman, sitting on a picnic blanket under a large flowering tree. Across from this was a shiny black counter with a television propped up on it, and between the television and the couch was a cream coffee table. On top of the table sat a decorative white and lavender vase, filled with the same roses as the trellises outside. 

Across the room was another doorway, without a door in it, but a doorway nonetheless. It looked like it led to a kitchen, but it was hard to tell, given that the man who’d just entered from the doorway was being swept up in a massive hug from Patton, which kind of blocked the other room from view.

“Let the man go, Patton,” Roman chided fondly, “You know how Logan feels about hugs.”

Patton let the man (Logan, Roman called him) go, chuckling sheepishly. Logan straightened his black button-up shirt, and his lips quirked upwards slightly.

“It’s quite alright Patton,” Logan said. Harry had never called a voice tidy before, but now was as good a time to start as any. His voice was clipped and well-enunciated, very no-nonsense. Harry was suddenly reminded of his first teacher, the only teacher he’d ever had to not play favourites and favour Dudley over him.

Logan was quite possibly the tallest person he’d ever seen. Where Patton was soft and chubby, and Roman was slender and elegant, Logan was… pointy. Very pointy. He had angular features and incredibly well-pronounced cheekbones. Such incredibly well-pronounced cheekbones that you could probably cut steak on them. A pair of silver-framed, rectangular glasses sat on the bridge of his narrow nose, and a pair of calculating blue-grey eyes peered out from behind them. His shirt stretched over broad shoulders, and Harry finally understood what Roman meant when he talked about Dorito sized shoulder-waist ratios. The short sleeves of his shirt did nothing to hide the lean muscle lining his arms, and a shiny watch wrapped around one wrist. The pale blue tie at his collar didn’t do anything to take away from his teacher aesthetic

“It is good to see you again Patton, Roman.” He looked to where Harry was considering hiding behind Patton’s legs. “I assume that you are Harry?”

Harry nodded meekly. 

His lips pressed into a straight line. “I see. Well, it has been a pleasure meeting you. I will not keep you for much longer.” He looked down at Harry. “Patton and Roman are good people, and I truly believe that you will be happy with them.” 

“Awww, Lo…” Patton cooed, a cheerful smile curling at his lips. “I didn’t know you felt that way!”

Logan took a deep breath. “Well, it is a fact, not a falsehood.” His long legs carried him to the door in a few steps, and Harry was suddenly incredibly jealous. Why couldn’t he be tall with stupidly long legs? “Lliam has been looking rather peaky, however as much as I loathe to admit it you are more knowledgeable about fish than I am.” He paused, shifting his weight awkwardly. Harry couldn’t believe it. This guy seemed like the kind of person that never even had a hair out of place, but knowing less about something than Patton had him all aflutter. “I am going to go now.”

And with that, he ducked out of the doorway. Patton looked on fondly with a wave. “Same old Logan, ain’t he love?”

“Doesn’t know how to talk to kids, that one,” Roman said. “Isn’t he studying to be a teacher?”

“Who’s Lliam?” Harry asked.

Patton gasped, hands flying to his cheeks. He bolted through to the kitchen, and Harry followed to see him cooing at a yellow and black fish with large, frilly fins that floated around in the water. 

A hand came to rest on Harry’s shoulder, and he looked up to where Roman stood, lips twitching. “That’s Lliam. He’s a betta fish.”

“And my son,” Patton said, glancing towards them briefly before returning to making high-pitched gibberish noises at the fish.

“Patton’s mother once said that he couldn’t get a dog until he could prove that he could keep a fish alive for a year, and he really took it to heart.” Roman paused, tilting his head to one side. “That was literal years ago, but Pat’s always been a mama's boy. So even though he’s now got a house of his own, he’s determined to prove himself before he allows himself to get a dog. I really admire his self-control, actually.”

“Why did he call the fish Lliam?” 

“It’s named after his cousin.” Roman’s lip curled. “I kinda hate that guy, however, I do admire his fashion choices.”

“His cousin’s name is Lliam?” Harry asked. “That’s a much nicer name than Dudley.”

“His cousin’s middle name used to be Lliam, but he changed it,” Roman answered. 

“To what?”

“Classy.” At Harry’s look, Roman huffed out a laugh. “Seriously. His name is now Janus Classy Saunders.”

At this, Patton finally dragged his attention away from Lliam the fish. “Are you making fun of my cousin again.”

“Maybe…” Roman dragged the word out, glancing towards Harry conspiratorially. “He changed his middle name to Classy, Patton. I think that gives me the right to make fun of him at least a little bit.”

Patton sighed. “Fine. But if he finds out it’ll come back to bite you in the butt.”

