#comte de saint-germain x reader

[syneilesis]

[fic, wip 3/9] the soul is nothing more than a glass of ocean water | chapter two

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: I want to get this out before my break is over. I tried my best. I'm not fully happy with how this chapter turned out, but it's been a year – I just want to be done with it. You know what they say, a good dissertation is a done dissertation. In this case: chapter. Also, forgive my research bullshit here, I don't actually know what I'm talking about lol.

prologue | one

chapter two

At this point he had shed his name and gone by a title instead, burying the memory of his childhood with little regret, warm nostalgic summers blinkering into the dark soil of the past, no longer exposed for underlying scrutiny.

“I still find it strange to call you by that title,” Vlad said, the edges of his mouth quirking to an almost smile.

They had been meeting more frequently than before, their conversations morphing from the expectant clan affairs and into their dreams and goals. Lofty, ambitious goals. Goals that, from the way Vlad’s face glowed with an eager hunger that was so different from bloodthirst, could change the world.

Le Comte glanced at his companion from the corner of his eye, amused. “You know how I feel about my name.”

“If that is what you insist.”

“It is.”

Vlad paused, contemplating. Around them, blood roses swayed in the wind, their scent wafting along and clinging to le Comte’s clothes and skin.

“I have been into art lately,” Vlad began, apropos of nothing, his tone light and conversational. He took a step forward and bent down to pluck a rose from the field. The red tint of the flowers reflected on Vlad’s pale hair and pale skin, and for one heavy second he looked as if he had bathed in someone’s blood.

Le Comte inhaled sharply. The scent of roses lingered on his nose.

Unaware of the trembling lapse that flashed through le Comte, Vlad continued, “There’s an artist in Florence whose paintings caught my attention. Interesting technique. I think you’ll like them. Maybe you can add one to your collection.”

“Are you saying that I should travel to Florence just to buy a painting?”

Vlad turned around so le Comte could see that he was now smiling fully, the hand that was holding the rose twirling its stem. “I’m saying that you should take a break. You’ve been so busy attending parties and socializing with the nobles. Florence, I hear, is beautiful at this time of the year. And if you could take home a beautiful painting, why not?”

Le Comte blinked. Florence, huh.

+

The painter’s name was Tommaso, a large man with hair the color of Florentian roofs. In his hands the paint brushes seemed small and breakable, but he handled them with such delicate care, a sharp contrast to his ursine build and countenance.

He was in the middle of painting when le Comte visited. The studio was small, a tenth of le Comte’s smallest room in his villa. Everywhere he looked, canvases filled the walls and floor like books stacked together, some blank, some painted but unfinished. At the center was Tommaso, hunched and severe, as if solving an intensely difficult puzzle, and in front of him was an easel, the canvas empty of brush strokes.

“Hello,” le Comte said, voice soft, afraid of disturbing the painter’s concentration. “Is this a bad time?”

Tommaso startled, whipping his head around until his gaze landed on le Comte. A cursory glance on his clothes had Tommaso reluctantly stepping off the stool to greet him.

“May I help you?”

Tommaso was taller than him, and le Comte had to tilt his head up a little when the man approached him, a questioning wariness on his expression. Other painters would have been enthusiastic upon meeting a noble, seizing the opportunity for securing patronage, but not him. His steps had been small and cautious when he made his way to le Comte.

“A friend recommended your paintings to me,” le Comte began, a friendly smile in place. “He said that you use an interesting technique, which made me curious about your works. Are there any of your paintings that I can see right now?”

A few seconds passed by, with Tommaso gauging le Comte for something, perhaps sincerity or deception. Then he exhaled and called someone outside.

A woman entered the studio, steps feather-light, hair swaying at her back. She responded to Tommaso first, her voice like water that sparkled under the midday sun, mellifluous and soothing. Then her attention moved to le Comte, greeted him with a smile that froze all the muscles and all the nerves in his body, heart hammering inside his ribcage.

“Good day, my lord,” she said, and he saw the ghost of a faint smile from centuries ago. The buried memories dug out, resurrecting the ache that made its permanent home in his heart. 

How was this possible? She wasn’t exactly a copy of his childhood love, but her smile reminded him too much of the time when he was thirteen, brave and love-struck in the garden where roses glowed molten gold in the sunset. His vision blurred and then refocused, and now le Comte was certain of it.

Fate. Another chance. He would no longer hesitate, then.

But his conviction was dashed before he could even begin to act—the way Tommaso rested his hand on her hip, careful and tender. It left no room for doubt, and le Comte had to swallow and look away.

“My lord?” she repeated, when le Comte did not say anything for a long moment.

“Ah, yes.” He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled the pain that burgeoned at his heart for the second time. “Are there paintings of Tommaso that I can see right now?”

“Yes, please follow me.”

She took him to a studio across from them, explaining that a friend volunteered to set up a makeshift exhibit of Tommaso’s paintings and sell them when they could. They were not exactly selling a lot, so many of the paintings became displays for people to look at.

“He doesn’t have a patron?” he asked.

“There have been a few who offered, but Tommaso is a man of principles. Some of them wanted him to paint … provocative imagery. He refused them.”

“I thought, with his supply of …”

“Most of them are just supplied by kind friends. Oftentimes it is difficult.”

“I see; that is unfortunate to hear.”

She guided him one painting at a time, describing the process of each with a proud and affectionate tone. Le Comte thought that, while Vlad was right about the paintings, he was wrong about his being able to take one home. Any painting of Tommaso, le Comte was certain, would evoke memories of her and her faint smile, and he couldn’t bear again the pain of missed connections.

The last painting she showed him stole a breath from his lungs. It was a painting of her, perched on a window, in the midst of tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, her faint smile captured in soft, nostalgic hues.

“Sometimes,” she said, gesturing towards the painting, “I model for him.”

Le Comte didn’t understand why no one had yet to buy the painting. It was one of the most sublime works of art he had encountered. All the radiance she exuded, encapsulated in the strokes of Tommaso’s brush. Le Comte envied and admired the man at the same time.

When they returned to the other studio, Tommaso was back on his stool and there was finally a rough outline on the canvas. It appeared to be a human figure—a woman, and le Comte had an inkling about who the model would be, which made it easier for him to go through with his decision.

“Tommaso,” le Comte said, and Tommaso paused in his sketching. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Tommaso’s shoulder. 

Tommaso startled. “My lord?”

He recalled Vlad’s words again. For a short moment he entertained the absurd idea that Vlad knew and that he led le Comte to this, to her. He smiled, helpless in the face of it all.

“Would you let me become your patron?”

+++

Marcel Proust once wrote, Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were. How one remembers something does not ensure the accuracy of it. Details can get murky with each recall: the poster on someone’s bedroom wall, the flowerbeds on your way to work, the inspiring words your grandmother bequeaths you. It’s not so much the fidelity of the picture; rather, it’s the emotion tied with the memory that makes it strong, enduring.

“That is not to say, of course, that people remember the past wrong,” you add, after you finish your first beignet. Today’s teatime doesn’t include tea, but coffee—and an excellent coffee at that, too. You’ve half the mind to interrogate Comte over which blend he used.

Going to Comte’s mansion this time had become easier; no more rumbling dread in your chest as you waited. When the Rolls-Royce parked on the curbside, your feet moved smoothly towards it, and you even managed to greet Comte without mangling the words, your smile ninety percent natural.

When it’s time for tea, you’ve gone to the gazebo of your own accord, no need to have Comte fetch you.

It’s somewhat a relief that you now feel comfortable enough with Comte—enough to share your thoughts about your research in depth.

“It’s just that,” you continue, “my focus was more on the person remembering and the emotions attached to the memory. How it’s processed by that person and how that affects the relationships of that person with others. Memory not as science but as affect. It doesn’t matter if you remember it wrong—your emotions towards that memory would make it seem clear and vivid, your brain filling out the gaps to paint a more ‘complete version’, so to speak.”

Comte—wearing another expensive shirt and waistcoat today—drinks his coffee. From where you sit, you catch his upward-curved lips around the rim of the cup. He’s growing more and more curious about your research, asking so many questions about the theories you’ve read and the articles you’ve written in the past. It’s as if he’s trying to answer a question through you, piecing together the idea in his head with all the things you’re telling him.

