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#ikevamp short fics
syneilesis · 2 years
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[fic, wip] the soul is nothing more than a glass of ocean water | prologue
the soul is nothing more than a glass of ocean water
Ikemen Vampire | Comte de Saint-Germain x Reader | T (rating will go up in the future) ao3 link
It's your first time meeting Comte; Comte disagrees.
A/N: So this is it. My 'proper' Comte fic. Along with my thoughts and feelings for his released route lol.
I'm a very slow writer, so writing this will definitely take some time. I hope I can commit to this till the end. I want to. I have a general idea of where this will go.
Title is a slightly modified line from Christopher Buckley's poem, Reincarnation.
prologue 
They're late.
The coffee you’re drinking has gone cold, the slice of cake abandoned halfway through in favor of agonizing over whether to text your supervisor, your thumb hovering over the messaging app icon on your phone. Around you, voices of other people rise in the softly lit interior of the café. The ivory walls tinged under the yellow light, the blend of variegated conversations washing over you like warm comfort. If it weren’t for the opportunity to people-watch, you would have left half an hour ago.
Paris is pretty in autumn. The trees lining the streets frame the buildings like a gradation of fire, and your hands itch for a camera to capture the picturesque scenery. You arrived here a month ago for your dissertation, having secured a place at a university to research for a year as part of your graduate studies in the university of your home country. Armed with one luggage of your personal effects, five boxes of books, and a passable amount of monthly stipend, you marched into France, into Paris, brave-faced and filled with fruitful expectations.
Which promptly came crashing down when the university library told you that unfortunately they do not have copies of the books you need. Which was absurd; they’re a university library. If anything they should possess obscure books and everything else.
Just as you had been about to drop your knees in despair, your current supervisor, Vollant, came to the rescue.
I know someone who may have the books you need, he had said.
There’s a man, he continued, who owns a collection of objects from different eras. He also has a personal library that houses interesting sets of books.
He may have—no, I’m sure he has the books you need. I can talk to him and we can arrange a meeting, if you want.
You’ve never said yes that quickly in your life.
And so, here you are, at a café of relative cultural significance, waiting for your supervisor and your potential savior. Just as you decide to open the messaging app, you hear somebody calling your name.
Vollant waves as he weaves his way towards you; his salt-and-pepper hair glitters as he passes under a chandelier. The man trailing behind him appears to be younger than Vollant. Golden hair, amber eyes, and an impeccable fashion sense. It’s as if he’s stepped out of a GQ magazine. For one hot second, your incredulity over Vollant’s friendship (?!) with the man threatens your trust in the universe.
“Sorry we’re late,” Vollant greets, slipping into the seat across from you. The gentleman occupies the spot next to Vollant. “Comte and I got so absorbed with discussing the history of this café that we forgot to actually go here!”
Comte? You blink. Like Auguste Comte? Glancing at him, you find Comte shifting his body in your direction, presumably to introduce himself. But when your eyes meet he starts slightly, then freezes, his lips parting in surprise. You feel your brows wanting to twitch, wariness taking hold of your facial muscles. Vollant doesn’t seem to notice either of the reactions.
“He’s the one I’m talking about,” he goes on. “The one who owns the books you’ve been looking for.”
Oh, right. Dissertation supersedes caution. In all honesty, should a situation arise wherein you had to choose between personal safety and research, you’d choose research without thinking twice. It’s always made your family and friends sigh in rueful resignation.
Introductions are in order, then.
You give Comte a polite smile and your name. Anything further is still up for debate.
Surprisingly, Comte is personable towards you, all charming smiles and words, as if his odd reaction earlier was just your imagination.
“Professor Vollant here asked me if I have the books you need,” Comte says, smooth and easy. “I checked, and I do have them.”
“See? I told you,” Vollant crows. “Your dissertation is saved.”
“Indeed, but ...” A conflicted look clouds Comte’s face. “I’m afraid I can’t let them leave my library. They’re old, you must understand.”
Of course. Good news does not come without a flipside.
“Oh …” Vollant shoots you a worried glance. “That is unfortunate.”
Comte’s expression is genuinely apologetic as he tells you, like it’s a personal failing on his part. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ll think of a way around this.”
Two tables away, a group of friends bursts out laughing, the sound rolling across your ribcage. Other patrons pause and glance at them curiously; some disapprovingly. Only a month in and it feels like the world is crumbling around you—again. This has to be a record. It’s even topped that one time during your first year as a doctoral student, the one when you almost had to challenge an undergrad to a fistfight for continuously borrowing a book that’s necessary for your theoretical framework.
In the end, you’ll chalk it up to desperation when you say, “If you’ll allow it, I’m perfectly okay working on my dissertation in your house so you don’t have to worry about your books.”
It’s an outrageous proposition, and it’s perfectly within Comte’s rights to refuse. You choke back a laugh; really, between the two of you, who is the much stranger one now? At least Comte doesn’t go about offering his house to someone he’s just met.
“Are you … sure about that?” Something gleams in Comte’s gaze as he assesses the implications of your suggestion. He’s leaning on the table, a hand pressed down its surface. The way he’s focused on what you’re about to reply prickles the nape of your neck, ghostly needles scuttling down the skin of your arms. It’s full of intent, as if your response means more than just this specific thing.
You swallow the unease climbing at your throat. “I am. I just need a quiet place to work.”
“Well, then.” He leans back and smiles, eyes narrowed into crescent slits. The previously tense air dissipates; you don’t realize how rigid your posture is until you’ve found yourself relaxing. “That is not a problem for me.”
Vollant reaches over to clap your shoulder in congratulations. You jerk under his hand; you’ve forgotten that he’s there. 
The rest of the meeting involves hashing out the details of your visiting schedule (weekends, after lunch until dinnertime). Comte insists on arranging a car for your transportation (“I live at the outskirts of Paris; it’s hard to reach via public transport”), which raises your suspicion regarding his financial standing. Once everything has been agreed upon, Vollant hijacks the conversation to resume his history talk with Comte.
Because you no longer have anything else to discuss, you excuse yourself and bid them goodbye. Vollant pats your forearm cheerfully as you pass by him. Comte remains silent, except he seems to be deliberating on something, brows slightly pinched as his eyes follow your movements. He doesn’t stop you, so whatever it is, you think, it’s his problem to deal with.
Outside the café, the cool air smacks your cheeks, penetrates your blazer. The next months will be colder, and you’ve only packed a couple of winter coats. Prioritizing your books might have been a mistake.
As you head to Boulevard Saint-Germain, you hear your name somewhere behind you. There’s a frantic energy radiating from Comte as he catches up to you, his hair bouncing with each step. You wonder if he has finally decided on something; the pessimistic part of you dreads that he might renege on his offer, realizing that it’s a bother lending the books to you after all.
“Yeah?” you say, tamping the concern down where Comte can’t notice.
He exhales once. “I just—let me pay for your fare? I just feel terrible that we were late earlier.”
“Oh, no, no, please, Comte,” you say, panicked all of a sudden. “It’s fine, really. I’ll just walk; I still have to go back to my uni, anyway. It’s just a couple of kilometers away.” At this point you’re just rambling. “Thank you for your generosity, Comte. Letting me use your books is already a huge thing; I’m truly grateful. You don’t have to do anything else.”
“If it’s within my power, of course I’ll help. And besides, Professor Vollant is a dear friend of mine.”
There’s a lull after that, a hesitant pause that veils Comte’s eyes. From the way he tilts his head down, it seems that there’s something he wants to say. And you have an inkling that this something has been trying to claw its way out of him ever since that first moment you and he turned to face each other. But what could it be, is the question. You can’t figure out the answer.
“I—” he starts. Stops. Tries again. “You will think me strange, but I feel like we have met before. There’s something familiar about your eyes …”
The moment he says that your entire body slackens, flattens into a cold line. He’s right; he is, indeed, strange. His words hadn’t even been uttered in a way that makes your skin crawl with repulsion; instead, his gaze bears a heavy and wistful sheen, one that twists something in your heart and stays there.
“This is my first time meeting you, Comte,” you say, your tone devoid of lilting curves. You’re almost tempted to apologize for disappointing him. “We’ve never met before.”
It’s quick, fleeting, but you see it: his expression crumpling, a closed fist to the heart. He smiles after, to cover for that split-second vulnerability. But you’ve seen it; it’s been burned behind your eyelids, a specter that will remain even after you close your eyes.
His smile edges into the charming, extraverted. “I see. My mistake. I hope you’ll forgive this embarrassing lapse of mine.”
“It’s okay. We can forget about it.”
“Forget,” he echoes. It sounds alien when he says it, the tone wrong and askew. “Yes, of course. See you Saturday, then?”
He returns to the café where Vollant is probably brimming with more history facts than he can ever discuss in a weekly lecture. The click of his steps against the pavement resounds in your ears, drowning the rest of the noise surrounding you.
Comte, huh. A man whose eyes are cracked embers, and if you look at them at a certain angle, they burn with preternatural luminescence. You’re not afraid, since Vollant has already vouched for him, but you are cautious. Of what, you still can’t pinpoint. Perhaps the way he’s interacted with you can be attributed to eccentricity? You did notice that his clothes look so expensive (Is that Brioni? Aubercy? God, this man) and rich people—by virtue of their being rich—have the privilege to do whatever they want, whether it’s quirky or outright weird.
But he’s kind enough to lend you his books and let you do your research in his library, so maybe you should cut him some slack.
Well, no matter. After you’re done with your work, there’s little chance that you’ll see him again. Might as well stop grinding yourself with worry; your research is more important, after all.
With that resolution stamped in your mind, you turn around and go back to your university.
chapter one
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xxsycamore · 11 months
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𝙂𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙤 (Leonardo x reader)
↬ 🐈 Some period cramps can be cured with the help of a cuddly little kitten, and some others require a bigger, cuddlier cat.
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Leonardo da Vinci x reader • rating: G • tags: Menstruation; Period Cramps; Fluff; Pets; Lumiere • wordcount:  743 • masterlist
a/n: You voted for Leonardo! Here it is, another fic in the series! If you happen to suffer from cramps and you want your favorite ikevamp suitor comforting you in their own unique way, may I offer: Napoleon, Comte, Mozart, Theo 💕(All fics in this series share the same opening scene!)
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It’s another beautiful day at the mansion, and the sun is continuing to shine brightly outside as afternoon settles in. Your list of chores is more than half-way done now, the morning was a productive one and you pat yourself on the back for pushing through at your usual pace, even if your period surprised you early this morning. Sleeves rolled up and armed with a feather duster, you march towards the lounge room to take care of another chore.
Specks of dust dance in the afternoon sun, windows wide open, as you complete your task little by little. Soon the sections left to dust decrease and you start to tire - a minor pain in your tummy appearing as well, as if to persuade you into taking a short break. You throw a look at the grandfather clock. You’ve been a busy bee; not even the distraction of dusting off some of Comte’s highly intriguing antiques couldn’t get you late on your own schedule.
You sit down at the spacious couch area, grab a throw pillow to hug, and fall on your side - shoe-covered feet juust hanging off the couch because it won’t be worth the effort of taking them off for just a minute or two of rest.
Uh-oh! The pain doesn’t go away and only gets worse instead. Suddenly moving as much as a millimeter equals signing a death warrant.
“Help” You whisper to yourself, clutching onto the throw pillow.