Roman gasped overdramatically, hand flying to his chest. “My dear, is that a curse word I hear? Harrington, we must go fetch holy water and crosses, he’s clearly been possessed!”

Harry giggled, and made to follow Roman as he bolted from the room. At the doorway, he paused and turned back to see Patton looking after them, shaking his head fondly. 

“Best to just follow along, kiddo,” Patton said, taking a seat on the couch.

Harry gave him a hesitant smile, and proceeded to race through the doorway. 

Taglist: @that-one-nb-kid @sharkkittem @an-anxious-gay-mess @thetrombonewhisperer @galacticguppy @sanderssidestrash24 @loginceismyjam @broadwaytheanimatedseries @virgil-is-baby-boi @chelsvans @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @just-some-gt-trash @ab-artist @tiredcoffeebeanthings @liz-a-bell @the-aroace-queen-in-the-quiver @djpurple3

#harry potter and the much better famILY #sanders sides fic #sanders sides #ts au #merlybird writes #my writing #sanders sides au #harry potter au #*cough* harry gets some good goddam parents au #ts patton #patton sanders #werewolf patton #ts roman #roman sanders #half-veela roman #ts logan #logan sanders #do i tag this as ts spoilers? #it has dee's name in it now #i'm gonna do it #ts spoilers

[ayase-yukina12345]

Nombres de los solteros y solteras

Bueno, esto se lo debia a algunas personas y recien lo subo ahora el nombre de TODOS los solteros y solteras, al azar porque me da pereza organizarlo, y quitando a algunos quedaria en 80 y algo. ahora si UwU

1.    nagisa

2.    maika

3.    kuro

4.    noel bellerose

5.    saya

6.    mika

7.    jazmin

8.    evan bellerose

9.    akihiko

10.  kaito

11.  yuko

12.  ashe

13.  yumiko

14.  scarleth

15.  red

16.  blood

17.  mikiko

18.  maya

19.  koma

20.  crimson

21.  kazuki

22.  belle

23.  aura

24.  crhis

25.  momoko

26.  Maira

27.  Juno

28.  Seiran

29.  Cero

30.  Lily

31.  Yuki

32.   Amy

33.  Souta

34.   Rin

35.   Akira

36.   Rika

37.  Ciel

38.   Ryu

39.  Seira

40.   Hanami

41.   Chizu

42.  Cynthia

43.   Minami

44.   shirasaya Nagisa

45.   Mikoto

46.  Lilith

47.   Margalo

48.   Akari

49.   Charlotte

50.  Moriko

51.   Yuri

52.   Anzu

53.   Naoki

54.   Maka

55.   Ichika

56.   Aki

57.   Suki

58.   Luna

59.   Reiko

60.   Noch

61.   Hikari

62.   Hoshii

63.   Kira

64.   Hana

65.   Sora

66.   Ichiro

67.   Hiro

68.   Sayuri

69.   Marine

70.   Kino

71.   Rawberry

72.   Daichi

73.   Akito

74.   Yukito

75.   Nana

76.   Ritsu

77.   Kiiro

78.   Shiro

79.   Yasuhiro

80.   Maná

81.  Lilia

82.   Shion

83.   Maria

84.   Agatha

85.  Amelia

86.  Black Mint

87.  Dian

y esos serian todos, descontando a algunos que vendran a futuro y con los que estoy aun confundida.

[oceorest]