“I must read your work. I’m very much interested,” he says, the clink of the cup against the saucer prominent between you. “Where can I find them?”

It takes another beignet to answer him. “I can email you my articles, if you like. There’s one where—well it’s not a legitimate research, more of a personal essay, really—I did a photo elicitation interview with my elderly relatives. It’s just out of curiosity. I showed them our old family pictures, and my grandmother and my grandfather still remembered what happened in those pictures. Except they argued about some major and minor details. So it’s really like they felt more than remembered what happened.”

“How old were those pictures?”

“More than sixty years, I think. They were young in them.”

Comte hums, impressed.

“For them, memory is a snapshot of image and emotion through time.”

“That’s a nice way to put it.”

It’s a cool Saturday afternoon, the perfect weather for outdoor coffee. Because of the sun’s position, the roof of the gazebo throws a large shadow over them, and Comte—looking sideways in idle thought—appears sharper than normal, his sclerae prominent amidst the umbra contouring his visage, sandpapered edges like half-finished skiagraphia, a smudgeless portrait. He’s appealing this way, the mystery permeating around him heavier than usual, an incorporeal finger tugging at your hair, pulling you in like seduction. You sip your coffee to shake off the odd thought.

“I had a friend,” Comte says, careful, as if he’s tasting the tentative words, “who fell in love with someone a long time ago. But it had been so long a time that the person’s face became a blur in memory.”

You listen on, highlighting his choice of word: had. He had a friend, which indicates that Comte’s relationship with this person had already ended. It makes you wonder why he’d bring up that former friend with you, someone who has nothing to do with Comte’s personal life. You’re not close enough for such confidence. Then again, it might only be because the point he’s going to make is connected with your research interest.

Or maybe it’s actually himself he’s talking about?

“I just find it fascinating—forgetting the face of the one you love, but still loving them in spite of that lack.”

“Just because you forget someone’s face doesn’t mean you forget everything else.”

A flash of a pause, then Comte smiles sheepishly. “That is true. You may fail to remember what they look like, but you can still remember their voice, their mannerisms, their scent.”

“Exactly.” And you know that this is beyond your privilege, and you truly don’t know how Comte will react, but you can’t help it: “Why the question? Did you forget the face of your beloved?”

Comte rears back so suddenly as though he’s struck, his eyes so wide that you think you’ve committed a grave mistake and for one terrifying moment you think he'll ban you from his library. An apology climbs out of your throat and you open your mouth to say it, and that’s when Comte cuts you off:

“No,” he says, tone even, almost considering. He glances at your expression and whatever he sees there pulls a faint smile from his lips. “I remember exactly what my beloved looks like.”

Present tense. And it does make sense, doesn’t it? Comte is very much a good-looking man. You’re pretty sure that men and women would violently fall in line for him, just to get a glimpse, a taste, a night, or whatever of him. A part of you wonders how you haven’t met his significant other yet, and if they’re okay with the arrangement you have with Comte. Every time you come to the mansion, it’s only him you get to see and talk with. 

Time stretches between you and Comte. As your mind speculates his personal life, your lack of response gives way to awkward silence, and Comte, implacably, drives the charged awkwardness deeper.

He tilts his head slightly upward and askew, so that his gaze gains a hooded quality in them, as if peering at you from above, a blend of arrogance and allure, almost patronizing. His faint smile sharpens into a smirk. “May I ask why the sudden interest?” He lifts one hand to rest his chin on, the other casually gripping his coffee cup. “Would you really like to know?” he asks, his voice dropping to a husky quality that makes you squirm on your seat.

You blurt, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It must’ve made you uncomfortable.”

The worldly air about him suddenly vanished. Comte stares at you, almost bewildered, and he says with a slightly baffled tone, “No, it’s all right. No harm done.”

You shove a beignet into your mouth, looking anywhere but him. The clinking of the cup and saucer fills the negative space in the gazebo, and you think to yourself, you’ve done it, you’ve ruined it. Comte’s going to kick you out of the mansion after this, and he’s going to put you on a blacklist. He’s certainly rich enough to do so.

But then he says: “I suppose I brought that up because it must’ve been sad. Not to remember the face of someone you love.”

You let his words percolate in your mind. “Your friend—what did they feel? What did they do after that?”

Comte ponders about your question for a while, studying his coffee, as if recalling a memory that happened decades ago. It couldn’t be that too long, could it?

Then he raises his head to give you a weak smile.

“My friend—well, he disappeared.”

+++

The next day, le Comte decided to take a walk around Florence. The last time he visited the town was a century ago, and it hadn’t changed that much. It was still a hub for the arts, and le Comte could see how Florence could maintain its status as a cultural powerhouse. Everywhere he looked people radiated talent and drive, and he wished he could at least absorb half of their motivation.

“My lord?”

Le Comte turned around and there she was, hair alight with the sun, a basket of bread hanging on her elbow.

“Oh,” he said, stopping from his stroll, waiting for her to catch up. As she drew near, le Comte found himself focusing on her eyes, and he wondered how different it was from the eyes of his first love but still being the same. He didn’t believe in souls lingering after death—that was more Vlad’s area—but seeing her now, with that fermata curve of mouth, le Comte was convinced that reincarnation might be real. “You’re the one who gave me a tour yesterday. How can I be of help?”

She flushed. “My lord, I would like to apologize for Tommaso. You’re very kind and generous with your offer, and if it were me I would have accepted your graciousness immediately.”

The red on her cheeks only emphasized her beauty. Le Comte lamented that he hadn’t seen his first love blush like that. He said, “Why did Tommaso refuse, if I may ask?”

She shifted, bringing her basket to her other arm. “Tommaso is a proud man. And he sees art to be the most sublime in the world. He would not compromise on it, to the point that he’d rather live in poverty than create vulgar art or art that goes against his ideals at the order of his patron. But he’s really struggling to sell a painting right now.”

“Should I have been more insistent with my offer?”

She bit her lip and hesitated.

It’s a sore spot, le Comte thought, so he tried to steer her slightly away from the main issue. “How did you two meet, by the way?”

It wasn’t exactly the best question to ask someone whose past life was his first love, but at this moment this was at the forefront of his mind.

It did loosen the tension on her shoulders, though.

“We met five years ago. Tommaso was already selling his art back then, and I was new to Florence. I came from a rural town, so moving into Florence had been daunting. I was wandering around until I happened upon this little studio full of beautiful paintings. I asked for the person who made them, and there Tommaso was. Our eyes had met and it was as if something lit inside him. He jumped and declared that I was his muse. It frightened me at the time, but now I’m glad that I am still his muse.”

As she told him the story, le Comte watched her face, how its expressions flowed from reminiscence to joy once she arrived at the part where she and Tommaso met. To any other person listening, it was a nice story, wrapped in a bundle of soft fabric, tied by a silk ribbon. But to le Comte, he was only reminded of the girl when he was thirteen, and all the chances that he hadn’t managed to grasp. He swallowed the regret bubbling in his throat.

“And you are together, now.” Statement, not question.

The smile on her lips was immaculate and blinding. Le Comte couldn’t even think ill of Tommaso, with that smile.

“Yes. I know that I’ve said earlier that he truly needs the money, but I’d rather struggle to live with him than without. As I am his muse, he is mine.”

“That’s—” He took a long, deep breath. “That’s very good to hear. I can see that you love him very much.” He exhaled, and ignored the happy look she sent him. “I should convince Tommaso again to accept my offer of patronage. It’s really a shame if we don’t give him the space to flourish.”

Like roses blooming in that garden, she lit up and gave him the most grateful smile. “Oh, my lord, thank you so much! I will also talk to him. When will you go back to the studio?”

It hurt, seeing that smile. Le Comte smiled back. “I will return tomorrow, before dusk.”

“Yes, my lord. We will be waiting.” She smiled in gratitude and bowed lightly, then took a step back. “I apologize if I have interrupted you, my lord, but thank you for giving me a bit of your time. I will be leaving now.”