***
" 'Scusa Cara mia, may I interest you in switching pillows with me?"
Startled, you open your eyes to discover Leonardo looming over you - you must have dozed off. With the melodic, deep voice you're familiar with, the surprise lasts a mere second before melting away, and in its place grows a sprout of affection that whispers 'I missed you'. Those sentiments have to get squeezed into a minuscule timeframe, because you have to react to the "pillow" trusted in front of your chest - it's black and furry, and it meows in a confused greeting.
Most naturally, you take Lumiere in your hands, accepting the deal gladly - and Leonardo takes the throw pillow instead. Shifting to lie fully on your back, you welcome your favorite little gattino to cuddle close to you, and he makes himself comfortable on your stomach. Any suspicions that the little angel in a devil's disguise would add to your pain vanish the second you find yourself relaxing into the couch, with Lumiere on top of you.
You gaze up at your wonderful dopamine dealer, wondering if he's truly content with what he got on his side of the deal. He puts the small pillow behind his head and sinks into the nearby armchair, admiring the sight of his two favorite creatures stacked atop of each other. He chuckles and crosses his legs at the feet.
"I was going to suggest medicine, or a message. But that would've gotten you back on your feet too soon, and you gotta rest. But now I guess it's no more moving for you, huh?"
You look at Leonardo with defeat, but also with thankfulness as soon as the impending sigh leaves through your lips. There indeed is no moving when precious Lumiere is on top of you, and there indeed is a certain need to rest that your body has been trying to signal about.
"…Leonardo? How did you know?"
"I have my ways, tesoro. Been noticing the signs, I knew it would be one of these days. Took a wild guess when I peeked inside and saw you on the couch."
Your second sigh is carrying a bit of that gushy embarrassment, but it's cut short because of the sensation of Lumiere jumping off you. He sneaks out through the left-ajar door, leaving only the memory of the soothing warmth on you.
"Nooo…"
"Must've heard Sebastian making the pots and pans noise, eh? Acting like I don't feed him…"
Your outstretched hands and the little overdramatic frown on your face carry the power of getting your mountain of a boyfriend to his feet despite his well-anchored state. Before you can decide what is he approaching you for, he sinks to his knees and… lays his head down on your belly. Gently. Right where Lumiere was a second ago.
The warmth is back, but this time it spreads all the way to your cheeks.
"It seems like a bigger cat came to make sure I won't be able to get up…"
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Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran    @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @animeworldsposts @randomanimatedhusbandoseeker @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @pro-cat-stination @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @keen19thcenturygoatsstudent @lordsister @ikemen-banshou   @themysticalbeing @canaria-blackwell @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 ​ @ikemenlover24 @violettduchess @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @cilokgoang Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!
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scummy-writes · 5 months
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The Beast's Torment
Words: 564
Pairing: Gilbert/Reader
Short Hurt/Comfort fic. No descriptions of his trauma or spoilers.
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The way he grieves isn't graceful. There is no beauty in his torment, nor the way his breath struggles to come out. 
It is never a conscious decision. The sorrow strangles him within his dreams, forcing sleep to abruptly end as if the weight of his emotions crash upon his chest. Always, he wakes with a gasp. A tremor coursing through his body, hands digging into what is closest.
For a long time, his hands grasp at sheets, at the pillows around him, the books left open on his bed.
But the first time you lay with him, his hands seek you, nails biting your skin as he struggles to regain clarity. It scares you, brings you back to the early days where each movement from him frightened you. 
Yet, at the sight of the sweat on his brow, the way his eye looks through your body when it finally lands on you, and it clicks.
He isn't free from his past, nor will he ever be. 
That first night, once the present sinks back into him, he leaves you. Alone, worried, but knowing not to follow. You saw him again in the morning, a moment between you as he met your gaze with his exhausted one. A small shake of his head, and it was clear questions would not be accepted.
And so the next time, and the times after that, you grow into this routine. It is not often, you yourself cannot discern a pattern in which it arises, but you let him leave the bed each night. Let him bear it on his own.
.
One night, it changes. Long past learning more of the weight of his sins, past promising yourselves to each other, past accepting differences, needing to understand and trust- Gilbert lingers.
That night, a sharp breath takes him after grasping onto you, a sense of familiarity finally sinking into him as his eyes cut through the dark. As the moon barely lights the room, you watch as Gilbert seeks your body with his hands, hides his emotions against your neck. There are no words that leave him as his nails dig deep into your skin, leaving red in their wake. There is only ragged breathing, a guttural whisper of pain leaving his throat- as if he can’t even bear the idea of vocalizing his ache.
Despite the way he burrows against you, that air of agony threatens to suffocate the both of you. His grief is teeth and nails, but you endure it, paying no heed to the droplets you feel against your skin.
You swore your heart to accept every part of him, just as he swore for you. So you do. Brushing your fingers through his hair despite the tremors wrecking through him. And you ease him through the pain, holding him, breathing air back into his body through hums of lullabies. Reminding him of your love and warmth.
It isn’t until the sun peeks through the dark curtains, creeping over the tangled sheets and discarded blankets, that his body relents. Eases him into clarity, into an afterglow he never wished for. 
In the haze of it all, though his body seems to cry out at the motion, his tired eyes meet your exhausted ones. You don’t offer platitudes, nor promises you can’t keep. Instead you smile, heartache easing with the taste of his silent apology.
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@m-mmiy and I will talk about Gilbert at times, and we briefly touched on Gilbert crying and how we can't picture it, and I got stuck rotating that in my brain. I realized I can't picture him crying like others do, I can only picture it as something overtaking him against his will, one thing he can't truly fight against as much as he wishes.
Taglist (Please let me know if you'd like to be added/removed!): @yarnnerdally @katriniac @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bakaneko-chan @skoetiepoetie @bestbryn @nightghoul381
(Also please let me know if you only want to be tagged on 'full fics' if you wish!)
Ikepri Masterlist || Ikevamp Masterlist || Ikevamp/Ikepri Server
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fang-and-feather · 2 months
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Ikemen Vampire - Isaac x OC x Jean - Soulmates AU
Planned to be a V relationship for now. this chapter is pre-relationship and focused on Amy, with some participation from Comte
Words: 1,057
Summary: Amy not only had two soulmate marks, a blurred mood mark that was always back and the other a zeroed timer, both somewhat faded. Until a trip to Paris and a mysterious encounter led her to go through a door that had her trapped in the 19th century. The timer now indicated she's met he soulmate, on a night she had contact with many new people. But who is it, and why does she have the second mark that still seems inactive?
I planned for this to be a full fic for my birthday ended up being just the short start of a series.
Next Chapter / IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist / AO3 Link
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Everyone Amy knew had one clear soulmate link, be it a physical mark, a bond only them could see or even a more spiritual connection. They always knew there was this person out there that was made for them, no matter how they reacted to that knowledge.
She, on the other hand, had two different links, a blurred, tattoo-like one in her right wrist, that was supposed to be a mood mark but was always black, and a zeroed counter on the left, both of them quite faded.
Everyone around her was so confused, and ended up treating her with pity, because she would never meet that soulmate, or one of them would die, or other depressing explanations they came up with to explain her strange marks. Amy took to hiding them and pretending like she didn’t care to meet that soulmate.
As much as she would rather not lie, especially to her sisters, she couldn’t take that treatment anymore.
Until she had to take her clothes off for some reason, it was so easy to pretend she didn’t have these marks and didn’t care about it. To pretend she was one of the rare people who didn’t have soulmates. Easy to pretend her life was normal.
But this trip to Paris had been difficult. The city of love was like a flashing sign of what she didn’t have. To the point a chance meeting had her wishing she could just fall in love with someone else and move on. She would have jumped at the opportunity that encounter presented if that mysterious gentleman was actually her type.
Still he was quite curious. He had that air about him of a good puzzle to pierce together, and of memories she would rather forget, but she was drawn to anyway.
And that led her to that suspicious door, that reeked of dust and things forgotten, of time lost and shadows.
That was probably her imagination, though, and Amy walked in, determined to prove herself wrong. But the moment she stepped on the other side, she knew it was true, and that she had made a mistake, despite her superficial attempts at rejecting such a notion. Until proven otherwise. Then there was no more escape.
But at the time she cursed her luck, without realizing what it would bring her.
The day that changed it all started like a nightmare. She had several nightmares that night, with vampires, - Sebastian told her he was joking after saying everyone in the house was a vampire, but she had this sickly feeling that he wasn’t, - and with her past. Then Comte had insisted on taking her shopping - which Amy only agreed because she doubted in a month she wouldn’t have to go to the city once - which meant a fifteen minutes, hellish carriage ride.
“What is bothering you, chérie?”He had to notice, didn’t he? Amy bit her lip and clasped her hands together over her lap. “Still worried by being trapped in this time?”
“No.” Amy replied, without looking at him. “I’m fine, actually. Love a good adventure.” Wouldn’t be a lie, as long as it didn’t involve vehicle rides, or being otherwise trapped., both of which were currently true. She was forced on this adventure, trapped on this time period, and on a carriage, in a vulnerable moment in front of a stranger that might or not be a vampire, but that she didn’t fully trust either way.
“Then why are you so tense?”
“Not exactly looking forward to shopping, I admit. I don’t belong here, and pretending to fit in is not really my style.” Although sometimes necessary, it always bothered her.
“We can always get you something more comfortable to use at home."
It was hard to believe Comte was just that nice, but if he wasn't he could disguise it better than most people. She ended up giving him a weak smile and a nod. She doubted anything could be comfortable enough, but his willingness to understand her and at least try made her a bit emotional in that moment.
She was far anyway from anything she ever knew. Alone. And she had not made such a choice. Amy hated that and needed someone she could trust. She was willing to try trusting him for the time being.
Then came actual shopping. The shop Comte took her to was obviously on the more expensive side, which made her doubly uncomfortable. Comte, on the other hand, was way too excited about it, dismissing her concerns about the unecessary expediture and constantly pointing out things he thought would fit her.
And he kind of had better taste than she expected, finding what would maybe be her style if she had always lived in this century. In the end she managed to find something pretty reasonable to try on.
That led to her first change of clothes in this century - seeing that she had nothing to change into before - allowing for her gaze to fall on the easily spotted mark on her wrist, that now looked as clear as anyone else’s. Also, the counter had turned into the previous day’s date, with a heart at the end, a sign she’d met her soulmate then.
A weird surprised noise escaped her and in a moment Comte was on the other side of the curtain.
“Something wrong, chérie?”
“No.” She hurried to answer. “Everything’s fine. I’ll get out soon.”
But the sight remained in the front of her mind as she hurriedly got dressed. Who was her soulmate, then? There were eleven guys in that mansion. Well, technically ten, as she never actually met Jean d’Arc. How would she figure out who it was?
And was that why the mark had been all weird since it appeared? Because their first meeting wouldn’t be in her time?
Maybe it was for the best she didn’t figure it out though. Soulmate or not, she had to return to her time. She didn’t belong in this one.
So she tried to forget it, and enjoy her limited time in this weird adventure as best as she could. It was enough to know why this didn't work. That her dilema had an explanation.
Not everyone actually ended up with their soulmates. She could find her own happiness in the future knowing why she had to, right?
