Hi, I'm Aqua. I write fanfiction for the Ikemen Series. Here you will find my writings, edits, analyses, and reblogs of posts that piqued my interest.
Although I have written for and read all Ikemen Series, my blog mainly focuses on Ikemen Prince and Ikemen Villains as those are the two series I read most often and am most active in.
I run a Discord server - Ikemen Series Fandom 18+. Anyone may join as long as they are over 18 and are fans of the Ikemen Series. We talk about all the Ikemen Series games, both EN and JP, as well as writing, merchandise, art, and other ways to get to know others in this fandom. Click the link to below to join my Ikemen Series server.
Check out the Ikemen Series +18 community on Discord - hang out with 61 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.
If you would like to be on my taglist, please send me an ask or a DM.
M A S T E R L I S T
All dividers used on this blog were created by @firefly-graphics
i don’t like that i have to make this, but since user hot3hothot is actively ignoring and by extension refusing my simple request to edit their own post to credit me when they use my translations, and apparently can’t afford 10 seconds to be a semblance of a semi-decent human being, i will be the one to say this in their stead:
all the translation screenshots hot3hothot used in their post toward darius (tw for suitor hate) is my translation, kurishiri.
i ask that you do not interpret this post as approval to send hate or unnecessary attention to the poster. i understand darius and his story is not made for everyone. i mostly made this since i don’t want to just let that post remain uncredited, when i spent considerable time and effort in translating darius’ main story. so just, if you could help spread the word of this and make it more actively known that i am the translator they’re taking screenshots of, that would mean a lot to me!
finally, to end things in a more positive note— to everyone who commented in my defense and supported me, i genuinely appreciate it. thank you! i’m sorry i don’t reply; the whole thing left me pretty frazzled.. and i don’t know what to say a lot. i don’t use twitter way too often, but it seems word of this has also spread a bit to there as well. no matter the platform, it is thanks to your support that i feel i can keep my motivation! i adore the comments on his main story (among others of course). and also, to the regular commenters, i see you. i always look forward to seeing what you’ll say and you guys give me so much motivation. i really don’t know how i can express the amount of appreciation in words, but thank you.
The library was supposed to be empty at this hour.
That was precisely why you had chosen it.
The candles had burned low by the time you slipped inside, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind you with both hands so it would not make a sound. The smell of old paper and woodsmoke wrapped around you immediately — familiar, almost kind — and for a moment you simply stood there in the dim amber light, pressing your back against the door and breathing. Just breathing. Trying to remember how.
It had been a small thing, in the grand scheme of a royal court where small things were weaponized into art. A duchess, her smile too sweet and her words too precise, leaning close during supper to murmur exactly the right observation about exactly the right wound. *You don't belong here, do you? It must be exhausting, pretending otherwise.* And then she had laughed — a light, pretty laugh — and turned away, as though she had said nothing at all.
You had smiled. You had kept eating. You had excused yourself at the first polite opportunity, walked calmly down three corridors, and then the calm had run out entirely.
You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth now, eyes burning. You're being ridiculous, you told yourself firmly, the way you had been telling yourself for the past twenty minutes, and it was working about as well as it had been working for the past twenty minutes.
The library blurred softly at the edges.
"If you are going to weep, at least do it somewhere that doesn't echo."
You spun around.
Chevalier sat in the high-backed chair nearest the far window — your eyes had simply slid over him in the dark — a book open across one knee, his pale gaze lifting from the page with the mild irritation of someone whose evening had been interrupted. He looked as immaculate as ever. Platinum hair. Sharp jaw. The particular expression he wore when he was cataloguing you, which was most of the time.
"I — " Your voice came out wrong. You stopped. Tried again. "I didn't know you were here."
"Evidently." He turned a page. "You made quite an entrance for someone attempting to be invisible."
"I'll go." You were already reaching for the door handle. Your throat ached with the effort of keeping your voice level. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to intrude on your —"
"I didn't tell you to leave."
You paused.
Chevalier had not looked up from his book. The firelight caught the edge of his profile, the downward cast of his pale lashes, the faint tension in his jaw that you had only learned to read after months of careful study. He turned another page, deliberate and unhurried, and said nothing further.
Which was, you had come to understand, his way of saying stay.
You let go of the door handle.