“Yes. Take care, then.”

He watched her disappear in the sea of people, but her smile remained imprinted in his sight. He lost her long before he met her, in this time. And the only thing he could do right now was to support her in any way he could, which was why he would ensure that Tommaso would accept his offer next time.

He stared in the direction she left for a little longer, before turning around and resuming his way.

+++

Another Sunday in Comte’s mansion, and you’ve been doing the same thing for the past few weeks: reading, taking notes, having tea and pastries with Comte, and conversing with him about all kinds of topics. But today you try to do something a little different. On your reading break, you decide to wander around the mansion. Comte’s given you leeway to explore his house, so you’re not one to waste the opportunity. You’ve always wanted to study closely the interior of Comte’s home, having been built centuries before. Most of the areas in it have been well maintained and renovated, but you can still see some signs of its heritage, and those are the things that fancy your attention.

After walking around aimlessly, opening unlocked doors and peeking inside (so far you haven’t encountered any other living creature, which you try not to think about too much), you discover a drawing room. Stepping in, you survey the interior: there’s a billiards table, a dartboard on the wall, several chairs and settees arranged in a way that the image of a cozy, informal poetry reading event comes to mind. It seems that this room functions as a place of social gathering. At the other end of the room there’s a home entertainment system that can inspire immense envy from anybody who gets to see it. Mounted on the wall is a huge television screen flanked by tall and slim speakers on both sides. Adjacent to the set are shelves of film titles in different media: Betamax, VHS, DVDs, Blu-ray discs—even film reels. A bubble of excitement bursts forth in you; such a blast from the past! Your hands twitch with the desire to touch them.

From the Blu-ray library a Criterion Collection remaster catches your attention: a 1960s film with a famous actress, about two people who fall in love with each other but never getting together. The film won plenty of awards, including from Cannes Film Festival. You have a complementary interest in cinema due to your focus in literature, but you can’t recall watching this particular film. You sweep your fingers against the cover, tracing the actress’s face from temple to cheek to lips to chin. Her eyes are expressive, and you understand on some inexplicable level her emotions in this image. Then you remember that this actress is no longer alive—death by car accident, if you recall correctly. It’s tragic.

The creak of the opening door pulls you out of your thoughts.

“—are you here? I’ve searched for you everywhere and—oh!”

It’s Comte, sounding slightly breathless; he’s probably scoured the entire mansion looking for you. A prick of guilt makes you wince; the idea of Comte spending several minutes going room to room just to locate you—when he could’ve been doing more important things—feels heavy on your conscience, and you open your mouth to apologize, “Hey, uh, listen, I’m sorry—”

In a few strides he’s next to you, preparing to cut you off when his eyes alight at the film on your hand. A complicated look crosses his face, and the proximity affords you the opportunity for scrutiny. He falters even before he begins to speak, brows knitted downward, shadows flickering in his expression. But when his gaze lifts a fraction, settling on your curious face, he remembers himself. His features slacken in an attempt to recover, but you’ve already seen that peculiar countenance and your curiosity and suspicion re-emerge. Despite that, you decide not to mention anything.

Comte clears his throat. “Do you also like films?”

You glance at the item you’re holding. “Yeah,” you say, inspecting its back cover. “I’ve written a paper about literary adaptations before. But in general, yes. I like films.”

“Then have you watched this movie?”

Your gaze flits back to Comte. He’s smiling, but the narrowness of his eyes suggests a strain, as if he’s forcing himself to be jovial. You blink, struck with confusion. Does he dislike this film? If he does, then why does he possess a copy of it?

“No, I don’t think I’ve watched this film before.”

There’s a short silence, enough for a decision to be made. Then with a shaky breath: “Do you want to watch it? I can lend it to you.”

“Oh!” In panic, you try to shove the film back to the shelf. “This is kind of you, Comte, but I wasn’t really thinking of wanting to watch it. Besides, I can always stream—”

A hand lands on yours, and your frantic movements freeze like a snap of fingers. His hand is warm against your skin; your eyes follow the length of his arm all the way to his face, which is arranged in a warm expression.

“It’s a beautiful movie,” he says. “I insist.”

And with a face like that, how can you refuse? Slowly, your hand retreats from the shelf, his own hand dropping the contact. 

“And perhaps after that, we can talk about what you think of the film?”

His smile is now completely charming, and something plucks at your chest; for a moment you forget to breathe.

“Sure, if you like.”

He leans back, satisfied. “Excellent! Now, I was looking for you since it’s time for tea. Come, my dear, we don’t want it to go cold, do we?”

+++

No matter the benefits in becoming his patron le Comte offers, Tommaso refused. Out of principle, out of stubbornness, le Comte didn’t know, but it engendered a begrudging respect from him.

His days in Florence were also running out; he’d return to France soon, and nothing was going the way he promised. No painting, no patronage—not even the smile of the woman that held the imprint of his first love’s soul. He was reminded again of their ending, centuries ago, with none of the closure but full of blistering ache. It was because of this memory that he became desperate.

“I know you and Tommaso are struggling,” he told her. “You have to know that it will not end well for both of you.”

Her face was impassive, but the lines that etched her features indicated resignation, and le Comte had to force himself to swallow his resentment—towards this, towards her situation, towards her fate. Of himself and her, and of the seeming impossibility of their connection. He had not been able to hold his first love in his arms, and now, here, in this accident of fate, still the stars hindered his love.

“You will not leave him, will you.” It wasn’t a question.

“My lord,” she said, determined. And how beautiful she was with it. “I love him.”

And that’s what hurt. He had to turn his back on the person his heart yearned to belong to, because it was always never meant to be. He angled his face away from her line of sight and blinked in rapid succession, staving off the tears.

He took a deep breath, pushing his torrential emotions at bay. At the very least he wanted to appear calm and presentable to her at all times.

Smiling kindly, le Comte said, “Of course, I understand. I’ll respect both your wishes. Your love for each other—I envy it.”

She tilted her head. “I find it difficult to believe that you have no beloved, my lord.” She smiled. “Someone who is as handsome as you … I imagine crowds falling in line for your affection.”

Le Comte laughed at that. “Oh, if only.”

In the end, as a parting gift, he bought one painting of Tommaso’s. It was her portrait, the one displayed last in the exhibit she showed him before. He had it displayed in the foyer, where the stairway split into both sides, so that every guest would come upon her beautiful visage when they entered his home.

The price he paid for the painting would support them for a few more months, he made sure of that. It was the only thing he could do, for her sake.

+++

After that short exploration in the drawing room, you and Comte have your tea again in the gazebo that you’ve already become familiar with. You’re enjoying the pastries being served today. The tea served this time is hojicha, and Comte explains that it was introduced to him by a Japanese friend who lived in the mansion years ago. Under the afternoon light Comte looks like a character in a classic film, his gaze focused on his teacup, lashes brushing his cheek. If allowed, you would have taken a picture of him, in this exact image.

“I’ve been wondering,” he begins, and you blink into attention, setting down your own cup, “since we have been talking about time and all, I want to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead.”

He lowers his head a fraction, contemplative, eyes sliding to the side as if deliberating on how to phrase the question. The pose makes him look younger, and the word cute ricochets in your mind, catching you off-center.

As you inwardly have a meltdown, he’s finally decided to pose his question: “What if you could live forever?”

You stare at him, thoughts blank, meltdown postponed, waiting for something else. When Comte continues to look at you expectantly, you grow confused. Is that his question? Really? Seriously? No way, is he pulling your leg? The urge to say Are you fucking with me? is very tempting but you’re not comfortable enough with him yet to reveal that rougher side of you.

So all you can do is be subtle with it. “Oh, hmm, what an interesting and heavy question,” you start, trying to dial down the snark but failing. “I very much like to live forever”—it doesn’t escape your notice Comte’s twitch of surprise—“but what are we working with here? What are the parameters? Do I like, stop aging once I hit immortality or I keep getting older and older? Do I die first and obtain a new body, like a fresh start? Or do I retain any conditions I have, like my body freezes in time or something? What are the rules here, Comte?”

And Comte just blinks at your tangent, bewildered. You control yourself from chortling.