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Tag List: @tele86, @nightghoul381, @natimiles, @bicayaya, @eventinelysplayground, @queengiuliettafirstlady
If you want to be tagged/untagged on future writings, you can reply to this post or send me a message
IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist
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maries-gallery · 8 months
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❦ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ❦
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Hi everyone! So the concept is simple! I'm soon reaching a new milestone and to thank you all for sticking around and for supporting me I decided on hosting weekly thirst nights.
𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒:
Basically you just come and thirst in my inbox (can be fluff or nsfw, just you thirsting over one of the characters) and I answer in kind with a little something along the lines of what you sent!
An example here for those who don't know how it works: HERE
Usually it's a short drabble but can also turn into a fic if I'm very inspired.
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒:
For nsfw thirsts, please be over 18, I won't take nsfw from minors and you will be blocked (for obvious reasons).
For fluffy thirsts, it's open to everyone!
This is open to ikerev, ikevamp and ikepri
Of course, be respectful <3
Have fun with this and go crazy! Looking forward to thirsting with you all <3
taglist: @aquagirl1978 @randonauticrap @pockcock @revasserium @rhodolitesrose @violettduchess @ikemen-writer @ikesimp100 @veervers @outofthepapers @candied-boys @vioisgoinginsane
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violettduchess · 2 years
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Requests closed 🥀
Asks open 🪻
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Want to join the tag list or get info about requests? Click here!
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Ikevamp Fic Masterlist 🩸
Ikeprince Fic Masterlist 🌹
Short fics / Headcanon Masterlist ⭐
500 Follower Flower Celebration ��
(Leon, Chevalier, Gilbert, Keith, Luke, Clavis, Silvio; Leonardo, Mozart, Faust, Comte)
1k Follower First Kiss Celebration 💓(Status: In progress)
(Gilbert, Leonardo, Napoleon, Carlo, Theodorus, Silvio, Clavis, Gilbert Western AU, Matthias)
Fall Fluff Autumn Angst CCC 2022🍁
(Chevalier, Leon, Gilbert, Vampbert, Clavis, Luke, Comte, Leonardo, Theodorus, Napoleon, Mozart)
Broken Heartstrings series 💔 (Status: in progress)
(Current suitors: Leonardo, Comte, Arthur, Sariel, Clavis, Chevalier, Vlad, Silvio, Gilbert)
Masterlist of Detailed Kiss fics 💋 (Status: All Prince suitors finished, Vamp in progress)
Afterglow series ✨(Status: In progress)
(Current suitors: Gilbert, Nokto, Sariel, Leon, Keith)
One Suitor One Prompt CCC 2023 🌌(Suitor: Clavis, Prompt: Water)
Ikepri Halloween Costume Challenge 🦇🕷
(Leon, Chevalier, Jin, Silvio, Keith, Clavis, Cyran)
Collaborations ✨
"Stopping by Woods" (Gilbert von Obsidian, holiday fluff, Collaboration with @thewitchofbooks)
"Aere Perennius" (Leonardo Da Vinci, holiday fluff, Collaboration with @ana-thedaydreamer )
About my OC, Captain Leyla Quinn (Ikepri) 🌊
Info Sheet
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Currently Reading: Gilbert 🩸
Dividers by the talented @firefly-graphics and @benkeibear
Resident of @starlitmanor-network ✨
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delicateikemenmemes · 2 years
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(PART 1) one single thread of gold tied me to you [ikevamp napoleon x f!MC]
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♡ summary: an encounter in a seedy side-street brings a teacher doing his best at his job and a makeup artist with a (secret?) youtube side hustle together. mere chance meetings or the invisible string of fate working overtime—call it what you want, but either way they still ending up falling in love.
♡ word count: 8.6k words 
♡ warnings: sexual harassment at the beginning / brief mention of skipping meals & implications of eating disorders / brief mentions of bullying & fat-shaming 
♡ other tags: modern AU / strangers to friends to lovers / fluff (LOTS OF IT) / humour / pining 
♡ notes: @kissmetwicekissmedeadly​​​ here’s your tag, as promised 💖 also since JP ikevamp twitter has announced that MC’s canon name is mitsuki after conducting a poll, that’s her name in this fic and future suitor x MC fics
♡ AO3 link
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part 1: enchanting encounters
He really was just hoping for a quick, quiet, and uneventful journey back home after the dreadfully long day he’s had at work. Between breaking up a fight between a bunch of rowdy sixth-year boys, attending to a student who threw up in the middle of class (seriously, how many times has he told those rascals not to run around immediately after eating?), and dealing with angry parents on the phone during what was supposed to be his lunch/nap-time, he’s ready to just dissolve into the embrace of his warm loving bed and become one with the sheets. Ugh, and not to mention he still has homework to mark (even after graduating with his teaching degree and license he still has to do homework), and he needs to find a video for his class tomorrow because his sixth-years’ grammar is atrocious and he’s starting to think he needs to tackle this issue from a different angle.
But when he spots a leering, more-likely-than-not drunk man bothering a young woman—well, he can’t exactly turn a blind eye to that, can he?
“I believe your presence isn’t welcome here,” Napoleon says coldly, seizing the man’s grimy wrist just as it was about to grab the woman somewhere his hands have no business touching. 
“What? You her boyfriend or something?” the creep slurs. Napoleon just barely refrains from recoiling at the stench of dated alcohol on his breath.
Behind him, the woman squeaks, but Napoleon keeps his voice even as he replies, “Yeah, and what kind of guy lets other guys bother his girlfriend? Least of all a drunk creep who smells like he hasn’t showered in a week.”
(It saddens him that he has to resort to pretending to be this woman’s boyfriend just to get some sleazebag off her back all because scumbags like this guy take more seriously another man’s ‘territory’ than a woman’s “no”. He makes a mental note to incorporate more lessons on respect, consent, and the meaning of “no” in future classes.)
“Ha, you let your girl leave the house looking all slutty like that? In such a short, tight skirt? She was obviously fishing for attention—how did you expect me to control myself, huh?”
Hot anger sears through Napoleon, and his grip on the man’s wrist triples. “So I suppose can I take that to mean you don’t care what becomes of your wrist? Keep the attitude up, and your fingers might be next.”
Finally picking up on the threat laced in Napoleon’s voice, the man wrenches his hand away with an air of contempt. “Whatever, I thought she was ugly anyway. You two make a good couple.”
Although Napoleon is tempted to point out the logical contradiction between that “ugly” comment and his previous actions, what matters more than his ego is the woman’s safety. Not bothering to waste any more breath on the creep, he takes the woman’s hand and guides her out of the seedy side-street to somewhere with fresher air. Once they’ve gained a good amount of distance, he releases her hand and turns around to get a proper look at her; he needs to check for injuries, dirt, or any signs of panic. Nothing major, fortunately, other than a paleness in her expression and trembling hands, but he supposes that’s to be expected.
(He tries not to think about how pretty she is, especially now that they’re out of that dingy little side-street. Long brown hair, doe-like eyes, soft skin—no, now’s not the time. He has to make sure she’s okay first.)
“Sorry about all that,” he sighs. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks to you.” The woman looks up at him with a small, if shaky, smile. “If you hadn’t been there, I would’ve been… I wish I could do what you did. You were so cool and brave.”
He shrugs. He didn’t do anything worthy of praise; it was just the right thing to do. “It’s easy to be cool and brave when I’m not the one in danger. What matters is that you’re safe now. Though, I do have to ask: what were you doing in that side-street?” 
It’s secluded from the main part of the city, making it a prime place for unsavoury characters to loiter around at. That’s his usual shortcut on his route from home to work and back, so he’s used to seeing drunkards there. They don’t usually bother him if he keeps a confident posture and doesn’t make eye contact. But it’s definitely not a place he would want his little sisters—or any girl or woman, for that matter—to be walking through alone.
At that, her head droops low. “I know it was stupid and dangerous. People are always saying, ‘Don’t walk through suspicious-looking alleys and streets alone.’ But I just had an idea for a project I’ve been stuck on for ages and I wanted to get home as soon as possible to work on it, so I was hoping I could at least outrun the creeps or something.”
Not that he doesn’t sympathise with the reason—he himself has a whole load of work to do for his classes tomorrow—but still. “You’re a real nunuche, you know.”
“Hey! Who are you calling a nunuche?!”
“You, obviously, who else am I talking to? What kind of nunuche prioritises a project over her own safety? If you don’t even make it back home safe, how do you expect to work on that new idea?”
Her head hangs even lower, like a chastised puppy. “Yeah, I guess you do have a point. S—still, I do have a name, you know! A name that is not ‘nunuche’!”
“Oh?” He leans closer, though he’s mindful to keep a polite distance between them. “Then as thanks for rescuing you, how about you tell me your name?”
A blush permeates her cheeks, and it’s only then that he realises how forward that must have been. Dammit, that playboy-novelist housemate of his is really rubbing off on him, much to his slight annoyance. He’s about to wave it off as a joke, but—
“M… Mitsuki.”
“Cute name for an airheaded nunuche,” he teases, though it’s a somewhat half-hearted attempt to dispel thoughts about how fitting it is for a pretty woman like her to have an equally lovely-sounding name, even if he has no idea what it means. It sounds Japanese—maybe he can ask Sebas about it.
She huffs, affronted. “You could address me by my real name instead, you know. Anyway, I don’t know yours either. I think it’s only right that I know my rescuer’s name, so I can thank him properly, even if he does insist on giving me a weird nickname.”
And perhaps it’s at this moment that all those little happenstances start falling into place, guided along by the pulling of an invisible string, as Napoleon grins at her and says, “The name’s Napoleon. Nice to meet you.”
———
After accompanying Mitsuki to her station at his insistence (“Can’t let a Nunuche like you get into any more trouble.” / “I have a name!” / “Yeah, I know, Nunuche-Mitsuki.” / “Ugh, you’re insufferable.”), Napoleon returns home and promptly flops onto his bed. Surprisingly, despite the minor altercation at the side-street and the detour he took, he’s not as exhausted as he thought he would be. In fact, he actually feels more energised than before, for reasons that elude him.
Might as well put that newfound energy to use, then, before he wastes it away by napping before dinner. Remaining sprawled on his bed, he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through YouTube in hopes of finding some educational videos about French grammar.
… It really is true what they say about the YouTube rabbit-hole. While he did manage to find several suitably educational and entertaining videos for his little rascals, his finger slipped and he somehow ended up watching five cat videos, two TikTok compilations, and a forty-minute video essay about some game that’s currently all the rage with his students. The next suggested video—well, he isn’t really sure what it’s about, honestly; his eyelids are starting to feel heavy. The thumbnail is well-edited, the woman looks cute, and the title has something to do with food, so he lets his auto-play run and permits his eyelids to give in to gravity.
But when the video finally loads, he instantly shoots up in bed, surprise and disbelief coursing through him.
No way, is that—
There’s no mistaking it. The woman talking looks pretty much the same as the one he’d met earlier, and she even introduces herself as ‘Mitsu-chan Chats’ (he’s been around Dazai long enough to know that ‘-chan’ is a Japanese suffix attached to names). Huh. Now that’s one hell of a coincidence. Or perhaps an odd twist of fate? Even if he’s not one much for leaving things up to fate and chances.