The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortably — or at least, not in the way silence usually was. You crossed to the window seat on the opposite side of the room, tucking yourself into the corner of it, pulling your knees up slightly and staring out at the dark garden below. The moon was high and cold. The tears that had been threatening to spill simply sat behind your eyes like unwanted guests who had nowhere else to go.
Several minutes passed.
"Who was it."
It wasn't a question, precisely. His voice was even, almost disinterested, the way it always was when he was paying the most attention.
You glanced at him. He still had not looked up from the book.
"It doesn't matter," you said quietly.
"That is not an answer."
"Chevalier —"
"You came into my library at half past ten with red eyes and the particular expression of someone who has been told something they didn't know how to refute." He finally turned to look at you then, and the steadiness of his gaze was almost unbearable. "So. Who was it."
You looked back at the window. The garden. The cold, indifferent moon.
"The Duchess of Varell," you admitted, after a moment. "She said —" You stopped. The words felt embarrassing to repeat out loud, here, in front of him. "It was nothing important. She's right, anyway. It's nothing I hadn't already thought myself."
A pause.
"What did she say."
"That I don't belong here." You laughed quietly, and it came out slightly broken at the edges. "Hardly an original observation. I know that. I *know* that, I just —" You pressed your fingers to your mouth briefly. "I couldn't stop thinking about it. Which is absurd. I don't even particularly like the court."
The fire crackled. Somewhere in the walls, the old palace settled with a low groan.
Then there was the soft sound of a book being closed.
You looked up, startled. Chevalier had set it aside on the arm of the chair — carefully, with the kind of precision he applied to everything — and was watching you with an expression you didn't immediately have a name for. Not soft. It was never soft, with him. But there was something in the set of his mouth, in the quality of his attention, that was different from the usual cold appraisal.
"Come here," he said.
You stared at him.
"Chevalier, I'm fine —"
"You are visibly not fine, and you have been sitting across the room being not fine for the better part of ten minutes." He held your gaze with the particular kind of calm that brooked no argument. "I won't repeat myself."
Slowly, you uncurled from the window seat.
You crossed the room and stood before him, feeling somewhat ridiculous, and he reached out without ceremony and took your wrist, pulling you down until you were sitting on the footstool in front of his chair, close enough that his knee nearly touched yours. He studied your face the way he studied everything — thoroughly, without sentiment, missing nothing.
"She is a duchess," he said, at last. "She has spent thirty years learning to locate the precise fault line in a person and apply pressure to it in company. The fact that she succeeded tells me nothing about you and everything about her investment in keeping you diminished."
You blinked. "That's — that's not —"
"You are also catastrophically poor at distinguishing between a statement designed to wound and a statement that is true." He said it flatly, without cruelty. "They are not the same thing. Conflating them is a habit you should correct."
"So you think she's wrong," you said slowly.
Chevalier's eyes moved over your face — unhurried, precise. "I think," he said, "that belonging is a question of utility and competence, and you have demonstrated both. Repeatedly. To anyone with the capacity to observe it." A faint pause. "The duchess is not, from what I have seen, a particularly observant woman."
Something loosened in your chest. Just a little. Just enough.
"That's almost a compliment," you said.
"It is an accurate assessment. Don't romanticize it."
A surprised laugh escaped you — a real one, slightly watery at the edges, but real. Chevalier's expression didn't change exactly, but something shifted in his eyes, something almost imperceptibly warmer, gone before you could be certain you had seen it.
"You're terrible at this," you told him softly.
"I am not attempting to be anything," he said. "I am telling you the truth. The two of you are not equivalent. Stop treating her words as though they carry any authority over what you are."
The tears that had been waiting all evening finally made up their minds. You felt one slip down your cheek before you could catch it, and you turned your face away, embarrassed, pressing your fingers to your eyes.
"Sorry," you murmured. "Sorry, I'm not —"
"Stop apologizing." His voice was lower now. Not softer, exactly, but lower. More deliberate.
You felt his hand — cool, dry, unhesitant — come to rest at the back of your head, a careful weight, and then with the same measured precision with which he did everything, he drew you forward until your forehead rested against his knee. He didn't say anything. He simply rested his hand against your hair, and let you.
You breathed.
The fire burned low and golden beside you. The library smelled of old pages and candle smoke and something underneath it that was simply, irreducibly *him.* The tears came quietly, without drama, and he did not comment on them or try to stop them or offer you hollow words about how everything would be all right. He simply stayed exactly where he was, his hand a steady and unmoving anchor, and let the silence do the work that words were never quite built for.