“You’d like to live forever?” he echoes.

“Sure,” you say, “so I can read all the books in the world.”

He shakes his head, refusing to accept your answer. “No, no, please take this seriously. You have to understand—this is forever. You could not die, but your loved ones would. You’d outlive them, and everything else. It would be a lonely life.”

His distress and frustration at your response nags at your mind, but the latter half of his response implies that something’s bothering him. So you bite the bullet and finally take him seriously.

Leaning back on your chair, you study him as you chew on your thoughts before you speak. “Well, nothing lasts forever, you know. Even forever.” Comte’s brows dip as though disagreeing with that statement, but you won’t let him refute you right away, so you continue. “We can go full philosophical about eternity if that’s what you want, but personally eternity is such a heavy concept to comprehend that I really think you need parameters in order to define it. But since you focused on outliving your loved ones, well … isn’t that just part of living? People come and go, they live and they die. Your grandparents may die before you; your parents may die before you; your siblings or your friends may die before you do. That’s life. There will be grief, there will be sadness, there will be regrets, yes. That too is part of living. It doesn’t matter if you live for decades, centuries, millennia—you’ll love, you’ll cry, you’ll forget, you’ll remember. That’s life. I learned that it’s easier to accept that it’s the way it is. Which is why I love when I can. Didn’t I tell you before: no regrets, just move forward?”

He’s watching you all the while, an intensity in his gaze that brightens and brightens as you’re answering his question. It burns like an otherworldly thing, and it seizes your breath for a second time. He’s reflecting on your words, and you can almost see the thoughts whirling in his mind, but ultimately he remains a mystery.

“You speak as if you’ve experienced something before, to have developed that kind of worldview.”

You plaster a smile for him. “Oh, it’s nothing tragic, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s more like a bunch of small experiences and observations culminating into a realization. Introspection’s useful every now and then.”

He returns the gesture. “Of course, you’re right about that.”

You move on to lighter topics after that. When the sun dips behind the cityline, signaling the end of your stay at Comte’s for the day, Comte walks you to the entrance, as your ritual. The car is waiting outside, and before you descend the stairs you turn back to Comte to thank him again.

“It is nothing, my dear,” he says, smiling a charming smile that has you zeroing in at a point above his eyebrow. “It is always a pleasure to help you, as is having our teatime conversations.”

Then he does something he hasn’t done in your previous proceedings: he takes your hand and brings it to his lips, a gentleman’s gesture.

You sputter.

Comte continues smiling, now with a hint of smugness. “I’ll see you next week then.”

You don’t remember what happens after that. Everything’s a daze. It’s only when you’re in your apartment that things become clear once again, and you find yourself clutching the film Comte’s lent you.

+++

“So this is the painting you bought from the skillful painter.”

Vlad stood in the middle of the foyer, observing the newly mounted artwork in le Comte’s house.

“Every time I look at it, I’m overcome with admiration,” he continued, glancing at le Comte with a quirk of a smile. “What talent, don’t you agree?”

He fell into step with his friend, and directed his attention to the painting as well. “Indeed,” le Comte agreed, trying not to remember the events that led to his purchase of the painting.

This time, it’s he whom Vlad studied, his prolonged stare like a lance piercing armor, piercing flesh.

“Something happened during your visit,” Vlad ventured. “Did you meet the painter’s lady?”

And it’s like being dunked in cold water. Le Comte whipped his head to throw a disbelieving look at Vlad, who seemed to figure everything out behind that bland, kind smile. 

“You knew.”

“I had my suspicions, but it’s your reaction that confirmed it for me.”

Le Comte gritted his teeth. “Vlad, I—” Then he stopped himself. Vlad really didn’t do anything; he just nudged him in this direction; in the end it’s le Comte who had to arrive at a decision. “How did you figure out?”

“There’s something in the air around her,” Vlad mused, “that reminded me strongly of your little lady in our childhood. It is a fascinating phenomenon, regardless. Does this mean humans can achieve eternity like us?”

She didn’t remember le Comte when they had crossed paths. “I don’t think so, Vlad. She seems to have no memory of her past life.”

Vlad’s features morphed into sympathy. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that, Comte. Shall we move on to brighter matters? I’ve found a breakthrough for our time travel project, you must want to hear it right now.”

Months later, Comte would receive word that Tommaso died of poverty. His lover followed him soon after. And it was that ache all over again. Would it always be like this—death as fate for the people le Comte had given his heart to? If only she had left Tommaso, then perhaps she would have delayed her death. But even so, it still wasn’t in his arms that she would have fallen into.

Everything hurt. Everything reminded him of her. What else could he do? The more he caught glimpses of the painting, the wider the pain in his heart could reach. With nothing left but despair, he asked Vlad to get rid of the painting, refusing to look at it again.

+++

A relatively productive week passes: attending seminars to strengthen your research ideas but also taking a break from your dissertation writing by hanging out at bookstores, searching for your next leisure read. You’ve outlined your chapter with enough points and references to start on it. You only hope that you can sustain the motivation and energy enough to accomplish at least seventy-five percent of it before your patience runs out and you find yourself binge-watching a K-drama about comics characters gaining meta-awareness.

Maybe you need a new environment for writing. Somewhere spacious and cozy, with generous natural light, full of things you love: books, coffee, flowers …

Your eyes fall on the film Comte lent you. He insisted you watch it, his hand on yours warm and soft, a subtle nudge that beseech you to capitulate to him. You have half a mind to ignore it, but you remember the flicker of emotion of his upon sighting the film, and that makes you curious.

You have nothing else to do—your consultation with Vollant over—so you may as well bite.

Nearly two hours later, you’re bawling your eyes out as the credits roll on your laptop screen, the soft piano melody washing over your tiny studio apartment. The story ended on a poignant note, the main characters missing each other by mere seconds, thus failing to reunite after decades of trying to love other people. Stories like this portray love as not above everything else, that it’s just as fallible as human actions. It’s not a lofty thing; it’s like everything else. You’ve never figured Comte to like films like this—sad, lonely, and yearnful. It’s given you further insight to him, though, so you vaguely formulate your statements about the movie in case he brings it up the next time you have your tea.

But—as you swipe your snot off with tissue paper—recalling his expression before he told you that it’s a beautiful film makes you wonder: what could have happened to Comte for him to beget such a sorrowful face?

#fic #Ikemen Vampire #Comte de Saint-Germain x Reader #Comte x Reader #the soul is nothing more than a glass of ocean water #ocean water fic #ikemen vampire comte x reader #ikevamp comte #my fic #ikevamp fic #ikemen vampire fic #see you next year for the next chapter lmao

[nuttytani]

random comte headcanons

he likes it when you're the one who initiates physical affection like hugs, hand holding and kisses. it makes him melt like icecream on a hot day, it turns him into a giddy teenager experiencing love all over again.

he won't ever admit it but comte enjoys it when you play with his hair. lightly scratching his scalp with your dull nails and massaging the area behind his ears, it makes him sleepy.

comte thinks that your eyes are the most captivating thing about you, they show so many emotions! and your eyelashes, the way they frame your eyes so perfectly- which is why you'll always find him giving your eyelids a peck every now and then.

whenever he sees you wear his gifts, he feels joy. because that means you liked it enough. sure, comte might love showering you with gifts, that's just a habit he has acquired over the years and it's his way of showing love. but nothing tops when you actually put his gifts to use.

comte is the type of person who will always have cookies and biscuits on the side while he drinks tea.

he wears glasses while reading newspaper, even though he has perfect vision. comte just wants to feel a bit human, besides, you always compliment him when he wears those glasses.

#tani writes!! #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp comte #comte de saint germain #ikemen vampire comte #ikevamp comte x reader #ikevamp headcanons #comte x reader

[violettduchess]

Hello Vi! I have a request for you, only if it inspires

Tutor AU! With one or more of your fave suitors tutoring you for your upcoming exams;

Leonardo, Comte, Gilbert, Leon, Silvio and Clavis!

I'd love to see what you come up with ❤️❤️❤️

A/N: I had a very immediate idea for Comte so I went with him for this request!