He had only been paying half-attention at best to the TikTok compilations and video essay earlier, but now all he’s laser-focused on this Mitsu-chan as she explains the history behind chicken karaage, how to prepare it, and the best dishes to pair it with. Sure, the content is interesting—who doesn’t like food, right?—but what he’s more intrigued by is the energy and expert enthusiasm she’s speaking with. So different from the meek, scared woman in that side-street, yet the sparkle in Mitsu-chan’s eyes while talking about chicken karaage matches the blaze in Mitsuki earlier as she fired back at his teasing. He’s well aware that people do tend to carry themselves differently in different circumstances—he would know, his teacher persona is different from who he is at home—but the difference between the Nunuche-Mitsuki he met earlier and this Mitsu-chan isn’t all that big. She’s just more out-there on-camera, which is to be expected of a YouTuber.
Or at least, he thinks the difference isn’t so jarring, but the reality is that he simply doesn’t know her well enough to really tell. Besides, the odds of meeting her again are so infinitesimal they’re barely worth trying to calculate. It’s a big city, after all. There’s no guarantee she would recognise him even if they did come across each other again. How many people has he passed by as he went about his daily life, and how many of those people were the same people he’d encountered before and he just hadn’t bothered committing their faces to memory? Just as it was with them, she too will probably just dissolve in a sea of faces once-seen and never recalled again.
(Oh, how little does he know now. The gears of fate—or ridiculous, mathematically impossible strokes of luck—are already in motion, and there’s nothing he can do to stop them.)
———
It’s a thought he has frequently entertained ever since he had started teaching a couple years ago, but adults really are hypocrites. He has preached to his students time and time again the virtue of self-control and restraint, yet he’s spent the better half of the weekend binge-watching Mitsu-chan Chats’ videos (to give credit where credit is due, he did get some work done, though he needed to remind himself that he had worked too hard to earn his degree and license to waste it away spending his non-working days on YouTube videos). And what an eclectic yet charming channel she has. It’s neatly organised into several distinct categories: food-related content, reaction videos to new music releases, travel vlogs, story times, Q&A’s, archived livestreams, and many, many beauty tutorials. He figures the last item is probably the main thing she does, given that it has more videos than three of her other playlists combined. He doesn’t really have a reason to watch ‘how not to smudge your eyeliner when you’re in a rush’ , but he tells himself it’s research about the kind of content his students are likely interested in, that’s all there is to it.
If he stays at home, he knows he’s just going to keep scouring her channel for content instead of getting any actual work done. With grit and determination, he eventually manages to peel himself away from his soft bed, takes the assignments that desperately need marking, and heads out to a café he doesn’t have the WiFi password to (as a failsafe to make sure he doesn’t give in to temptation again).
Fortunately, this strategy works. As a good teacher should, he buckles down on marking his students’ work, only pausing for a sip of coffee (and to find the will to carry on in his career, and that he’s too young to already start thinking of retirement plans, because dear God some of the brats clearly weren’t paying attention during class). He isn’t sure how much time has passed; he barely hears the chatter of other patrons and the baristas and the gentle tinkling of the bell over the entrance, until—
“Napoleon?”
He manages to preserve enough of his dignity by not spilling coffee all over his students’ work, as he looks up and finds—
“Nunuche-Mitsuki, was it?” He tries for a smirk to cover up the sudden spike in his heart-rate. Caffeine—it’s the caffeine, for sure. 
He’s greeted with a pout, though it fails to conceal a smile. “I guess that’s one way to know I got the right guy.” She glances down at the messy stack of worksheets on his table, and takes a hasty step back. “Oh, um, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were in the middle of something. I probably shouldn’t bother you anymore—”
Before his mind catches on to what he’s doing, his hands are pushing the stack of worksheets to the side and his mouth is moving again. “If you’re not doing anything or meeting anyone, join me. I was just about to take a break from marking, anyway, so I don’t mind the company.”
A small spark goes off in his chest when she accepts his offer and slides into the cushioned seat opposite him. But just as she continues to just… sit there… staring at him, that sparks dissipates, replaced by a growing feeling of awkwardness. Come on, what’s he doing getting all awkward now? He’s never had much trouble striking up small talk with anyone before, even at boring university networking events that he hadn’t particularly wanted to attend. Besides, this is a good opportunity to talk to her and get to know her better, instead of just watching her on his screen. Yet something about this whole encounter—the suddenness of it, perhaps how cute she looks in that red blouse (he vaguely recalls it made an appearance in one of her unboxing videos), or the fact that it’s even happening at all and isn’t a mere figment of his imagination—has his tongue all knotted up.
As if picking up on the atmosphere, Mitsuki clears her throat. Her eyes dart around everywhere from the art on the walls to the people passing by the café, determined to look at anywhere but him. It’s so comical yet oddly endearing that—
“Heh, snrk! ”
“Hey, what’s so funny?”
“You, of course,” he snorts. “You sat down here and put your drink down like it’s your table, and now you go all shy on me?”
“Don’t forget you were the one who invited me to join you in the first place,” she huffs, folding her arms. “I thought you had something you wanted to talk about but then you didn’t say anything, so obviously I was gonna feel awkward.”
“Yeah, you have a point. Pardonne-moi. ” With a low chuckle, he leans forward and puts his drink to the side of the table to join hers, leaving nothing but the table between them. “Let’s start over. So, Nunuche-Mitsuki, what brings you here?”
She rolls her eyes at the nickname but obliges. “Just finished work for today. I’m a freelance makeup artist, you see. The clients I’m working with—their photoshoot ended earlier than expected, so I thought I’d pop by here for a quick pick-me-up before heading home to edit some vid—uh, work on some other side projects—and that’s where I bumped into you.”
Makeup artist, huh? That explains the trove of beauty-related videos on her channel. Though, seeing the way she awkwardly cut herself off there, he figures he should keep that to himself.
“What about you, Napoleon? You said something about marking just now. I guess that means you’re a teacher?”
“Yeah, I teach a sixth-year class at the primary school near the central part of the city. I was working on their History homework before you came along.”
Her eyebrows—not as penciled as they are in her videos, he notices—raise, and she leans forward too. “Huh. You don’t give me, like, teacher vibes.”
He snorts again. “What do ‘teacher vibes’ even look like, Nunuche?”
“I dunno! Maybe, like, a strict yet nurturing demeanour. Constantly tired. Cramped hands from marking homework. Maybe some reading glasses?”
“You have a really pessimistic view about the teaching profession.” Though he will concede that at the rate he’s going, he might need reading glasses in the future. “Do I really look that haggard to you? I’m only a couple years into my career, you know.”
“Ah, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean any offence!” Frantically, she waves her hands around, as if trying to swat the words she’d already spoken out of the air. Before he can reassure her that he was merely teasing, she carries on. “What I meant was that—well, I’m no teacher, but I’m aware that the job is no walk in the park. While I didn’t particularly like going to school and studying when I was a student, I know the other side of it isn’t easy, either.” 
Oh? He wasn’t expecting this suddenly solemn twist, but he decides to hear her out, listen to what she has to say. This isn’t something he can find on her channel, after all. And even if he could, he’d rather listen to it in person rather than through a screen.
“The kids you’re teaching are really young, too, just on the cusp of their teen years. So on top of teaching them standard curriculum stuff, you also have this responsibility to help shape them as people, help them realise their potential and deal with the challenges of growing up. Not to mention, to even become a teacher in this country in the first place is an incredibly rigorous and competitive process. So just thinking about the weight of all that responsibility, and that you chose to do it—I think it’s pretty admirable.”
Well… It’s not like he has never thought about the heavy responsibility he bears as an educator. Quite the opposite, actually. The stress and anxiety—especially when he had first started out—keeps him up at night sometimes, which is how he knows it’s serious because usually nothing can get between him and his dearly beloved sleep.
So what’s this strange warmth in his chest? And why is it spreading so quickly to the rest of his body?
Then he considers the angry parents on the phone, questioning his competence as an educator and accusing him of bringing shame to France’s prestigious education; the students who fall asleep in his classes and talk back when he calls them out; the colleagues who smile at his face one moment and try to stab him in the back in the next—and he realises why.
“Yeah, it can be a pretty thankless job.” He gazes down at the table, where condensation from Mitsuki’s iced coffee drips down to form tiny droplets on the polished beech surface, as memories from his past flash through his mind like a sped-up presentation. “But, well, I don’t need thanks, because I know I’m doing something right. At least, I hope I am.”
In the reflection of the crystalline condensation, he sees Mitsuki’s head tilt to the side. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t come from a particularly well-to-do family. Since I was the eldest, it was my education that my parents invested the most in, with what little they had to spare. The quality of education my siblings got—it can’t compare, frankly speaking. Most of my memories of when I was in school were coaching my siblings through their studies so they could at least pass and graduate—never mind winning accolades or scholarships—while keeping them out of trouble.” Those rascals really gave him a hard time, but seeing them all grown up now—he knows he did the right thing. You don’t leave family behind, after all, especially if they’ve given you love and warmth. “My parents weren’t the happiest about my choice to get a teaching degree at first—they thought it was a ‘waste of my talents’—but they’ve come around to it. And more importantly, in my heart I know it is what I want to do. I want to give as many kids as possible the kind of education my siblings didn’t get. And I want to teach them skills that will actually help them survive in this harsh, ever-changing world. Seeing each child grow and become stronger, smarter, savvier—that’s enough thanks for me, truly.”
He looks back up from the table, only to be met with an utterly gobsmacked look on her face—wide eyes, slightly parted lips. He would tease her about it, but the sheer amount and weight of self-disclosure he had suddenly dumped on her out of nowhere starts creeping up on him, making fire ants crawl under his skin. What the hell was he thinking, over-sharing like that? It’s really not like him to be telling his whole life story to someone he’s only met for the second time. It’s weird, and it’s not like she asked for it, either.
“You know, I was about to apologise for going on that tangent earlier, but I don’t feel so bad about it now,” she laughs. “Besides your origin story, I also learned that you’re a pretty verbose guy for someone whose only nickname for me is Nunuche.”
“Getting sassy on me, hm?” he retorts, though he relaxes in his seat (huh, he didn’t even realise how much his body had tensed up while he was talking, until her mellifluous laughter dispelled it all). “I might have to start coming up with new nicknames for you, if you’re unhappy with the one you already have.”
“No, I object! ‘Nunuche-Mitsuki’ is more than enough weird nicknames for me, thank you very much!”
Their eyes meet across the table—green into brown, over abandoned coffees and drops of condensation and the work Napoleon has long since forgotten about—and burst into laughter. It’s ridiculous to think how awkward and stiff they were just moments ago, because now laughing with her feels so incredibly natural. About as natural as snoozing his morning alarm and snuggling deeper under the blankets, he might even dare to say.
With that same easy air between them, hours fly past as they chat about pretty much anything that comes up. He learns that she came to France nearly six years ago to study at a cosmetology school, and she chose to stay instead of returning to Japan because she’d made many friends and connections here and liked the culture here. Besides makeup, she had also considered being a translator due to her proficiency at picking up new languages. She’s fluent in Japanese, French, English, Chinese, and is currently learning Italian in her spare time. Owing to his upbringing in Corsica, he offers to help her in that endeavour, which she accepts. When she’s not doing her day job as a makeup artist or learning new languages or drinking coffee, she spends her free time editing videos “for a friend” (the “for a friend” excuse is as see-through as glass and as flimsy as wet tissue paper, even if he didn’t already know about her channel, though he elects not to bring it up).