Oc Introduction Post: Mystique Bellerose

Mystique is a character that I really need to work on a lot more. What I DO know, is that she is a lot like Crimson, but also not. Mystique likes to have fun with things. Until someone is about to die or the world is about to end, she will keep messing with something, purely for entertainment (and so would Crimson and maybe Valerie, too). Mystique HATES being told what to do. If someone gives her orders, then she will do anything to get around doing that thing unless the fate of the world is at hand or something (or it’s Crimson that gave them to her). Mystique questions everything anyone says and doesn’t trust very easily. At all. She is often seen as slutty by people at first, but she’s actually really not. I’m thinking that she might even be demisexual. The reason most people get this impression is mostly because she wears more revealing/ provocative clothing a lot, and because of her species (like a succubus type thing but also not quite, but just think along the lines of sex-demon). There are actually two types of this species, and she is ½ and ½. They do both share some abilities, but the main difference is that one is focused around lust and the other around love. The lust demons are typically, for lack of a better word, “sexier” is their appearance. Females tend to have larger chests and hips, males tend to have broader shoulders and a sharper jaw, etc. They’re also almost always horny. They can sense lust and all that in other creatures/ beings, and who it’s for/ towards. The love demons have that same ability, but for feelings of love rather than lust. Mostly romantic love, but some more powerful ones can also sense other kinds of love (platonic, family, etc.). They tend to have slightly more modest bodies and builds, but they have incredibly sweet and lovable personalities and are usually quite innocent. Mystique’s mother is a lust demon, and her father is a love demon, meaning that she has ended up with all powers between them. She has the curvy body of a lust demon, but the personality of a love demon (until she gets to a private place with someone she likes). Her parents didn’t care about what she wanted and forced her into the life of a lust demon. So yeah. Mystique is kinda reckless (but not nearly as reckless as Crimson is) and is the most likely to go along with any extravagant plans (usually made by Crimson, but sometimes it’s Colton). She is very independent and refuses to work with others unless she KNOWS that they will listen to her and let her do things her way. Her greatest fear is being forced into doing something that she doesn’t want to do. Her biggest weakness is her refusal to cooperate in most situations and her stubborness when it comes to anything ever. Again, feel free to ask me any questions about any of my characters! I will eventually get through the other four, there’s just a lot happening for me at the moment (I’m moving across the country, running from a really bad situation and shitty police and government who won’t do shit until he shoots one of us) so I’m sorry I’m not updating as much as I should be atm. But still, feel free to message me or send me an ask or any of that! I would love to see people interested in my OCs!

#oc #ocs #my oc #my ocs #my character #writing #write #writer #writeblr #writblr

[thenamelessentity]

I don’t think I’ve ever been so hyped for an if pre-demo as I am for @infamous-if​

This is my MC so far, Crimson, who is a disaster man with hella potential and a “secret” crush on his band manager.

I can not describe the choke hold he has on my psyche already.

#so. fucking. hyped. #infamous-if #infamous #mc #just crimson and clover stuck in my head on repeat #i love this mess of a man #Crimson Bellerose

[violettduchess]

Because your writings always leave me sighing because they're so amazing; can I request an afterglow with my gorgeous crimson-eyed fox prince?? 🦊 Please??? And thank you in advance love! ❤

A/N: Here you are @nightfoxqueen 💜 Thank you for your patience! I hope you enjoy it!

Nokto Klein x reader

Spice level: one 🌶

WC:468

He doesn’t let you go. 

Despite the heat of your bodies and the slick sweat brought on by the ceaseless pounding of your heart, the winding and explosive unwinding of your muscles. 

Despite the fluttering of your breath as you chase the air you need to steady the bucking stallion that is your heart. 

Despite the clenching and unclenching of your fingers in the soft ends of his silvery hair. 

Despite it all, Nokto continues to hold you close against him, clinging to the ghost of your lovemaking, as if keeping you wrapped within the shelter of his arms might prolong that sphere of intimacy that has become so very precious to him. After all, it was you who expanded his knowledge beyond the carnal, into a realm where the emotional rules alongside the physical. A place where his heart is as essential as any other part of him.

And oh, does he love loving you. He wanders the garden of your body joyfully, tasting all it has to offer, his hands leaving no dip or curve, no mountain or valley untouched. 

He loves the physicality of you. Your weight when you’re above him, hands braced against his strong shoulders, your thighs bracketing his, the heat of you rolling through him like thunder. The soft brush of your hair when you bend down like a reed in the wind and press your lips to his neck, his jaw. The bite of your eager fingernails. The warm sensation of your tongue on his skin. Your scent surrounds him like the cool twilight of a summer night. Vaguely floral, mysterious, promising. Yes, he loves all this about you. 

But he also loves this moment, right now, when the earth is done quaking, when he can simply hold you, soft and spent and boneless with happiness, glowing with satisfaction. Because when he holds you close like this, your head resting on his chest, he knows you can feel his heart beating under your ear, calling out to you, singing a song of absolute devotion. The depth of his love for you astounds him. It wraps itself around his bones, flushes his pale skin pink, seeps its way into every crevice of his soul and brightens its darkest corners. 

He has so many dark corners.

His fingers slide over your bare back, passing over the vertebrae of your spine like a believer counting the rosary. All the divinity he ever needs is here, in his arms. Loving you has brought him grace. Peace. Clarity.

You shift, sliding your leg along his, your hand echoing the motion down his side and all thoughts of heaven vanish. The intent of your movements is anything but angelic......and his slow smile positively simmers with seduction.

He rolls over, bringing you with him, his body arching above yours so that he may get a final glimpse of you, your starry eyes alight with siren intent, your lips parted in a suggestive smile, before diving headfirst into the bacchanalian pleasure you offer so freely.

This, he thinks as he lowers his head, falling into the heady depths of your enticing kiss….this is another reason to keep you so close. 