After a while — you couldn't have said how long — you exhaled slowly, and sat back, and found that the unbearable weight behind your ribs had diminished to something manageable.
Chevalier looked down at you. His expression was still composed, still unreadable in the way that had once intimidated you and now, after all this time, simply felt like his particular version of peace.
"Better," he said. Not asked.
"Better," you agreed quietly.
He retrieved his book from the arm of the chair. Opened it to where he had left off, as precisely as though no time had passed at all. But he didn't move back — he stayed exactly as he was, close, your shoulder nearly against his leg, and the hand that had been in your hair settled instead at your shoulder. Light. Present.
"You may stay," he said, to the page. "If you intend to be quiet about it."
You leaned your head back against the arm of the chair. Looked up at the candle-shadowed ceiling.
"I'm always quiet," you said.
"You are, in fact, almost never quiet." He turned a page. "But I find that I don't particularly object to it."
You smiled — small, tired, genuine — and closed your eyes.
The fire crackled. The palace settled around you. And Chevalier read on in silence, his hand never leaving your shoulder, steady as everything he refused to say out loud.
I had put off reading this until I had a few quiet moments to enjoy this, but the time has come and this was WONDERFUL! I know very well that he is not your favorite. But you wrote him. For me. It was perfect, he was written perfectly, and if I could reach into your fic and bite him, I would.
I will forever treasure this like how Chevalier treasures his books.
Sunny With a Chance of Rain - Vincent van Gogh x Abigail Clarke (Ikemen Vampire Fanfiction)
I had the pleasure of writing for @krys-loves-otome for this event. I had taken a bit of a break from writing and when I saw this event hosted by @pond-lilies and @lorei-writes (thank you both for hosting this wonderful event!), I felt a creative spark I hadn't felt in a long time and was lured back into writing for this fandom.
Krys, I had so much fun learning about your different OCs but ultimately settled on writing for Abby and Vincent. So many of the tropes on your tier list spoke to me, I had a hard time deciding which ones to go with. I tossed around ideas involving Royalty Au or Childhood Friends, but Caught in the Rain and Fluff won in the end. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it.
“Okay, now could you turn your head…..no, like this.” Vincent lifted his chin; Abby mimicked his actions, her gaze naturally following as if she was admiring the soft puffy clouds dotting the clear blue sky. “Perfect,” he said softly, his painter’s brush already in his hand, his sketchbook lying across his lap.
“A-are you sure about this, Vincent? We didn’t even finish our picnic.”
“We can always have another picnic, Abby. But these flowers…” Vincent let out a gentle sigh as he turned his face, his gaze softening as he looked at the field of flowers surrounding them. “These flowers won’t be here much longer. And I would like to paint my favorite flower amongst them,” he whispered, his blue eyes sparkling in the sun as he tilted his head, his eyes meeting Abby’s.
“That is,” he added, “if you will allow me this honor.”
“O-okay…” Abby replied. Filled with a warmth that did not come from the sun’s rays, she slowly uncurled her fingers from the hem of the sundress she was wearing.
“Could you tuck your hair behind your ear?” Vincent asked gently. “I don’t want a breeze to come by and your hair ends up covering your face.”
“Y-yes, of course.” She raised her hand and ran her fingers through her blonde strands, smoothing her hair before carefully tucking it behind her ear.
“Perfect! Now stay just like that.”
“W-wait!” There was a rustle in the wind and Abby tilted her face; just as she had suspected, the thin shoulder strap of her dress had slipped down the slope of her shoulder. Her gaze was fixed on the flowers on her dress as she recalled the day Vincent purchased it for her.
They had gone out for lunch and afterwards decided to take a stroll before returning to the mansion. There was a clothing boutique that had recently opened. Vincent loved spoiling Abby, and he especially loved seeing Abby wear more colorful outfits.
Vincent had promised her if she didn’t like anything there that they could leave quickly. Not surprisingly, Vincent was the one to find the sundress she was wearing today. It was a bit bold in style – the skirt a bit shorter than what she usually wore, the bodice held up with thin straps tied into dainty bows – but when Vincent encouraged her to try it on, she couldn’t say no.