But with how smoothly and pleasantly things have been going, of course life would have it that Isaac would suddenly call him in a frenzy. He goes on at a million words per second about Sebas suddenly falling ill and the only ones at home are himself, Dazai, Vincent, and Jean—and the latter two have very graciously (and very unfortunately for everyone else) taken it upon themselves to prepare dinner in Sebas’s stead. Why they simply don’t order food in—Comte’s credit card number is pretty much an open secret at this point—eludes Napoleon, but with how distressed Isaac sounds and how dire the situation is he thinks it would be better not to point that out. Vincent and Jean attempting to cook is graded as a Level Nine emergency (ten being imminent and grievous bodily harm, destruction of the entire mansion, and/or death). As such, this means he unfortunately has to cut things short with Mitsuki and hurry back home before there is no home left for him to return to at all.
Thankfully, no real lasting damage has been done to the kitchen when he arrives back at the mansion to assess and de-escalate the situation. Just a broken spatula, a dislodged lightbulb, the putrid smell of disastrously burnt chicken mixed with some bubbling viscous… thing he thinks he shouldn’t inquire about for the sake of his sanity, and several large scorch marks on the wall. At least these ones are smaller than the ones that had been left in Jean’s wake after his first (and last) attempt at preparing beef stew, even if by a small margin. It’s, as they say, all about the little miracles. As kindly as possible, he puts Vincent and Jean in time-out in the dining room. He lets Dazai stay because he trusts him to at least not explode the recently repaired stove while making tofu, as well as Isaac because he figures his poor friend could use some emotional support after the disaster they had just barely managed to avert.
“Hm?” Dazai hums, leaning in closer to Napoleon. “Is that the smell of a woman’s perfume on you, Napoleon-kun?”
“Oh, is there?” Napoleon asks as he continues cracking the eggs without batting an eye. “I noticed the perfume on her, though I didn’t think it was strong enough to rub off onto me.”
Dazai’s eyebrows raise suggestively. “Oh? Rub off onto you, you say?”
Isaac could set a world record with how quickly and how red his face flushes, like the colour of a fruit he loathes to be likened to. “O—oh, I’m sorry, Napoleon. Did I interrupt something I shouldn’t have?”
The implication of their questions hit Napoleon, and he snorts in disbelief. “No, it wasn’t anything like that. Do I look like Arthur to you? I had met her by chance last week, and we met each other again earlier at the café, so we were just talking.”
Isaac visibly relaxes, while Dazai’s eyes crinkle into an elusive smile. “Even if it was a chance second encounter, it’s a shame that it should be interrupted. Such moments are as fleeting as the cherry blossoms wisping in the wind during the spring bloom, and should be similarly cherished.”
“Do you have a way of contacting her again, at least?” Isaac asks. “I mean, I figure your conversation must’ve been interrupted, so you’d like to pick up from where you had left off.”
“Yeah, I offered to teach her some Italian—”
But as Napoleon replays the events leading up to his offer, followed by Isaac’s emergency call, his words fade away and dissolve on his tongue.
“… You didn’t ask for her phone number?” Jean’s voice drifts in from just outside the kitchen, his normally bland tone betraying a hint of surprise.
“Guess I forgot—there were a lot of things going on at the same time,” Napoleon admits with a resigned sigh.
“Aww, that’s a shame.” Vincent, bless his soul, sounds equal parts sympathetic and guilty for being the cause of the aforementioned “a lot of things going on at the same time”. “You must have had lots of fun chatting with her, since you spent all afternoon there.”
“Don’t mind, Napoleon-kun,” Dazai chimes in, still with that elusive smile. “Two chance encounters within a week don’t seem like mere coincidences to me. Call it an author’s intuition—”
“Is that even a thing?” Isaac mutters under his breath.
“—but it could even be the red string of fate at work, bringing you and her together. Unless, of course, you happen to know of other ways of reaching her?”
And that’s the thing, Dazai is right. Napoleon does, in fact, have a means of contacting her. But whether he actually wants to use it is another thing altogether. It was evident from how she said she edited videos “for a friend” that her ‘Mitsu-chan Chats’ persona is not something she wants to disclose, at least not to someone she’s only spoken with twice now. If he messaged her through her Mitsu-chan social media accounts, he might come off as a creep and put her off. Or she might start thinking she has to act a certain way to fit the image of Mitsu-chan Chats, rather than simply being her usual Nunuche self. Not that there’s anything wrong with her YouTube persona—she’s lively, energetic, brimming star-like confidence. But the one he spent his afternoon with was Mitsuki, the woman who gets awkward after a few seconds of silence, pouts at him when he teases her, fires back with a sassy retort of her own, and has a unique way of bringing to the forefront truths and feelings that were previously unknown to even himself.
Besides, as Dazai said, two chance encounters in a city as big as this one within a week may very well not be mere chance at all. So he’ll keep this card to himself for now. The next time they meet—and he has a strong inexplicable feeling they will —he’ll be sure to get her number.
———
The weeks go by as they always do. Exam season keeps Napoleon busy and drained to the bone from invigilating students, grading their papers, and providing emotional support to more than a handful of disheartened students when they saw their grades. Not that he can blame them—the sixth-years’ history exam had horrified even him when he had a chance to look through the question paper, and he’s a trained educator. But he wasn’t the one who had set the paper, and neither is he in a position to negotiate with the one who did to take it down a notch, so all he can do is do his best to encourage his demoralised students and help them learn from the mistakes made.
Perhaps it’s because of how busy the exam season has kept him that he hasn’t had a chance to see Mitsuki again. If he’s not in the classroom, he’s in the staff room buried up to his ears in backload work. And if he’s not in the office, he’s either at his desk in his room trying to complete the work he didn’t manage to at school, if he’s not already passed out in bed. Or maybe it really was just a ridiculous stroke of luck that he had managed to have two chance encounters with her and even accidentally discover her secret YouTube channel in the span of a week. The promise he’d made to teach her Italian weighs heavily in his chest like a stone. He’s not a naïve schoolboy anymore; he knows they’re both adults with their own lives and careers in this big city. Perhaps it’s enough to have met her twice and enjoyed her company for that one sunlit afternoon in the café; a fond memory he can look back on, as bittersweet as the thought is.
He can’t say he’s not grateful when his boss assigns him to scout out a history museum for a potential field trip to send the sixth-years on. It could help to take his mind off the lingering scent of coffee and the after-images of a sun-soaked smile, while also doing something that’ll make him feel like he’s actually helping his students.
The museum isn’t particularly busy, probably because it’s a weekday, so he wraps up his mission in good time. He’s about to head for the exit, but then a glint of brown hair near a display catches his eye, almost like an apparition of his recent musings.
“Nunuche-Mitsuki?”
“Ah!” It’s her, alright, evident from the way she visibly jolts before whirling around to face him. Upon recognising him, her expression relaxes briefly into a smile which then morphs into a mock pout (and maybe it’s just the lighting, but he swears she looks even cuter than he remembers). “Jeez, you startled me! What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have work?”
“It’s a school holiday, though I was here for work. You?”
“No clients to meet, so it’s a free day for me. I—” She glances down at the floor, nibbling on her lip, before raising her gaze up to his with a look he almost wants to call shy. “You did startle me just now, but I really am glad to have run into you here. Or, well, that you ran into me.”
“Oh?” He leans against the wall, trying to get his suddenly racing heart under control. The fact that she feels the same as he does—just the thought of it plants a seed of warmth in his chest. “You mean to say you were looking forward to being called a Nunuche again?”
“Ugh, I was hoping you’d forget about that. But really, I’m glad you’re here, ‘cause I’d feel kinda silly wandering around a museum alone.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that—I came here alone too. But I’m guessing you were supposed to meet someone here?” Why else would she feel silly about being alone at a museum when she seems to be here out of her own volition?
She takes a rather sudden interest in the display she’d been standing in front of for the past who-knows-how-long before he spotted her. “Um, well, yeah. A date, you could say.”
Something cold and sharp squeezes around that seed of hope, threatening to crush it. Immediately, Napoleon chastises himself for it. Jealous? What does he have to be jealous of? She’s free to go on dates with whoever she wants; she’s an adult and her own person. Plus, it’s not like he has a monopoly on her time—he’s just an acquaintance to her. A friend, if you’d like to stretch it.
“Looks like you’ve been waiting here for a while, though,” he ventures. “Did they say they’re running late?”
She shakes her head. “Nah, I think I’ve been stood up. Don’t worry, though, it’s really no big deal,” she hastily adds upon spotting his frown. “He’s just some guy my friend wanted to set me up with, but I didn’t feel much of, well, anything when I was texting him. I was hoping maybe meeting him in-person would change my mind, even if it’s just to make my friend happy, but—maybe it sounds mean, but I’m actually kinda relieved he didn’t show up in the end.”
Oh. Napoleon relaxes, though he really had no reason or right to be tensed up in the first place. “I know I’m not the guy she tried to set you up with, but since we’re both here we might as well chat for a while. It’s a nice museum, and I’m done with my work too.”
Her eyes light up and she immediately takes him up on his offer—and, well, he’d be lying if he said that didn’t boost his ego even a little bit. Who can blame him, though? After weeks of replaying that afternoon in the café in his mind and wondering if he would ever see her again or if he’s better off treating their time together as a pleasant but by-gone memory, coincidence or fate would have it that their paths crossed again. And this time, he’s not going to mess up.
Having just scouted the place, he takes her on an impromptu tour around the various displays. It’s cute, the way she absorbs his explanations regarding each piece exhibited, nodding along with sparkling eyes; the way she presses her nose up against a glass display of a sword, only to flinch and meekly apologise like a chastised schoolgirl when a staff member tells her off. This childlike innocence is so different from the confident, mature air she exudes as Mitsu-chan, yet he doesn’t mind. Anything new he learns about her is a gem comparable to the artifacts on display.
“Oh yeah, I didn’t ask earlier,” she pipes up when they take a rest on a bench, “but what kind of work would a teacher be doing at a museum?”
“The head of department wants to send the kids on a field trip, so I’m here to scout out this place.” Just thinking of work is enough to dampen his mood. He sighs as memories of his students’ dejection play through his mind like a film-reel. “It doesn’t have to be here, specifically, but I do want to make it a reality. The trip, I mean.” 
“I’m guessing it’s something the students are really looking forward to?”
He shakes his head and gives her a brief rundown of the history exam fiasco and its aftermath. “… As their teacher, I bear responsibility for how demoralised they’re feeling. And they may not always say it, but I can tell that a lot of them don’t understand why they’re learning history in the first place. They think it’s stuff that happened in the past and all they have to do is memorise the textbook’s content to regurgitate during exams. I don’t blame them for that—the way the syllabus is structured, it does make it seem like that’s all there is to history. I try my best to relate what I’m teaching to the current reality, but they’re not old enough to understand or care about the more complex implications of history in the present since that requires knowledge of current affairs and politics, and most kids their age think all that’s just ‘boring adult stuff’. So the best I can do for them right now is just… bring them out of the classroom, get them to actually see history for themselves instead of just reading about it in their textbooks, and hopefully that’ll ignite a true spark for learning in them. If I could go and restructure the whole syllabus, I’d do it in a heartbeat, but right now this is all I can manage for them.”
A long breath he didn’t realise he was holding leaves him, and it’s only then that he realises what he did.