Comte x Reader, Tutor AU/ Modern AU

WC: ~1.9k

The library looms large as you hurry up the wide, slate-colored steps under a sky exhaling its last breath of evening color. The stars are slowly blinking into existence, determined to shine before they are hidden behind the slow-moving blanket of clouds heading their way. You would pause to enjoy the ephemeral moment when dusk ebbs into night.....

Except Comte is inside, waiting for you.

You’re still not sure how it’s come to this. Comte as your tutor. Your mind travels back several weeks….

Several weeks ago:

One minute you're balancing an armful of books along with your backpack and several bags of uneven groceries that are seriously testing your stubborn decision to do it all in ONE trip. The next, however, everything is falling onto the polished grey tile floor of your building’s lobby, the objects seeming to leap like lemmings out of your arms. As you stand there, staring defeatedly at the scattered mess, lost in the gravity of your poor decision, the elevator doors you were originally trying to reach slide open and like the pearly gates unveiling an angel, Comte de St Germain steps out, in the process of buttoning his elegant camel-colored coat with one hand.

Before you can say a word, he takes in your forlorn expression, the embarrassing pile of your things at your feet, and he is by your side, kneeling, helping you gather up your stray apples and the mini-boxes of cereal you are probably way too old for but love anyway. Your cheeks flush as you stammer a thank you. 

You know him more by reputation than actual acquaintance. He lives in the sprawling penthouse at the apex of your building, the crowning glory of the gothic structure, and is usually spoken about in whispers and sighs by the other residents:

“Comte? He’s a museum director downtown.”

“I hear he is a world-famous antique dealer who has made millions.”

“He’s gotta be a tech-millionaire with all that dough.”

“Well I know someone who knows someone who swears he’s a member of the royal family of some tiny European country.”

“I don’t care what he does. He’s got to be loaded to live up there.”

“I hear he’s never been married.”

“My cousin’s best friend’s neighbor's babysitter says he’s divorced from someone super famous.”

“You know what he is? I'll tell ya. Drop dead gorgeous.”

This mysterious man with eyes the color of desert sands is on the ground in his expensive suit and coat, helping you gather your plebeian things and oh, do you want to melt into the floor and disappear.

Until……

He stops, holding one of the books you had been juggling, a surprised expression crossing his classically beautiful face.

“‘The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire’ by Edward Gibbon. Fourth edition.” He seems impressed, curiosity flaring to life in the mesmerizing gold of his eyes.

And you take that lifeline, words stumbling over themselves across the knot of your tied tongue as you explain you are a graduate student, majoring in history, mentally preparing yourself for the avalanche of final exams heading your way.

And how he smiles, his long fingers tracing the embossed lettering along the spine of your book, borrowed from the local library. Entranced by the movement, you can't look away from his hand, reverence hushing his voice as he explains how he works for a museum (Points to the woman in Apartment 15B for getting that one), how he also studied history.

And then one thing leads to another and your rambling about the stress of your exams and crunch for time has evolved into Comte St. Germain, the mysterious Bruce Wayne of your building, offering to tutor you.

The Present:

And now here you stand, the night of your final session, heart prowling, turning circles in your chest like an unruly feline.

Taking a steadying breath, you continue up the steps and head inside, enjoying the sound of your heeled boots across the polished wooden floor. Past towering shelves filled with books you go until you reach the narrow iron staircase in the back, the one that spirals upwards to the second floor. Your feet follow the path they have gotten used to over the last few weeks, through the racks, down a narrow gangway until you reach the small cluster of tables at the western corner of the library, the ones underneath the imposing arched window that allows you a clear view of the darkening sky and the pale orange glow of the streetlamp across the street.

Comte looks up from the book he has been reading and offers you a smile, at once familiar and exotic.

“Ah, there you are, chérie. Ready for our final session?”

Something inside you constricts at the thought that this is the last time you will be here with him like this, tucked away in the surprising intimacy of a large public library, listening to his honeyed voice as you discuss not only history, but also the mundane: what music he listens to when he goes on long drives, his favorite type of wine, the best tea for a rainy Sunday morning. And it isn't just his speaking….Comte listens. He really listens when you talk, when you ask questions, when you give an opinion. He rests his chin on his hand, head tilted ever so slightly, his entire attention focused on you, whether you are explaining the fine points of one of the many Treaties of Paris or doing your best to convince him that dipping your French fries in your milkshake really does make them taste better. 

With the glow of remembrance in your smile, you slide into the seat next to him, running your fingers along the soft grain of the elegant wooden chair as you settle in.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” you say, returning his smile while looking at the array of books he has spread out across the table. “Let’s do this.”

“Oui,” he says as his smile curves into a grin. “Tonight we’re focusing on art for your art history final. You already sent me the list of pieces your professor wants you to know for your exam so we can work our way through those.”

You breathe in, trying not to get distracted by the warm, earthy scent of his cologne.

“Professor Leonardo is great but it’s such a long list….” Your shoulders slump at the thought of tackling everything on it. And then you feel Comte’s hand there, on your forearm, warm even through the soft material of your blouse.

“Then let us begin.”

He spends hours, guiding you through Girl with the Pearl Earring, The Birth of Venus, Las Meninas, and Water Lillies. You wander through the great masters like an enamored visitor in an enchanted garden, listening as Comte helps you to remember what you have learned about the paintings as well as unlocking secrets you have never heard before. He leads you through the design of the Colosseum, the Parthenon, Hagia Sofia, Notre Dame, his voice a golden thread that spins you across the architectural wonders. And now, in your final hour of study, he opens the book of sculptures. You visit Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David, the Venus de Milo. And finally, you come to the last sculpture on your list: Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss by Antonio Canova.

“Ah…” He pulls the book closer, the photograph of the sculpture filling the page. “This….is a masterpiece of….” He glances over at you, brow lifted as he waits for the answer.

“Neoclassicism…but with strong elements of the Romantic, given the subject matter.”

“Bien joué.” The praise falls from his lips softly, slides over you like melting wax, sends a jolt of heat across your skin. He doesn’t seem to notice as he flattens down the pages with both hands, his bright eyes roaming over the image.

“So you know the story of Cupid and Psyche?”

You try to remember what Professor Leonardo explained in class when he had introduced the sculpture. “She opened a forbidden jar and was put to sleep as punishment?” 

Comte nods. “Venus forbid Psyche from opening the jar. It supposedly held Divine Beauty. Psyche could not resist temptation and instead of beauty, she was overcome by the Sleep of Innermost Darkness.” He grins slowly. “Very dramatic. Cupid sees his lover unconscious and pricks her with an arrow, awakening her. This sculpture captures that moment.”

Outside the library window, the streetlamp glows a soft orange. A light rain is now falling, making the light seem as if it is dancing, shimmering against the night.

“Just look at the lines,” he murmurs. He takes his index finger and slowly begins tracing the line of Psyche’s body. It follows the curve of her torso as she stretches up towards Cupid. “Her arms reach back for him.”

You lean in, closer to Comte, watching the path his finger makes along the glossy page. Your heart is suddenly hammering a woodpecker’s song against your breastbone.

“Her hands are in her lover’s hair, the gesture so familiar, so loving.” He traces down the line of Psyche's neck. “And here….she is bent back to him, so exposed and vulnerable, tilting to look up into his face. What do you see there?”

His voice winds itself around you, wrapping you in golden vines of warmth and want. You need a moment to find your own. When you do, it is only capable of expressing itself in a breathless whisper.

“Tenderness. Joy.”

He nods slowly, trailing his finger down Cupid’s strong arm. “And what do you see in him?”

Your thoughts are bright butterflies, sparks that fly up into the haze of your mind and explode in little pinpricks of light. Blinking, trying to control the overwhelming wave of attraction that threatens to pull you under, you reach out and touch the same page, your fingers scant centimeters from his.

