how lucky they had a perfectly angled tumble~ just lips bumping haha. would’ve been way worse if they bumped noses or foreheads or something else that’s painful ( ˙▿˙ )
♡ 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
This is so cute I love the little Italian lessons! I wholesomely accept this into my headcanon and I also love your interpretation of it! I’m also glad that this could be brought to further justice since I had major writer’s block.
My part in this is my IkeVamp YouTuber!MC piece!
Wife also thoroughly read through it and in her words ‘Sara-chan writes Napoleon-kun in always a charming way.’
Please note to others that this might be an occasion I reblog here since it’s a special case ♂️
This is a repost of a request! I hope you guys and the requester @ifthiswingscouldfly enjoy this ask once again.
Napoleon Bonaparte, there was not a day he could go without kissing you. In the mornings, when you’d wake up later than him, the lazy mornings are filled with slow kisses as he trailed those kisses over your neck and ears, loving the way you curled up to him as he wrapped his larger arm around you. His kisses are longing, slow, but always filled with love for you.
Isaac Newton, his kisses are not without hesitation. His usual affections consist of holding your hand, or leaning on your shoulder once he tires of his research. Isaac’s kisses… are for those moments when he truly desires you. In those moments he wishes to see no one but you, he holds your waist in one hand with another hand drawing you up to lock you in his kiss.
Arthur Conan Doyle, how he loves to kiss you to tease you. His kisses are quick, his soft lips making your skin flutter as you were held in his lap. You’d always feel the warm goosebumps as the coffee scent of Arthur began imprinting onto you, but how could you resist the gentleman when he’d always kiss your hand when he greets you? Or, in his bed, the melting kisses that simply draw you into him…
Dazai Osamu, his kisses favour towards kisses that surprise you, often kissing you before he leaves or when he arrives. The quick pecks on your nose, the breath of his whisper to the kiss on the tips of your ear, the press of his lips to the corner of your mouth… Those feelings would warm you up throughout the day, but his favourites would be the longing lip lock he gives you only in your shared bedroom.
Theodorus Van Gogh, to him, kisses are a form of reassurance. Morning kisses goodbye meant that you were wishing him well. Kisses to the tips of your fingers are promises to return to you. Kisses to your forehead are his way of telling that everything will be alright. Kisses to your neck are promises that he’ll spend the night with you. His most intimate kiss, to your ring finger, is a promise to wed you.
Vincent Van Gogh, he has the urge to kiss you every day. Not so much as a requirement from you, but a need for him. Whether it be a kiss to your forehead, a kiss to your palm or a loving kiss to your lips, it’s a need that he ever so indulges in. In those times where you allow to give him one bite, he’ll compensate you by a thousand fold in kisses instead. It’s locked in his heart, but the kiss he anticipates the most is the one he gets to share with you once you’re married.
Leonardo Da Vinci, how he’s a fan of lazy kisses. His kisses are slow, meaningful, and usually given with much care and thought. On days he’s active, he gives the quick kiss on the cheek as a farewell. However, having you in his arms, your head against his chest as you both drift off into a siesta. Just as you wake up, he bestows a very sleepy kiss as he holds you closer, perhaps for another nap session…
Jean D'Arc, his kisses are only given when he’s alone with you. He’ll do anything else to keep you close, for others to understand that he was yours whether it be holding your hand or standing next to you. How his heart flutters when he has you in his bed, and you grant him a kiss before sleeping. The most honorable of kisses to him would be when he bends the knee, your hand to his lips as he swears to be your knight forever.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, his kisses are secretive yet filled with such passion that it causes you to get dizzy at times. Even when you two are alone, he keeps his kisses for the most intimate of moments, when he’s desperate for your touch, and when he needs to confide in you. His kisses are feverish, as his kiss demands for more of you with his arms wrapped around you.
Sebastian, his kisses are quick throughout the day, as both of you are busy. Often no one notices them, but he’ll peck your forehead instead of flicking it when you do a good job. Kisses that he finds pleasure in giving are when you’re on his lap, and he has your neck tilted to pepper kisses up along your neck to your jaw, smothering you in affection when you two are alone.
Comte Saint Germain, he shamelessly loves to kiss you. In his office, he doesn’t mind whoever walks in when he has you there, loving him so passionately. He often leans to kiss the tips of your ears as a way of teasing, or kissing the edges of your wrists as a way of promising you. The kiss on your lips that leave you breathless however, is a special promise from him to give you even more throughout the night.
William Shakespeare, doesn’t typically initiate kisses. They’re sacred to him, as if you two would only be united by true love’s kiss as the story goes. He’s no stranger to physical affection, but he’d never let anyone see him kiss you. It’s his personal method of devotion, as he’s on his knees to kiss your palm before your bed, finally pressing his own lips against yours.