Seriously, what’s wrong with me? Dumping about my past during our previous meeting, and now complaining about work when she came here to enjoy her day off. Plus, I doubt she particularly cares about the complicated intricacies of teaching history to a bunch of eleven-year-olds… 
Sheepishly, he turns to her, but his apology dissolves on his tongue when he spots the soft, somewhat longing smile on her face.
“I’ve been thinking this since that day in the café, but you really do care about your students,” she muses, leaning ever so slightly towards him. If she came any closer, her hair would brush up against his arm. The mere idea of it sends inexplicable but not unpleasant thrills to his stomach. “It’s super sweet. Kinda makes me wish I had a teacher like you when I was in school.”
“I—I mean—” Dammit, he hopes she didn’t notice the way his voice cracked, or is at least kind enough to ignore it. He’s feeling too raw and vulnerable right now, like an exposed wire—he needs to deflect, lighten the mood somehow, take the attention of himself. But before he manages to think of something, she continues.
“It’s just that, listening to you talk about your job as a teacher is kinda reminding me of my school days. Not good memories, though.” A soft sigh escapes her, and she tilts her head back so she’s gazing at the clock hanging from the ceiling. The moving of its hands seems to slow as she continues. “Growing up and being educated in such a rigid and institutionalised way, I just felt… awfully stifled. I mean, I did okay in terms of grades, but I never really understood why I was learning multiplication tables and algebra and what the different parts of a cell were called. I was just absorbing the information for the sake of passing exams, to move on to the next set of classes to attend and exams to pass, and the cycle just kept going on for years. And I guess I thought I was destined to be confined to a stuffy desk job, punching numbers and sending emails and fetching coffee for my superiors five days a week for 40 years. Not an idea I was fond of, I can tell you that. Of course, that’s not the case now, but how was I to know back then?
“But I digress. Point is, I think you’re doing right by your students. You understand how they’re feeling, which I’m sure I would appreciate it if I were a student. And in the position and circumstances you’re in, you’re doing your best to help them. Even just having that wish to make things better for them, and doing everything you reasonably can for them—it’s admirable. I think… I think if there were more teachers like you, future generations of students would have a more meaningful education experience. Not that it’s that simple, of course, but it’d be a step in the right direction, at least.”
… Honestly, how does she have the power to do this? To reach into the deep, raw, vulnerable parts of his heart, and hold whatever she finds so tenderly? It’s hard to believe it has only been three coincidental meetings, yet it somehow feels like he has known her longer than that, with how safe and comfortable he feels speaking his mind around her with no need for restraint. He doesn’t need to be the Maître he is in the classroom, or Napoleon the diligent and reliable colleague, or one of the few somewhat level-headed residents in the chaos of the mansion, or the infallible older brother who’s always there with a smile and a hug, storing away his own backlog of fears and pain so he can protect the little ones from theirs. Like a mirrorball, he turns and changes to be what the people around him need. But with Mitsuki, he can metaphorically strip away those layers and just speak as the man he is.
Still, it doesn’t sit right with him to keep talking about himself when she has already been kind enough to listen and even offer her own thoughts. Besides, all he’s been longing for the past few weeks is a chance to see her again and talk more with her, so he isn’t going to waste this opportunity away.
“That’s enough about me. You haven’t told me much about yourself, Nunuche.” He can tell the abrupt shift in topic startles her, but thankfully she plays along. “I didn’t ask this before, but why did you choose to become a makeup artist of all things?”
“… My so-called origin story is nowhere as deep or interesting as yours,” she mumbles sheepishly. “It started out as a fun hobby when I was fifteen, just messing around with the colours and palettes and brushes. I won’t bore you with the details of all of makeup’s ins and outs—I doubt you’d be terribly interested in that—”
(He tamps down the urge to confess he has, in fact, watched several of her makeup videos—initially out of curiosity, but he stayed because the enthusiasm she spoke with had him completely enspelled.)
“—but basically it was a way to cut loose and be creative in a way that I wouldn’t be graded on. I had the tools in my hands, and my face was the canvas.” She lets out a short, self-deprecating chuckle. “But then I realised I was wrong. You do get graded on how you present your appearance to the world. Beauty standards, you know, especially in East Asia. You need to have smooth fair skin, double eyelids, big eyes, a small face, and a slim figure to qualify as good enough. I didn’t like it one bit. I didn’t like how there was—still is—this single narrow ideal of what made someone beautiful, when there’s so much beauty to be beheld in this world. Beauty exists in all shapes, colours, sizes, and forms, too much to be pigeonholed into a single uniform standard.”
Napoleon listens quietly, letting her words flow into him. Everything she’s saying—he can’t dispute it. At school, he sees the effects societal beauty standards have on his students. Just a couple weeks ago, he had to talk to a girl in his class who was skipping lunch because her classmates were bullying her for her size. When he returned home that night, it was all he could do not to cry in the shower thinking of how deeply she had internalised those words, and the toll they had taken on her. 
“So it’s this line of thinking that set me on the path to becoming a makeup artist after I graduated from high school,” she continues. “I don’t want to make people beautiful, per se, but rather to help them recognise their natural beauty and bring it all out. That’s why I make it a point to ask my clients what they’d like me to do, what would make them feel beautiful while being in-line with whatever theme they have in mind, what they think their best features are. Then I help them highlight and enhance whatever they already have. For people who are confident and comfortable with their looks, makeup is an accessory for them—something they put on for enjoyment and to give them that additional boost of confidence. For those less confident—makeup isn’t a long-term solution for self-esteem issues, of course, but if it helps them feel happy and confident for even a while, I’m glad to help.”
… Funny that all this talk about beauty is starting to get to his head, because right now he can’t seem to take his eyes off of her. The more she speaks, the deeper he finds himself falling headfirst into whatever enchantment she’s cast.  She’s positively glowing with determination and pure sincerity, and he has this sudden thought that he wouldn’t mind just gazing at her forever, hanging on her every word.
“Oh, gosh, what am I doing?” Mitsuki gasps, slapping a hand over her mouth and breaking the spell. “I said I wouldn’t bore you with the details, but there I go, rambling on and on again. Ugh, and since this is real-life I can’t just edit that out—uh, I mean, I can’t take it back, y’know, like—”
It begins as a small, innocent chuckle. But once that small innocent chuckles escapes, the rest soon crash out of him like a tidal wave. He doesn’t know how many stares he’s attracting with how hard he’s laughing, nor does he care. Honestly, how does she keep getting cuter and cuter?
“Oh, jeez, you’re embarrassing!” she hisses. Her hand lands on his arm with a light, half-hearted attempt at a whack, but if her aim was to curb his laughter then she has failed. If anything, it makes him laugh even harder. “We’re in a museum, Monsieur de Wahaha! Keep it down!”
“‘Monsieur de Wahaha’?” he echoes incredulously. “That’s the best you can come up with?”
“Sorry for only knowing enough French for work and other everyday stuff, and not being aware of other lucrative nicknames to call a guy who can’t stop laughing like a hyena in public. I can’t believe you! I tell you my serious opinions about social issues and the reason why I started on my career—which you had asked for, might I remind you—and your response is to laugh?”
Oh, it seems he’s messed up. “Pardonne-moi, that wasn’t what I meant.” Clearing his throat, he manages to get the rest of his laughter under control. He closes the gap between them, his shoulder brushing against hers. “The thing you said earlier about your quote-unquote ‘origin story’ not being as deep or interesting as mine? That’s something only a Nunuche would say. The essence of it is that you want to make people happy, isn’t it? I think—” He pauses, trying to find the most fitting word to describe what exactly it is he’s thinking—because he does have many thoughts, but it’s expressing them properly that poses the greatest challenge. Perhaps he can borrow a word from her vocabulary? She seems to be much better at putting feelings into words, after all. “I think it’s admirable.”
At his words, a pretty pink blush spreads through her cheeks. The sight of it ignites a peculiar urge in him—to know what it feels like against his palm, and to keep her looking at him like that. He thinks he knows what this means—but no, he can’t. Instead, he curls his fingers tightly into a fist, trying to block out that ever-so tempting siren’s song.
“It’s odd, hearing such nice words from you,” she mumbles. “But, um… Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“Mm-hm, sure.”
Despite the conflicting feelings arising in him, the exchange nonetheless leaves a pleasant, almost weightless warmth in his chest as they resume their tour around the museum. Turns out they’ve covered more ground than he realised, so it’s not long before they’re leaving the museum. He insists on walking her to her station like he did the first time they met—concern for her safety is, obviously, the main reason. If there’s a bonus and that bonus just so happens to be spending more time with her—well, he has no reason to turn it down, does he?
As they approach her station, however, he finds his footsteps getting heavier and heavier, as if gravity is trying to keep him in place. Almost like clockwork, Mitsuki’s pace slows down too and her stride shortens, until they both stop at the same time. There’s a brief pause as they pointedly stare away from each other step, the atmosphere thick with an emotion he doesn’t think he should give a name to yet, before at last she clears her throat.
“Guess I should get going, then, before the evening rush crowd floods the station.” And is it just wishful thinking on his part, or does she sound as reluctant as he feels to part ways? “Thanks for today, I had lots of fun.”
He plasters a nonchalant smile on his face, hoping it’s sufficient to disguise the creeping disappointment in his chest. “Yeah, sure. You should go, the train’s not going to wait forever for you.”
“Yeah, I know. Well, next time then—”
Just as she turns around, a thought occurs to Napoleon—something he shouldn’t let slip away again like he did last time.
“Huh, Napoleon?” she gasps as his fingers curl around her wrist, turning around again to face him. “Is something the matter?”
How can he explain to her the way their past few chance encounters have made him feel? How he doesn’t want to keep relying on the infinitesimal odds of coincidences to bring them together—because even if Dazai is right and there is some thread of fate connecting them, a thread can still wear out and snap. So whatever this string of fate is, he wants to take it into his own hands and see where it takes him. Well, he supposes the best way he can put it without coming off too strong is like this.
“About those Italian lessons—we can’t exactly have those if we don’t have a way to contact each other, right?”
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LINK TO PART 2!!!!!
other notes i didn’t include at the start bc i didn’t want the part above the cut to be too long!
1. if this premise looks familiar, it’s bc i’ve had this idea of youtuber!MC x suitor for a while now so i sent my friend @writer-akihiko​​ a request (his HCs can be found here!), and i’ve finally found the inspiration to properly expand on this.
2. artistic license—french education system. i did a bit of research to figure out napo’s age and how students address teachers in school but that’s about it. i made the rest up for the sake of the story. also the gratuitous french is partly based on what my french-speaking friend told me and partly based on good ol’ google. the answers on this quora post about how students in primary schools address their teacher is a bit of a mixed bag but what i’m getting is either “monsieur/madame/mademoiselle” (sometimes with the surname included) or “maître/maîtresse”, so that’s what i’m going with. apologies if i got anything wrong, i’m doing my best with google here!
3. i know MC’s canon job (before arriving at the mansion) is being a travel agent and that’s cool. but i made her a makeup artist bc it fit better with the way i envisioned the story. my AU my rules ✨
4. i don’t remember if canon napo knows italian? but apparently IRL napoleon did, so at this point i’m picking and choosing things about the suitors’ IRL selves to deem as canon 😂
5. this was intended to be a one-shot, but during the actual writing process the fic decided it no longer wanted to be a one-shot, hence why i decided to split it into 2 parts (i was considering just making it one super long one-shot but then i conceived the idea of making it 2 parts and giving each part an alliterative title for the ✨ aesthetic ✨) so yeah!