“He’s…..adoring. The way he holds her head, his fingers touching her face. And he’s smiling at her, affectionately. Openly.” Your gaze drops down to where Comte’s finger points to Cupid’s left arm. You clear your throat and continue. “He covers her breasts with his arm, shielding her from the viewer, and yet that one hand holds her in a way that’s….it’s so intimate. It feels somehow more intimate than if we would see her bare.” Your voice is a whisper, soft and woven through with delicate wisps of yearning. “He touches her as if he’s done it a hundred times and still revels in it…..” You trail off, pressing your lips together, unable to go on.

Comte’s fingers brush against yours and you turn your head, startled to find that your faces are so very close. Outside the rain gently rolls down the massive glass window. The streetlamp flickers. Comte’s gaze is a steady golden sun.

“He adores her,” he murmurs, his voice rolling through you. You feel his fingers move, covering yours on the page. 

“She marvels at him,” you answer quietly, your fingers curling around his in response.

He leans down ever so slightly, his mouth so close you can feel the warmth of his words on your lips. “He dreams of her……” 

“.....and he is what makes her waking sublime…” The words are hardly more than the breaths between heartbeats.

His mouth brushes faintly against yours, the softest touch, a silken feather, a velvet caress.

“....He wants nothing more…..” His hand tightens around yours, his chest rising and falling with the contained power of his emotion. “...than to kiss her….”

“He should,” you say, soft as a nightingale welcoming a summer evening. "He should kiss her."

And he does, pressing his lips against yours as the wave that has been looming ever closer pours down upon you both. One hand rises, gripping the nape of your neck with tender ardor. You plunge your free hand into the soft wilderness of his tawny hair, opening your mouth to taste him.

Your other hand? It is still tightly holding onto his, a promise you won’t let go.

An echo of Cupid and his beloved Psyche.

Pysche Revived by Cupid's Kiss- Antonio Canova, 1793

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @fang-and-feather @bubblexly @kiki-tties

#ikemen series #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp comte #comte de saint germain #ikemen comte #comte x reader #tutor au #modern au #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #otome fanfic #violettwrites

[tayovampr]

How Gossip Spreads Through The Mansion.

ikemen vampire headcannons

( warnings? ) none. ( notes? ) THIS HEADCANNON CONTAINS MY OC. just a few thoughts about how these vampires are extremely nosy and love to spread false information unknowingly :0

It all begins in the kitchen. As the coffee brews for the mansions residents, our lovely helpers: Sebastian, Mitsuki (Y/n) and Temi seem to be cooking up some trouble…

Mitsuki would unintentionally reveal something that happened thorough out the day. Maybe it was something she overheard while shopping, on the balcony or watching Napoleon and Jean spar. She always tells Sebastian and Temi what she hears about the residents—since Sebastian has that interesting hobby of his.

“Hey Sebastian, Temi?” Mitsuki calls out to the two as they washed the dishes. Sebastian was scrubbing, Temi was rinsing, and Mitsuki was drying and polishing.

The two turned their heads to look at their friend, wondering what was the matter.

“I was in Comte room earlier helping him open up some letters, and that’s when I came across this one letter. Now mind you, it was scented, had a very prestigious emblem on the wax and included a dried rose in it.” Mitsuki began.

“Le Comte gets letters like that all the time.” Sebastian responded. “Was there something special about it?”

“Well, it clearly came from a girl. And when Comte read it, he was so happy! I mean I never saw him like this before, but it makes me think if he has a secret lover—” Before Mitsuki could finish her sentence, she was interrupted by Temi, who had accidentally dropped a plate into the sink, causing the water to splash up at her.

“Secret lover?!” She exclaimed in disbelief. “What makes it worse is that it’s believable…”

“What if she’s a vampire bombshell who was childhood friends with him and lives in a gothic castle lavished in red and riches? I can’t compete in that race…” Temi grumbled afterwards. Sebastian however looked at the two thoughtfully.

“Well, we’ll do no good sitting here pondering. At dinner let’s go ask Le Comte ourselves.”

Most of the times, it’s something tame. No big deal, and not needing of attention. But as always, if your trying to keep a secret in a mansion full of nosy vampires with supersonic hearing—you better believe this game of telephone will spiral out of control.

Isaac, surprisingly, is the main catalyst for this disaster. Jean coming in a close second. ( I mean, you can see it in some events when it’s almost always these two mishearing something (*´▽`*) )

But it would always be unintentional! Isaac would just walk past an open door and when he heard something shocking, he couldn’t help to stop and get a closer ear. Jean on the other hand wouldn’t stop. He would take the bits and pieces he heard and formulate them in his mind, completing the story for himself.

‘Comte has a lover?’ Isaac thought to himself as he listened in to the conversation. ‘Why has he been hiding it from us all this time? Well—I could understand. I hope he introduces us to her…’

‘That rascal!’ Jean grit his teeth when he heard the news. Although heard would be a stretch. ‘Playing with Temi and Mitsuki’s heart even though he has a women of his own. I will get him to confess…’

And now we have three stories. The truth, an assumption, and a incomplete statement. Which one will travel throughout the mansion quicker?

Jean obviously tells Napoleon and Mozart. It slips out during their sparring lessons, and he tells Mozart on a whim—since they’re friends.

“Wait so—Comte is married?” Napoleon exclaims, as he puts his sword back into its hilt. Jean nods, sitting down of the ground to catch his breathe.

“He has refused to tell us about his secret lover for this long. It makes you wonder what else he has been keeping from us…” Napoleon loosely claims, wiping the sweat that adorned his forehead.

Jean however was thinking in his head, that he was right all along not to trust him. “That shady man…”

With Mozart, he looked a bit confused. “There is just no way Comte is married Jean, did he tell you himself?”

Then for Isaac, the words accidentally slip when he was getting teased by Arthur and Dazai. Of course, these were the worse people to tell out of everyone in the mansion.

Arthur applauded Comte on his fruitfulness. Claiming that it takes skill to hid a lover for so long. While Dazai takes this information with interest. It just so happened when he was scaling the windows, he overheard Mozart and Jean’s discussion.

For Dazai, he didn’t really believe this. As he saw in the music room, Jean wasn’t sure who he heard this information from. But being chaotic as Dazai is, he naturally wanted to be included in the fun. So he often changes up the story.

“How sly of Comte, it seems that he has not only hid his secret wife, but the fact that she will be moving in to live with us soon. Isn’t that great Ai-kun? Lovers reunited at last.” With these words Dazai left, not daring to explain anything.

“Move in with us? By Jove, you would think that old man would tell us before making the decision?” Arthur comments with a sigh.

Dazai doesn’t tell anyone else after that. He is more interested in seeing how this spreads and which one would reach Comte’s ear first. Arthur however tells his best buddy Theo. Theo tells Vincent and Vincent tells Shakespeare. By now the rumor has morphed into something unbelievable.

“Comte is a pathological liar who is hiding his wife from the residents and is planning to make her move in with them because she is expecting soon.” Don’t ask how.

Leonardo hears about this from Temi, who asks if Comte had a lover. Leonardo laughs and answers not anymore—wondering why she was asking.

“Are ya worried about “Comte’s” love life cara mia?” Leonardo jokingly asks.

Although he was joking in that moment, it just confirmed his suspicions that something was spreading in the mansion. Throughout the whole day Leonardo was hearing bits and pieces of a story that including Comte—so it was time he saw the truth for himself.

When he gets to Comte’s room he wastes no time to ask him about it.

“Have you just been in your room all day? Looks like you don’t know what’s happening outside.” Comte looks up from the papers he was sorting at Leonardo, a confused look on his eyes.

“Outside?” He asks, to which Leonardo takes out a cigarillo and begins to light it.

“Yeah…something about you being a compulsive liar who is hiding his pregnant wife from us—it gets a bit tricky because half are saying she’s gonna move in with us, and half are saying your gonna move in with her.”

Comte is just astounded. He just stares blankly at Leonardo…an awkward laugh sounding from his throat. “…Really?” Is all he could muster, as Leonardo begins to laugh.

“See I knew it wasn’t true. But you know might as well confirm before I do damage control right?”

Comte was still shocked. After all he’s done from the residents, was this how easy it was for their views to change—and when did he get a pregnant wife?

“For these being the great men I choose to revive…I wonder how great their intuition really is…” Comte mumbles to himself.