The instant return to pleasure.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #nokto klein #ikepri nokto #ikemen nokto #afterglow series #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #otome fanfiction #violettwrites

[aquagirl1978]

Vlad + hugs #12 🤗

I meant to post this yesterday, but Happy Belated Birthday to Vlad!

A Light in the Darkness - Vlad x Reader (Ikemen Vampire)

A/N: Part of my New Year, New Celebration event

Pairing: Vlad x Reader

Prompt: carrying the other one in their arms

Tags: none

Moonlight poured down onto the lush green gardens, a place you often came to when the thoughts in your head grew too loud. Yes, you loved your life at the castle  and you had zero regrets about staying with Vlad. But sometimes, you experienced these brief moments of overwhelming sadness, most often on the rare and lonely nights when Vlad was off assisting Faust or Charles.

Tonight was one of those nights. 

You found yourself standing before a rose bush, its white blooms appearing silver in the light of the moon, their color reminding you of your love. Letting out a soft sigh, you recalled the night Vlad first showed you his gardens.

Impressed with its grandeur, you had followed close by Vlad’s side that day as he pointed out the various flowers in his garden. 

“White roses…” he had said as he stopped before this very bush. “Do you know what they symbolize?” he asked, turning to you, a gentle smile spreading on his lips.

“Loyalty, purity and innocence,” you repeated the words Vlad whispered to you that night, never forgetting what he had said. With your heart aching for him, you reached out, a finger grazing the soft white petals.

“You forgot eternal love,” a familiar voice whispered in your arm. 

Long arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your body tight against his broad chest.

“You’re back early.”

“Am I?” he asked with a chuckle. “I feel like I’ve returned right on time.”

Before you knew it, Vlad lifted you up into his arms, carrying you as if you were light as a feather. Bathed in moonlight, his crimson eyes were alight with affection as he brushed a gentle kiss on your lips. 

“Or maybe I was just missing you.”

Tagging: @redheadkittys @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @chaosangel767 @ikehoe @kpop-and-otome @lucyw260 @queengiuliettafirstlady @kisara-16 @ikemen-writer @lordsisterxotome @violettduchess @jet-ivory @bellerose-arcana @crypticbibliophile @yarnnerdally @tele86 @nightfoxqueen @wendolrea @randonauticrap

He pressed his lips against yours once more, his arms tightening around you as the sadness soon seeped from your heart, quickly replaced with love and adoration. No matter how dark it would ever get, Vlad was always there, your forever light in the darkness. 

#new year new celebration #ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #vlad #ikevamp vlad #ikemen vlad #ikemen fanfic #ikevamp fanfic #otome #otome game #otome fanfic

[redlips-blooddrops-deux]

@theworldio​

"Oh? I would certainly not be against making up for lost times, especially should it include bouts of our flesh held together under covers, naked and enjoined with one another's likeness."

“How bold of you monsieur to assume that a lady as myself would be swayed by sugar-coated words that easily.” despite the somewhat harsh respond a devilish little smirk tugged along the corner of crimson lips. After all, where is the fun without the chase?  While the silver-tongued blond man had indeed a charming and confident presence about him, she was not to be taken lightly neither.

Clicking her tongue she takes a step closer to the tall man with arms crossed under her chest as she gently tucked a few streaks oof her raven hair behind the ear. “I am a terribly busy woman, so how about before we give into the sin of flesh we get to know each other a bit?” without wasting time she pulls out a business card from her coat pocket. The name on it was written in an elegant curve spelling the name ‘Lilith Bellerose’ winemaking company.

#theworldio

[burningstcrs]

STATS.

NAME:  edwin eto FANDOM / PROJECT: beast project SPECIES: human BIRTHDAY: june 20 RESIDENCE: crimson falls, minnesota ALIGNMENT: neutral good OCCUPATION: student RELIGION: theist

AGE: 17 GENDER: cis male EYE COLOR: dark brown HAIR COLOR: black HEIGHT: 5′7″ WEIGHT: 132 lbs

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: demiromantic SEXUAL ORIENTATION: demisexual MARITAL STATUS: in a relationship OTHER: ned is extremely reserved and has trouble relating to anyone. typically, i only ship him with his canonical girlfriend, ronnie, but in an au situation we might be able to work something out. he is very shy, so don’t expect him to jump into a friendship with your muse either.

RELATIONSHIPS: ronnie griffin, girlfriend. abelia stillings, friend. adelaide bellerose, friend. gillian stinnett, friend. sailor stinnett, associate. tag stinnett, associate. mihr, ally. MENTAL POWERS: sees glimpses of the future PHYSICAL POWERS: immune to demonic and angelic powers

BIOGRAPHY.

(wip)