6. the title of the fic is from invisible string by taylor swift! it’s about how little seemingly unrelated things and coincidences somehow end up leading you to The One, which i thought was fitting for this fic <3
okay that’s enough rambling from me. as always, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated 💖
writing masterlist
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krys-loves-otome · 2 years
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Starting The Day [221B-Arthur]
Rating: Teen/Just on the edge of Mature Pairing: Arthur Conan Doyle x Reader Summary: Arthur starts his day with you. Warnings: Suggestive language and actions. It's Arthur, and as we all know: Arthur=just a slight notch above PG-13 Notes: Various times when ao3commentofday posts about different names for varying lengths of fic (drabble, ficlet, etc), on the list, there was a format used by the Sherlock fandom called 221B where you write a piece that's exactly 221 words, the last word starting with the letter B (in reference to Holmes's address, 221B Baker Street). While I have not participated in any Sherlock series fandom, adaptation, or whatever of that respective collective fandom, I thought it would be fun to try the writing format on Ikevamp's Mr. Doyle himself. Because I think it'd be funny and fun
Link to Masterlist
Also on Ao3!
------
"Luv, I might just kiss you."
"You say that every time you see me." 
"And have I ever not delivered on that promise?" Arthur stood up after you set his breakfast tray down, wrapping his arms around you and kissing your nose. “I never seem to be able to start my day without seeing your lovely face.”
“I’m sure the coffee helps out more though.” You reach for his wrinkled shirt, little blue dots sprinkling the cuffs. A sure sign of his late-night escapades, now that he was dating you.
“Oh? This certainly wakes a man more than your delicious coffee.” He smirked, reaching for your collar, his fingers gingerly brushing your jaw, the ink long dried enough to not mark your face.
“Laundry day, Arthur,” you reminded him with a small smack on his wrist, pointedly ignoring his little pout. “it’s going to take forever to get that ink out.”
Arthur sighed. “Pity. Sebas has you on the short rope today, does he?”
You smiled.
"I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Arthur. I let you have your way, and nothing would ever get done.” 
His frown deepened in spite of your fingers making quick work of his remaining buttons, the cotton fabric sliding off his arms. 
He starts, however, feeling your brazen hand on his belt.
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chaosangel767 · 2 years
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Here is one of your requests darling. @queengiuliettafirstlady This is one of my all time favorite fics, ngl ❤ Enjoy ^-^
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Tale As Old As Time
Fandom: IkeVamp
Prompt: Being too short to reach something and having their lover get it for them.
Pairing: Comte x Reader
Type: Fluff
Wc: 423
Tagging: @thewitchofbooks , @queen-dahlia , @queengiuliettafirstlady , @canaria-blackwell , @ikesimp100 , @citizensofcradle , @devildomwritersposts , @kissmetwicekissmedeadly , @ikehoe , @kpop-and-otome , @littlewitty, @namine-somebodies-nobody, @curious-skybunny, @jihanel, @atelier-maroron, @ikemenlibrary, @aquagirl1978 , @sarahann-1984 , @tele86 If your name is crossed out I was unable to tag you. If you want to be tagged/untagged please let me know or fill out this form here.
The thrill of the hunt excites you, having gotten a quest from Sebastian, you open the library doors and slip inside. Your eyes scan the rows of books, hunting fir the precious book. Golden letters catch your eyes, the lighting from the lantern hits them, and they draw you in.
Beauty and the Beast
Looking around you spot a chair that you can use to boost yourself up, trying to reach the book. Your fingers graze the spin of the book, almost reaching it, but not quite there.
The arms around your waist startles you, and you squeak as you are lowered to the floor. You relax once you catch the golden eyes, a pout forming on your lips.
"What did you need?" The warm chuckles sends warmth through you and you point up at the book you are after.
"Sebas told me that it is the original story of Beauty and the beast" your voice is full of excitement. Comte laughs, reaching up to the shelf with ease. He pulls down the book, handing it to you gently.
"The original story by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve. This was one of the first editions made."
You look down at the book, awe fills you, the simple blue cover has a single rose etched into it with gold.
"A tale as old as time" you murmur, admiring the ancient print. Pressing a kiss to Comte's lips, you thank him.
"I'll be careful" you promise, Comte laughs and wraps an arm around your shoulder.
"Come, Sebastian has given you the rest of the day off. If you would like we can read this together." Comte proposes, his fingers brushing along yours. Butterflies burst in your stomach at his touch and you smile shyly up at him.
"I would love too"
It isn't long before the two of you are situated in Comte's room, your head nestled in his lap while he reads. One hand idles in your hair, and your eyes flutter shut, visions dance behind your eyes as you picture the story. His voice is as smooth as honey, reading the tale to you. A smile has permanently fixed itself on your face. The feeling of something grazing your hand has you lazily opening your eyes. A delicate golden rose lays in your hand. Your fingers graze the petal, the gold matching the eyes of your lover. His lips brush against yours. Resting your head back in his lap, his voice continues late into the night, reading you the tale as old as time.
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azulashengrottospiano · 5 months
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Ooo, I’ll keep that piece of Ikevamp lore in mind!! 👀 Thank you! >w<
While I was around for the Zero hype, I only saw some of it— I don’t know the full extent of how down bad you are for him, but then again, you’ve made him your profile picture, so maybe I should already have a good sense of it jkdfngk— /j /lh
And speaking of Ikevamp!! I wrote a little bit for that Beethoven fic, but I only made discombobulated bits and pieces kjdfgn— If you don’t mind, I’ll share two snippets,,! 👀👉👈 (Tbh, the fic isn’t going to drop in a fairly long time because I don’t have much time to work on it, unfortunately,, It’s a bit messy, and these are kinda loose ideas, so they’re not final, but I hope you like them regardless!)
~~~
Ludwig van Beethoven, seven years old: *he and his father, Johann, are on their way to the music hall where Ludwig will give his debut performance*
Ludwig: Papa? How many people will be there?
Johann: Quite a few, but don’t be nervous. Remember what we’ve practiced, and you’ll be alright. Many musicians I know will be there as well. I will introduce you to them after your performance; they’re quite influential! I’m sure they’ll take a liking to you.
Ludwig: *he hums in response* *thankfully for Ludwig, whether it was due to his youth or confidence, he didn’t feel nervous like many others would before their debut performance*
Johann: Oh, and Ludwig? From now on, you will address me as ‘Father.’ All the other children call their fathers ‘papa,’ and you are no ordinary child. You are not like them. You are far more brilliant, far more talented; the next Mozart!
Ludwig: Yes… Father. *he presses his lips together; the word sounded odd on his tongue, but if Johann wanted him to call him that, he would. If not because he wanted to make his father proud, then if only because he didn’t want his father to be mad at him - he had a terrible temper, after all*
(Time Skip - Beethoven, now an adult, is slowly losing his hearing)
Those ringings in Ludwig’s ears were like the death knells of a church bell. They signalled the impending doom of his hearing, and whenever they rang their high-pitched intonations, everything sounded just a little further away. It wouldn’t be long until he felt like his head was submerged underwater; everything sounded distant and far away. Even now, as he played the piano in his room, he needed to strain his ears to properly hear the tune he was creating.
He closed his eyes to focus the entirety of his senses on the sound from the piano. As he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, he felt his growing despair gnaw at his heart. 
Music can change the world. He believed that as a child, and even now, he still did with his whole heart. So why was it that the music was falling silent?
It should have been my eyesight, Ludwig thought. But then how would he be able to write down his music if he couldn’t see?
It should have been his sense of taste, he reasoned. Food was nothing more but mere sustenance to him, anyway. He couldn’t even find joy in eating his favorite food anymore. He was a musician, Ludwig thought bitterly. The vibrant music he heard and produced were his food, the fruits of his labour, his love, his passion. If he couldn’t even have that, what else was there?
~~~
Oh, but I do have one more Ikevamp question!! You said that pureblooded vampires can bring people back to life as lesser vampires; is Comte a pureblooded vampire? I tried checking the fandom wikipedia, but the categorisation on him confused me nmfgbd 💀 Oh, and also,, does it say in the game how tall the MC is? Because I tried estimating her height out of curiosity judging from CGs, and she’s,,, REALLY short 💀 Like, she’s either 4’11 or 5’0 in the CGs I’ve seen 💀 5’1 if we really want to stretch it- Which is kind of a shame, because I was hoping that MC could be the same height/taller than Beethoven JFGGBFB
On one last note!! Next week I have to perform an original monologue with a character who has a god complex kfjghb- I hope I do decent,, TwT  Also!! My birthday’s coming up soon! :D
[Oh, and before I forget- I’ve written down a bunch of random TWST thoughts/ideas,, Would you like me to drop them,,? 👀👉👈]
Jackdaw Anon 🐦
AAAAA NO YOU DONT UDNERSTANDNDN &%$^!@$^%!@$^!@%$@! ZERO IS SO . HE IS EVERTTHI9GN .. GHES SO GERAT HES REALLY JUST SP GREAT . HES SUCH A HARD WORKING ERSON AND EVEN THOUGH I WISH HE DIDNT HAVE TO WORK SO HARD FOR THRE ASONS HE WORKS SO HARD HES ASO RELIABLE ANYWAY AND THAT MAKES HIM SO AMAZING AND I LOVE HOW SQWWEET AND STRONG AND WONDERFUL AND DETERMINED HE IS, HES WORKED SO HARD TO BE WHERE HE IS NOW AND HE OPNE EDUP TO THE MC ENOUGH TO REALLY CONNECT WITH HER AND BECAUSE OF THAT HE GETS REWALLY BLUSHY SOMEOTHIMES AND ITS LITERALLY THE SWEETETS THING YOU COYLD EVER WITNESS BECAUSE HE DOESNT WANT TO LET HER GOP EEVEN THOUGH HE KNOWS HE HAS TO CEVNETUALLY AJHJSGHKAWDGKJFWESHILESFWHLJIUJEWRSFGHOYIU
beethoven is so kickass for that HES BOYBOSSING RN HELL YEAH GET THAT PIANO!!!!! ALSO YES comte is a pure blooded vampire, along with vlad and leonardo ^^ i checked the ewiki and it said greater vampire so i can see how that confused you LMAOOO
UR SO REALF OR THE MC SHORT THING.....ugh the on saving grace is that the avatars are basically the saem height (at least isaac and shakespeare are...theyre the only ones ive had in my room AHGSFD)
HAPPY EARLY BIRTHSAY OMG?!?!?!? I HOPE YOUR MONOOLOGUE GOES WELL!!!!!
ofc you should totally drop them C:<
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lordhelpme0-0 · 2 years
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Crossover— MDZS + Twisted Wonderland Masterlist
Main Masterlist — pinned post
Reactions/ Hcs/ shenanigans/ chaos/ crack with other in script form is here:
Meeting the MDZS cast — All (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6)
Reaction to the Sect Mottos — All Dorms (Part 1, ???)
Therapist Convo in incorrect quote form
Auntie Qing + Auntie Yanli give NRC and RSA a talk [in script form]
Replaced Au but threat to not replaced [Ikesen, Ikevamp, Ikepri, twst, obey me, mdzs?]