“Well, let’s go straight if things out. I’m fairly certain I know who started this.” Leonardo claims, laughing to himself. “I want to know where the story changed too.”

The residents were all gathered for dinner, the main goal being to clear up the misconceptions. Each person was made to go around and tell what they heard and what they believed, and from there they traced it down to Mitsuki, Isaac and Jean.

Mitsuki explains her thinking to Comte, I’m which he clarifies that he has no secret lover and that the letter was just from an old friend he saved years ago.

Everyone breathes out a sigh of relief. It looked like none of them were ready for a new arrival. And some, specifically Mozart, wasn’t particularly fond on a baby crying and running around…

#tayovampr #ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧˚ #ikemen vampire #ikemen series #ikemen vampire fanfic #cybird ikemen #ikevamp #ikemen vampire headcanons #leonardo da vinci #comte de saint germain #mozart #isaac newton #ikemen vampire leonardo #ikemen vampire comte #ikemen vampire x reader

[cloudcountry]

Hey aubs <3

Saw the ikevamp reqs and i keep thinking about how germain was my favorite, but back when i played his route wasn't even out (sadge) so i was thinking if you could do me a solid* (you always do and are such an amazing author fr fr <3)

So i was thinking, can you do me frienemies-to-lovers germain and gn! vampire "hunter"! reader? You can make it whatever prompt you feel like <3

HAVE A GOOD DAYYYY <3

*it's ABSOLUTELY no pressure, you can absolutely delete this req if you don't wanna do it

SUMMARY: you run into comte (or rather, he runs into you) after you kill a vampire.

WARNINGS: none!!! :D

COMMENTS: UM THIS ISNT QUITE ENEMIES TO LOVERS BUT . I THINK IT TURNED OUT OKAY ^^; not beta read because im lazy if theres typos DONT READ THEM THEYRE NOT THERE

Your vision goes blurry as you’re thrown against the wall of a dingy alleyway, sharp nails digging into your skin. A loud hiss and hot breath against your neck make your heart jump in your throat. Grasping at your wooden stake, you smack the back of it against the vampire’s head, sending them reeling. Taking the chance, you kick them up against the opposite wall and drive your stake through their hand.

Their scream of pain smells like blood and flesh.

You aim a well-placed kick at their head, knocking them to the concrete, and they still. The sickening crack of their skull meeting the pavement gains no reaction from you.

You reach down, yanking the wooden stake out from their hand. They don’t move.

You raise it over your head and bring it down, stabbing straight through their chest.

A raspy breath escapes the body as their muscles twitch, and they fall still once again.

“I see you’re out and about again, mon chérie.”

You don’t even acknowledge the familiar voice as you stare down at your most recent kill. Despite what people in the business say, you know you’ll never quite get used to this.

Not killing the vampires, and certainly not the vampire that’s taken to following you around on nights like these.

His name is Comte de Saint Germain, and the tension between you two has always been palpable.

“Indeed I am.” you finally respond, turning to face his towering silhouette. It’s at times like these when you’re fully aware that he is, indeed, a vampire, despite what the upper class of France may believe.

It’s not that you’re wary of him because he’s the type of beast you hunt.

You’re wary of him because he hasn’t stopped you yet.

“I’m assuming that poor soul attacked an innocent.” he mused, stepping closer to you in order to examine the body.

“They did.” you answer curtly.

Comte hums. He kneels next to the body and murmurs something under his breath.

You reach for your stake.

“There’s no need for that.” he turns back to you as if sensing your movement smiling up at you.

The smile is tense. Fake. Meant to make you let down your guard.

You grip your stake harder.

Comte stands up, not a single speck of blood or dust on his clothing. He’s facing you, the smile on his face still plastered across his lips.

“You should consider taking a more peaceful approach next time. You never know what the vampire you kill could be suffering from.” Comte says, and although his voice is soft there’s a steely edge to it.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” you reply coldly, eyes narrowing as you wait for the slightest movement.

He makes no move towards you. Instead, he chuckles and disappears into the night, and you’re left in the alleyway with blood-soaked clothing and a racing heart.

#raptor <3 #auburn talks ikevamp <3 #auburn's fics <3 #twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #ikevamp comte #comte de saint germain #ikevamp comte de saint germain #ikevamp #ikemen series #ikemen vampire #cybird #comte x reader #ikevamp comte x reader #comte de saint germain x reader

[xx-lemon-drop-xx]

Warnings: Likely incorrect french, short fic, Female reader on period.

Request: No.

Words: 461.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

"Ma Chérie?"

Comte ignored the large waft of blood that hit his nose the moment he opened the door to your shared room, quietly stepping in and closing it behind him. The floorboards creaked under the shuffling of his shoes as he slid them off, seeing you curled up in bed in a tired heap of pain and misery.

"Oh dearest," He sighed out, sitting down on the bed next to you. Without saying a word you rolled over and curved around him, face buried in his lap. "Have the cramps started up again?"

"Yes." Your answer was muffled against his pantleg, though he heard it all the same. Brushing his fingers through your hair you groaned out, relaxing under his touch as he gently scratched your scalp.

"I've brought you hot cocoa. Sebastion made it was a tad bit more chocolate. Just in case you where craving something sweet."

Comte helped you sit up, bringing the warm cup he'd set on the nightstand moments ago to you. Holding the cup with a firm hand you raised it to your lips, taking a long sip. Breathing out with a steady sigh you offered a smile.

"Thank you."

"No need to thank me. I'm only here to make you feel more at ease for the moment."

"You're too good for me."

"Nonsense. I treat you good because you deserve to be treated good."

Comte pressed a gentle kiss against your temple, walking around to the other side of the bed and carefully climbing in as not to spill the cup in your hands. He offered you an embrace with outstretched arms, pressing another kiss to the top of your head when you'd leaned into his arms.

Pulling you close his hands slipped down to massage your lower back and hips, making you sigh at the uplift of pain.

"Is that enjoyable? I hear women cramp here." Comte murmured, breath ghosting over your ear. His fingers kept moving, pressing into your hips to rub out some of the pain.

"Yes." Your words came out a steady sigh, "Very nice." You murmured, he chuckled against your neck, pressing soft kisses across your collarbone. You took another sip of the hot cocoa, comfortable as can be in his arms.

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I do not know, Chérie. I wonder what would have happened had you not have walked through that door."

His lips pressed against your cheek this time, his fingers coming up from your hips to pull some hair behind your ear before continuing to massage you.

You may have still been in pain, though with Comte the pain was just a bit more bearable.

#x reader #ikevamp comte #ikemen vampire #ikemen comte #comte de saint germain #fluff

[solomons-poison]

I'd like to request some "massage" and "sleeping next to each other" headcanons for le Comte, please?

Sure, I'd love to do those! Gotta give some love to our handsome count~

Le Comte de Saint Germain

↠ massages

Le Comte absolutely loves massages with his lover. Whether giving or receiving, it's a time for connection and relaxation. Touch is one of his love languages, and it makes him immensely happy to have this kind of intimacy with you. He's definitely the one to initiate it more often, often to help you relax after working, especially if you've been on your feet all day. He'll do everything for you like some kind of fancy day spa, massaging your shoulder, your back, arms and legs, hands and feet, he'll do it all.

Sometimes it's spur of the moment, and other times he will plan it out. If he has it planned out, the other residents of the mansion will have to wait to speak with him until he's done. He is adamant that once it is scheduled, his time is dedicated to you and he will only stop for an emergency. Sometimes it'll make you a little self conscious but he just wants to give his full attentions to you because he loves you so much.

And if you are giving him the massage, everyone in the mansion knows as soon as they see him. He has the biggest smile on his face and somehow appears even more relaxed than usual. It doesn't matter how short-lived the massage is, even if you're just doing it while he's responding to letters or at the very end of the day, he's incredibly happy. And if it's at the end of the day, it's the perfect way for you both to settle down together before bed.

↠ sleeping next to each other

As soon as you're dating, le Comte would love to sleep beside you. Of course, he's respectful of your boundaries and if it's not something you'd like to do yet, or at all, he'll respect your feelings. But as mentioned above, touch is a big love language for him, and he loves the idea of going to bed with you and seeing your face first thing in the morning.