“H-how do I look?” Abby stepped out of the dressing room and twirled for Vincent, the flowers on the skirt twisting like the colors in a kaleidoscope. The way his blue eyes sparkled when she tried it on, Abby knew she had to have this dress.
“Leave it,” Vincent said with a smile, snapping Abby out of her reverie. “I like it.”
“O-oh...” Dropping her hand, the blush on Abby’s cheeks matched the petal pink flowers on her dress as a familiar warmth bloomed in her chest.
Not wanting to move from her pose, Abby stole quick glances of Vincent as he painted. While he was quiet for the most part, it was his expressions that were as colorful as the paints on his palette. His brows would knit together as he mixed colors, his face softening the moment he created the right shade. At times, his gaze would linger on his subject, and Abby would allow her eyes to meet his, a shared soft smile spreading across their lips. And when the rays of sunlight warmed Vincent’s face making his eyes crinkle, it was like staring at the brightest, most beautiful sunflower.
“Vincent…” Abby shivered as a stronger breeze blew by. Her gaze flicked up towards the sky, only to find ominous grey stormclouds looming in the once clear blue sky. “I hope you’re almost done…”
Vincent paused, his paintbrush held in mid-air as an audible groan escaped his pursed lips. “I need only a few more minutes…” he softly prayed, pressing his paintbrush against the canvas.
Abby held her breath until the first flash of lightning lit up the sky like fireworks. “H-hurry, Vincent, hurry.”
“Almost done,” Vincent replied, his voice muffled by the deep rumble of thunder in the distance. He laid a few quick brushstrokes against the canvas before lifting the brush. He looked up at the darkened sky once more, just in time to witness another flash of lightning. “This'll have to do.”
He swiftly gathered his art supplies, tucking his brushes and paints back into their picnic basket. Abby stood and helped him with the blanket they had been sitting on.
“W-what if it gets wet and ruined?” Abby asked while watching Vincent place the painting in the center of the blanket, her voice strained with worry.
“It won’t,” Vincent replied, gathering the corners and loosely tying a knot. “The carriage is not far. If I carry it carefully, it should not smear or get ruined.”
“Why won't you let me see your painting?” Abby peered curiously.
“It's a surprise,” Vincent said with a small smile. “The sooner we get home, the sooner you can see it.”
With the picnic basket in her left hand, and the wrapped canvas in Vincent's right, the two linked their free hands as they raced to safety. A loud crack of thunder roared in their ears, announcing the arrival of a downpour. Their shrieks were loud as they chased the carriage; excited not only to escape the rain but to soon see the surprise.
Friendly reminder to all of you out there - while it's okay to dislike a suitor, it's never okay to post hate about a suitor IN HIS TAGS. I know not every suitor is for everyone, but your ick is someone's love. And no one wants to scroll through Tumblr and find hate spewed in his tags.
Here's an idea - the next time you read a route or an event, and a suitor does something that turns your stomach, keep the hateful thoughts to yourself.
Oh...and if your screenshot portions of someone's translations, even if you're doing so with good intentions, please please please credit the translators. Their hard work should not be stolen like that.
Kinda shy to write a positive/thankful note for @ang3l-di , considering i bullied her today. But anywayy THANK YOU SM FOR DRAWING MY OC X SILVIO AAAAA MY FAV DOODLE/ART NYAM NYAM
Literally. Gold. I love love love them. LOOK AT THAT LITTLE HEART SILVIO HAS. AND THEY ARE TOUCHING FOREHEADS!! AND THE WAY HE IS LOOKING AT HER!! AND THEY ARE UNDER A VEIL?! And as I’ve told you, it inspired me to write more positive and romantic interactions between the two! <3
I hope whoever sees this post and loves the art will check out her page and support her. You can also commission her on here. GO SHOW HER LOVE UGH
As many of you know, I run an Ikemen Series discord server. For reasons we won't discuss, I made a new server with the help of a few friends. We welcome all players of all the games (tho I might be a bit partial to IkePri) and hope you'll stop by and visit us in our new home.
Check out the Ikemen Series +18 community on Discord - hang out with 61 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.
Im drawing Kate in her wedding dress 🥺 she's so beautiful, i love her 💙 anyway if anyone have any request scene u want me to draw in ikevil feel free to ask 😺
Baked Strawberry Donuts are made completely from scratch with fresh strawberries and topped with a simple strawberry glaze. They’re soft, lightly sweet, and easy to make without any frying.