One shots/ short stories/ Ao3 fics:
A Night to Remember (one short from a HC)
Auntie Yanli has enough! (One-shot)
Ao3 fanfic: Cultivation meets Magic, Ancient Diaries of the Cultivation’s Women
MDZS!Twst Au:
The idea/ how this Au came to be
Diasomnia
•MDZS!Malleus Draconia
Savanaclaw
•MDZS!Leona Kingscholar
Other
•Jiang Cheng Daugther
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topaz-carbuncle · 1 year
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I'm really tempted to make a small obey me / ikevamp cross over fic with my OM MC + lucifer and ikevamp OC + napoleon meeting one another
but i'm already slowly working on too many short napo fics as well as a longer one for my ikevamp oc 😅 oops
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xxsycamore · 10 days
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𝗟𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗜𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗠𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗲 [Vincent x Reader]
↬ 💛 It's as if Vincent's smile alone is able to fight your cramps, but it seems like he has a stronger weapon up his sleeve.
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Vincent van Gogh x menstruating!Reader • rating: G • tags: Menstruation; Period Cramps; mentions of Menstruation art; Fluff; Pet names • wordcount:  973 • masterlist
a/n: It's Vincent's turn! If you happen to suffer from cramps and you want your favorite ikevamp suitor comforting you in their own unique way, may I also offer: Napoleon, Comte, Mozart, Theo, Leonardo, Sebastian, Arthur (NSFW) 💕(All fics in this series share the same opening scene!)
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It’s another beautiful day at the mansion, and the sun is continuing to shine brightly outside as afternoon settles in. Your list of chores is more than half-way done now, the morning was a productive one and you pat yourself on the back for pushing through at your usual pace, even if your period surprised you early this morning. Sleeves rolled up and armed with a feather duster, you march towards the lounge room to take care of another chore.
Specks of dust dance in the afternoon sun, windows wide open, as you complete your task little by little. Soon the sections left to dust decrease and you start to tire - a minor pain in your tummy appearing as well, as if to persuade you into taking a short break. You throw a look to the grandfather clock. You’ve been a busy bee; not even the distraction of dusting off some of Comte’s highly intriguing antiques couldn’t get you late on your own schedule.
You sit down at the spacious couch area, grab a throw pillow to hug, and fall on your side - shoe-covered feet juust hanging off the couch because it won’t be worth the effort of taking them off for just a minute or two of rest.
Uh-oh! The pain doesn’t go away and only gets worse instead. Suddenly moving as much as a millimeter equals signing a death warrant.
“Help” You whisper to yourself, clutching onto the throw pillow.
***
Did the room just get brighter or- no, that's just your boyfriend Vincent entering. The beam of light that is his smile upon finding you here is cutting through the dark clouds of despair lingering over your head... but he still seems to notice them.
"Are you alright, schatje? I don't see you laying around here often..."
You let out a meek noise signaling he's indeed right to worry, as much as you don't want this to be the case... Rising to a seated position while still hugging the pillow, you follow Vincent's baby blue eyes as he takes a seat next to you, and finally mutter the words.
"My tummy hurts."
Vincent's eyes widen further. "Oh no! What can I do for you? Do you have more of those pills from your time in your bag?"
"I don't think so... Can you just stay here with me for a while?"
Vincent takes one of your hands to caress, giving you his best smile and a nod even though you can tell he's still worried. Relaxing back in the soft cushions together with him, you find it cute how his soft sigh comes only after yours. His care is always so gentle and thorough, and you can always feel it.
Melting into his caress as he draws figures on your palm, you suddenly think of something and giggle.
"What's it, schatje?"
"I just remembered, did you know that in my time menstrual art was a thing? Like artists using menstrual blood for their paintings?"
You catch your bottom lip between your teeth as soon as the question leaves your mouth, not quite sure if you should've said it after all. You know your Vincent but even so, it's a ...peculiar thing to talk about.
"Really? That's so intriguing, what a unique and bold way to represent one's struggles... I'm happy to know that the social stigma about it is no more. It never stood right with me, it's part of being...human."
You don't have the heart to tell him that this is far from the end of the stigma surrounding periods, but you're pleasantly surprised by his reaction. When you first started dating, you'd notice him getting red about any and all...adult topics, as well as the aspect of relationships as a whole, so you're glad to know you're not making him feel awkward with this. It must come from a place of understanding the human self, as you know his past of trying to learn about it for his paintings.
You mentioned menstrual art almost out of boredom, like a fun fact you randomly remembered, but somehow now you're thinking about him, about the struggles of his own that he'd once put on paper, about how much deeper he is beyond the surface. He'd get those surprised faces when he presents the meaning behind one of his paintings, like they'd never expect such depth coming from the shallow personality of Vincent who seems to always keep a default tiny smile on his face. The passion hidden beneath is only unraveled to those closest to him and... you're glad to be where you are, resting your head on his shoulder right now.
Vincent lets out one of those small chuckles that make flowers bloom in your chest.
"Just as I ran out of red blood."
Blink.
You raise your head from Vincent's shoulder to look at him. He smiles at you, tilting his head, but you can see something bubbling underneath the surface, as if he's holding in his laughter.
You give in first so he naturally follows, reassuring with words too as an extra measure.
"I'm joking, sorry. The others said I should joke more often... something about being able to keep a straight face."
"They're right!" You say between fits of chuckles that continue to come when you imagine this conversation taking place. "Not because of the straight face, you're genuinely funny."
"Hehe, I don't get that often. Thank you."
You return the soft smile Vincent gives you, and you're being nudged into resting your head down once again. It's then that you notice.
"I think my tummy doesn't ache as much anymore!"
Vincent's gasp is barely audible, but this close up you catch it just fine. Or maybe you're sensitive about his reactions like that.
"That's good to hear. After all, laughter is the best medicine."
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scummy-writes · 7 months
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Helpless Desires (ALT SCENE)
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For the original, full length fic, click here. Please read that first for much needed context.
Rating: Explicit (mdni)
Parings: Gilbert/Reader
Tags from original: dubcon (this fic has consent, but those sensitive to dubcon themes may want to avoid), "forced" cumming inside, gagging, choking, biting, blood, fingering, rough sex, dacryphilia, oral, cum eating, obsessiveness, Gilbert being a creep
Since this is just a scrapped alt ending, this has been unbeta'd.
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"Hah, you're a greedy little thing, aren't you? Just a taste, and you're begging like a slut." Those words make you squirm beneath him, a much tighter squeeze of your inner walls clamping around his cock, "are you cumming? Just from that?"
"Stop-" whining, you try to hide your face from him, that damned shame coming back to eat at you. But Gilbert doesn't have the patience, yanking your hair to let him watch as your orgasm overtakes you. 
It's messy- you can't stop crying out as he continues to plunge his dick into your depths, harder and with an intensity that causes your hips to hit against the wood painfully. Tears form as he disregards how intensely your pleasure washes over you, that each time he slams into you, there's pain mixing in.
Instead, he's too focused on how your voice strains pathetically as you battle the white-hot shame of getting off on such a vile man's cock.
“Ahh, little rabbit, I’m going to cum-”
He would give anything to claim you as he wished. To have your cunt dripping with the overflow of his seed. But he can't risk you pregnant, not now.
When he pulls out, you unabashedly whine, trying to push back to have his warmth nestled in your inner walls again. Gilbert tsks, digging his nails into your asscheek as he stops you.
"Knees. Now."
Prying yourself off of the vanity was easier said than done, your body exhausted through how relentlessly he used your pussy. But you slip into position, letting Gilbert grasp your chin with no resistance.
Eyes focused on his cock, you don't seem to notice how obscene you look. Kneeling down before him as if in prayer, eyes hazed over with unrelenting need. You've wanted this nearly as much as he has.
His thumb brushes against your bottom lip, smiling when you obediently open your mouth as he guides his tip to your waiting lips, grinning once you mindlessly press a kiss to the head. A notion that would have been sweet, if he was a more patient man- if he was a much kinder man.
Once it’s clear you won’t have too much trouble taking him in, Gilbert heartlessly snaps his hips forward, shoving his dick in to the hilt. Tears spill as you gag on his cock, nose deep in his curls, but he threads his fingers through your hair, grip unwavering. His breath comes out short, cock twitching in your mouth as his seed spills down your throat. 
A resurgence of his anger overtakes him, for just a moment. And in that moment he thrusts again, and again, enjoying the way your throat constricts, how your tears flow down your cheeks, makeup ruined. Your eyes meet his, silently pleading, but it isn't until his cock feels overstimulated that he pulls out, laughing breathlessly as you cough.
“You better catch your breath fast, little rabbit- we’re not quite finished yet.”
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If you do not like this, or do not like how I've written Gilbert: I kindly do not want to hear it. Please just block me instead.
If you enjoyed this, please consider commenting and/or reblogging! 
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fang-and-feather · 8 months
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Lost Stars
Ikemen Vampire - Isaac x MC
Prompt(s): starry nights
Genre: Angst
Summary: Watching the starts was a bittersweet comfort for Isaac, a memory of what had been and a wish for what could come. They make him lost between logic and emotion and he questions if it is better to follow his heart or finally put the past behind him.
Thanks @violettduchess and @aquagirl1978 for hosting this
This is one of those fics that completely ran out of the set course. It was supposed to be just a small fluffy thing and before I knew it had turned into this.
This is just a short first chapter... I don't now if I will finish the second part in time for the event...
Next Chapter // IkeVamp Masterlist // General Masterlist // AO3 Link
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Some nights Isaac thought of the future when he looked at the stars. Of a bittersweet promise made under the stars so long ago.
Other nights Isaac thought that maybe he just wasn’t born to be loved. The only time he’d met someone who seemed to love him despite every reason not to, they were separated in less than a year.
"As long as you love me, I will find my way back to you." She told him, but how long ago had it been? How many nights had been spent looking at the stars, wishing for her return, even though he didn’t believe in such things? How long had this cycle of hope and despair been going on? Or his attempts to take matters in his own hand and find a theory or formula on how to find her?
But every time the twinkling of the stars seemed to tell him to carry on, to not give up hope. And he didn’t. Isaac caught himself wishing her goodnight before retiring.
The memories of nights spent under the stars she loved so much were a painful reminder of what could have been, but also a sweet promise of what the future could be.
And for the first time he trusted fate, trusted the things he couldn’t understand, the forces he couldn’t see, and wished, with all his heart, for the stars to bring back the light into his heart. And for once, they seemed to answer, to promise him the wait was almost over.
But that was probably wishful thinking. A fever dream in the reminder of his loss. When did he lose his grounding like that?
Yet, no matter how much his mind complained and tried to hold onto logic, his heart still hoped that their fates would cross once again, this time never to part.
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Next Chapter // IkeVamp Masterlist // General Masterlist
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Guys!!!
Hugs!! I missed you! I was away on a short holiday combined with my bday gift which was seeing my favorite band live 😭😭😭 I had the time of my life!!!
It's Napoleon's bday!!! 🥺🥺 Fortunately i had nowhere to hurry to so i woke up an hour earlier today and started my day by going through the ikevamp tag and my mentions and reading all recent Napoleon fics, including a reread of my bday fics 🙈 I can't wait to leave feedback, I'm charged with lots of love and positivity!! 😭❤️❤️❤️❤️ I have bunch of other stuff planned for today in order to celebrate so let's see what happens!!
Love you!!
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