Vlad, his kisses signify that you’re his and he’s yours. It’s almost as a status symbol, the way he leans to press a kiss to your forehead as his one arm is by your waist. For as much as your relationship was public, he loves to sneak kisses the way he used to when he was courting you, where he’d be on the window sill to sneak a kiss, or in the garden alone, as he uses his large coat to shield you both as he locks lips with you.
Johann Georg Faust, he was a prideful man, a smug one at that. How impressive it was, to see him fall apart at your kisses, to see his arms immediately coddle you as you bestow him a kiss, standing at the ball of your foot to reach him, his large hand cradling your head to deepen the kiss. It’s an action he’d only allow with you saying you want it, he’s not one for surprise kisses for as much as you were his own precious surprise.
Charles-Henri Sanson, he’s utterly shameless with his kiss. Sometimes when Faust demands to talk to him, he’d busy himself buried in the crook of your neck, peppering butterfly kisses up and down before reaching your collarbone, further busying himself with the scent of you. All he wants is to trap you in his arms as he deepens the kiss between you two, his soft hairs tickling your cheek…
A/N:Happy birthday, Mama (@moonlit-stargazer )! Part two comes to you, which is a less happy story, hence it comes later, but it involves your beloved Bloodborne once more!
Following your lead, I have arrived in the city of Yharnam. Desolate Yharnam, hopeful Yharnam! City of the miracle cure, city of curses. The carriage wouldn’t dare to bring me further than the gate, and so I had to lug myself and my suitcase through the streets, unfamiliar and abandoned until I finally found the address to which I was to stay. To see the city makes it hard to believe that there is such a thing as a miracle cure contained within, or perhaps that’s the entire purpose of its gloomy glamour.
“This is as far as I’m willing to go, lass,” the driver had abruptly announced as he brought his carriage to a halt. “If you wish to go into Yharnam, you go alone,” the man had told you firmly, throwing out the rest of your luggage when you didn’t change your mind and destination.
“Toe of a cow!” you had bitten after him, but only after that the carriage had long been out of sight, the dark shadows swallowing the cart up into the direction from which you had come and to which you would never return. You couldn’t blame the man for turning back straight. Not with the stories that circled around about the city itself, and the ominous gates in front of which you were laid to wait. Old and stately, you could tell it was once a proud entrance, covered in vines that had long since dried out, and now covered in dust and rust from disuse and neglect.
The host that you were staying with wasn’t much better either, with the wretched sound of the rust on the iron cutting through the otherwise quiet streets.
“Why would anyone come here freely,” they had mumbled after handing you your keys and shuffling off behind another gate of their own room, the sight of it eerie and uncomfortable, but above all; uninviting.
Like the host I have no answer either. What in this city has kept you for so long? Desolate, unbecoming place, with no warmth or kindness, other than the kind illusion of a cure, which I have found to inspire much worse in all who take the medicine. Was this what kept you? The desperation to find a cure and then a cause?
Heart racing in the back of your throat you clutched your hands to your chest, almost too afraid to peek across the corner in which you could hear the panting and the gasping of the aggressor that had sprung forth from the dark. Night had fallen, the time of which your host had warned you for, but you couldn’t help yourself, too eager to start your search.
A heart wrenching screech; almost like the wail of a man slain, or a woman, you couldn’t tell, but the iron stench of blood that infiltrated the air and the terrible sound of flesh rendered into pieces were a tell-tale sign of the slaughter that happened.
“You can come out,” a gruff voice sounded, and it dared you to finally face the reality of what had infested Yharnam and the reasons why the driver hadn’t dared to go beyond the gate. The giant scythe of your saviour glistening almost black of the tainted blood of whatever creature it was that had chased you down the many twirling streets of this desolate place.
The Healing Church, the hunters of the night, the Byrgenwerth Scholars, the school of Mensis. So many parties involved and playing their part in whatever curse has befallen this place. My first night I was saved, my second night I shall fight for myself. If I can, that is. I shall have to, if I want to find you. There is no one else that will help me, or can, for after the first night I’m certain of where I can find you, and after all I learnt this past night I’m sure there will be none who will favour helping me.
The skeletal look of the wasted man was a horrifying sight, if it wasn’t for the nightmare in which this city was indulged. The startle came from your own insensitivity at facing the corpse, not at how unnatural the sight was overall. A few nights in Yharnam and already you felt your heart hardened, desensitised against all the horrors the city had to offer.
“Fool,” you had mumbled, more so to yourself than uttered at the man, decayed. He wouldn’t hear, you knew, but the cage indicated that he wasn’t gone. Not entirely.
To fall for a scholar is a painful thing. Their thirst for knowledge will forever edge out their love for you. Better is to be loved by an inventor, for they love until invention. A scholar’s love means pursuit, and in the case of my beloved that pursuit has led him far away from me.
“Fear the old blood,” the man in white had told you, a statement you could place better now. ‘Fear the old blood’ he had written to you as well. You remembered those last words he had written to you before all fell quiet. Now you understood why, what had caused the silence and what the words had meant.
The pair of glasses locked behind the cage was all indication you needed to know where he was, were all you needed to know to know where to find him.
“No, we shall not abandon the dream!”
The voice of your beloved sounded through the nightmare, deep and sure, like you had known him outside as well, but there was something wicked in there, something crazed had taken over of which you knew that this man was no longer the Faust you had once known.
Prompt:Written together with @nad-zetafor@ikemenlibrary as a cheer-me-up. I hope you feel better soon, dear! In the meanwhile, have a random Comte-pull, as inspired by the Marriage bot in the server.
The mansion hidden within the forest of Paris had something to celebrate; the most unlikeliest of them all, the playboy himself, Arthur Conan Doyle was to marry.
“Cheers, to the unlikeliest of them all,” Theodorus said, raising his glass into the air when the members of the house gathered together for a toast the night before the wedding, “that his marriage may actually leash him,” the man continued, but the glimpse of a smile on his face showed how he cared and that he was happy for his best friend.
“Now, now, Theo old boy, none could replace you in my heart,” Arthur shot back with a teasing wink.
“But,” Dazai came between the two quipping friends, “we are a house full of men, and only one of us is getting married,” the author smiled gingerly at this observation, a meaningful eye glancing over to you who was seated at the table as well, a glass of wine in hands while you wondered what Dazai was getting at.
“And the single woman of this household is not even the bride.” The way Dazai let that last remark hang into the air, his smile ever-present as his eyes crinkled into those familiar half-moons that spelled out mischief.
“As the groom,” Arthur interjected, already catching up on Dazai’s meaning, and as much as he loathed the man, Arthur couldn’t resist the temptation that came with the allusion made, “I declare one last game before the shackle and chain!”
Not much later you found yourself on the balcony of the mansion, a red knot balled up in your hands as the rest of the men were standing in the garden below the balcony; ten pairs of eyes staring up at you with mixed expressions of annoyed and hopeful as much as amused.
“So, what is the idea again?” you questioned from over the balcony, the red knot in hands firmly set between your fingers as you wondered about the significance of the game proposed by the groom-to-be.
To this Arthur’s smile widened, cocking up to one side in that characteristic way of his. “Why of course, it will be a race to whoever wins your hand in marriage,” the man replied simply, as if it was a mere case he was having his crack at and not your future at hand, put under the deliberation of the whims of a man living out his last days of freedom.
“Never try your hands at romance, it won’t sell!” you sneered over the balcony in response, a huff escaping you as you wondered what in the world had possessed you to agree to this game, before realising that you should be focussing instead on who will catch the knot. There were ten possibilities, after all, including the groom-to-be and not all were equally as desirable.
Isaac, who had loudly exclaimed that he believed the game to be ‘vapid’, but had remained all the same, exhaled loudly before crossing his arms; “Just don’t aim for our heads, we don’t need to sustain any injuries,” was his valuable input, earning a roll of the eyes from you.
“It could have been apples,” Dazai casually remarks in jest, forever entertained at the whole idea of the chaos he was about to create, while Sebastian was fidgeting next to him, murmuring something along the lines of; “do I ask myself for approval as a brother, father and colleague?”
Leonardo, in the meanwhile, had kept himself to the side, a cigarillo in hands as he tapped off the smoke to the side, “don’t worry about it hitting you, if you stand behind that golden man it won’t hit you,” he says, gesturing towards a quiet Comte who stood in the middle of the crowd, his golden eyes sternly fixated upon you, as if quietly commanding you to give him the ball in hands.
“Yeah, apport, hondje,” Theo calls from the side, growing increasingly impatient at the delay from the dining table, for Sebastian had cooked up pancakes for the special occasion amongst many other sweets.
“I trust everyone to take care of you very well,” Vincent supplied as a form of encouragement, which somewhat eased you, for you knew it to be true, but didn’t actually ease you from the idea of being tied because of a silly game.
Unable to change your fate you turn your back towards the crowd, looking over one last time at the man dressed in gold standing in the middle of it all, expression stern and anticipating as you wondered how well you could aim with a silk ball so light in arms. Another exhale, and you heard the crowd gasp, while you shut your eyes and hauled the knot over your head, allowing it to fly free over the balcony.
The silence that followed felt like hours instead of mere seconds before a slow applause started to fill it up. “Congratulations,” you heard Arthur say, and as you twist around on your heels you see that the rest of the mansion has formed themselves into a circle, surrounding the winner of the game;
“You finally woke up.” was the first thing the man said. He looked relieved, sitting on a chair next to the bed. Wellington was staring at him, not knowing what to say. He didn’t even know who this man was nor who he was himself.
Inspired from Napoleon’s route ending (I think it was the Romantic one)
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