Part of it is just the intimacy of the action, he loves being so close to someone in private and getting to have you all to himself. He's greedy for your love, what can he say, and being able to have you all night long makes his heart want to burst. Don't be surprised if you wake up to find him wrapped around you, locked in his arms for as long as you're okay with it. If he could, he'd honestly keep you in bed all day with him (whether it's spicy or not is up to you two, he just wants sweet lazy time with his lover).

He's also just lonely. As a pureblood, company is few and far between unless you get married to another pureblood, something he never wanted to do. And he has plenty of reasons to not mingle with humans, either, but of course that all changed when he met you. Getting to sleep next to each other fulfills that need for companionship, but don't be fooled because you'll always be much more than that to him.

Fluffy headcanon prompts list here!

#comte x reader #comte de saint germain #ikemen vampire #ikevamp comte #ikevamp hcs #ikemen vampire comte #the minx can write ✍️

[art-of-love-and-war]

Hi!!! This is the first time I've EVER requested anything, so I'm super excited to be asking you. Would it be OK if I could have headcannons with some of the ikevamp boys? If you're comfortable with it, could I have Arthur, Comte, Isaac and Leonardo with and mc who has ADHD? I completely understand if you don't, feel free to completely ignore me. Thank youuu 😊😊😊❤❤❤

Characters: Arthur Conan Doyle | Comte De Saint Germain | Isaac Newton | Leonardo Da Vinci x GN!Reader  Rating: General.  Word count: 819 words  Warning/s: Reader has ADHD, mentions of procrastination, hyperfocus, not enough focus. Author note: Hello! Sorry this took so long, I’ve had this on my mind for a very long time, and I even thought about doing Isaac’s route to write him more accurately but work has been killing me so I didn't get to open the DSM-V collecting dust in my shelf for this one :c

[୨୧] — Arthur Conan Doyle

There are quite some things he can understand about your symptoms. The main thing being procrastinating. 

Listen, he is a writer, and he is not perfect, and there are moments where inspiration poofs out and he is forced to stop with his writer's block, or sometimes he feels stuck in a sentence and decides to do everything except finish his next chapter, so he can empathize when you go through periods where you keep pushing certain activities until the last minute.

He still worries about your well-being, even if he is not a doctor anymore; he is curious about the treatment you had back at your time and home. 

He is sweet and understanding, despite having some pet peeves, he does his best to understand how it's something that is part of you and can work with support. And he wants to be that support.

Arthur also finds relatable the moments where you are stuck with your hyper-focus periods, and you happen to do your and Sebastian’s chores for the day on your own, though he is hurt by you mostly ignoring him those awful days when he wants nothing but to pamper you.

[୨୧] — Comte De Saint Germain

He is a wonderful and understanding man.

I can imagine him having a lot of pet peeves with people getting distracted too easily or drifting off and, part of loving you is the imperfections you embrace of each other and, they make you perfect for him as anyone. 

He is careful of the periods where you either procrastinate too much or hyper-focus too much to not exhaust yourself with the chores you take or by making you overwhelmed by taking care of the mansion and its inhabitants. 

He will listen to your weekly obsession without trouble. Do you want to tell him about 30 crow facts you learned? Tell him. Did you find a new way to make Sebas flick your forehead? He frowns. Do you want to tell him about your comfort fanfic you know by heart because you can’t read it anymore? He will listen.

If you fidget too much, and if you ask, he will get someone from his multiple contacts to make a “replica” of the fidget toys you used to have back at home.

[୨୧] — Isaac Newton

I have been seriously thinking of this since I got this ask because it seems too funny even if I haven't read his route: Consider, you don’t shut up.

Isaac strikes me as the type who wants to study in peace and quiet.

So maybe your relationship is quite a bumpy ride at first. 

What amazes him is your capability of telling him about 100 things that interested you in the span of a single week.

Your conversations flow at random, so he would often be working on his stuff to suddenly be whisked away by you to tell him about that one thing you found out about hedgehogs for 3 hours. 

Sometimes you are the cause of some of his frustrations. Last month you started knitting? He found some yarn with a texture you like and bought it as a gift, thinking you could make something for yourself.

He came back to find your knitted sweater half done and forgotten, and now you are learning how to bake. 

And it is an ongoing cycle, but he finds a bit of happiness in you trying new things, as you often drag him along, which means spending more time together.

Maybe your relationship is the answer to what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.

[୨୧] — Leonardo Da Vinci

ADHD? 

Avoid tasks? Hyperfocus? Not enough focus? This man is a master at all those (and at dozing off)

He doesn’t mind you procrastinating, he has been avoiding to clean up his room for the last century, so he can’t complain. 

Now, if you forget or get distracted about other things, now that’s a different story. Did you feed Lumiere in the evening and forgot to tell him, and then he fed him that same day, and now you have a chubby cat? 

That’s funny, but no. 

Aside from that, he doesn’t have trouble with your condition; he is still a loving man. He always is and has been when it comes to loving you. 

And he likes your energy and how you keep him awake, in a sense, always making him try new things together, like dancing! Which he is not the best at, but he doesn’t mind trying your interests. 

If you take an interest in one of his multiple areas of expertise he’d definitely teach you and not be bothered if you happen to drop your interest in the activity, in fact, he invites you to try other things.

Beware, he is a strict teacher, so he doesn’t want your attention wandering off too often.

He enjoys…, grounding you, lets say. 

#arthur x reader #arthur conan doyle x reader #ikevamp arthur #comte de saint germain #ikevamp comte #isaac newton x reader #comte x reader #isaac x reader #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp isaac x reader #leonardo da vinci #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp le comte #leonardo x reader #leo x reader #ikevamp leonardo x reader #leonardo da vinci x reader #ikevamp fanfic #ikevamp x reader #cybird fanfic #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikevamp

[alby-rei]

Comte's Ghost Mansion (IkeVamp; Luigi's Mansion AU) Part 1

a/n: Heavily (more like, entirely) inspired by @scummy-writes's playthrough of Luigi's Mansion. 'Twas a lot of fun merging the wackiness of that game with the IkeVamp universe! Multiple parts have already been written, to varying degrees of polish, so I'll be posting them on a schedule (Tentatively, one part per week). Without further ado, Enjoyyy ✨

Tags: Humor, Crack treated seriously, Luigi's Mansion AU, Spooky scary spectral vampires, Ghostbuster MC Word Count: 1000 words Characters: You, Sebastian, Comte (mentioned) Next: Part 2

~*~

You woke up in a dark endless abyss with a headache.

"Where...am I?"

You were not sure how long you were out for, but it must have been a long time.

Last you remembered, you were walking around the Louvre museum in the daytime. A handsome man in a three-piece tailored suit had graciously retrieved your earring from the ground, only to drop and forgot his own handkerchief.

You, wanting nothing more than to return the favor, sought to return it to him. Your quest led you to a secluded section of the museum, barren of any foot traffic, and past a set of large double doors that appeared, at the time, as part of the museum experience.

In hindsight, the dwindling number of visitors around you should have alerted you to think otherwise.

Lightning flashed and the hallway blinked in view, like a snapshot captured with a camera shutter. Thunder cracked once, twice, forcing you out of memory lane and back into the present.

In the split-second that you saw the hallway, a line of tall arched windows stood to your left and closed wooden doors to your right. A high-backed chair was stationed between each door, and a framed picture hung above it. A wall blocked the path at one end and extended into darkness in the other. So, not an endless abyss. But it was not the Louvre museum, either.

Slowly, hesitantly, you took a step forward, and another, and then another, keeping your eyes peeled for any signs of an exit. A door creaked nearby.

You scrambled to hide behind the nearest curtains, but you were caught by two firm hands. Your heart lurched in your throat. You turned around to face your assailant, and a second round of lightning gave you a chance to get a good look. It was a young man with grayish hair swept to one side, his eyes narrow and inquisitive.

"Who are you, and how did you get in here?" He asked, though he did not wait for a response. "Doesn't matter, let's get you out before the others notice."

You followed him through the maze of hallways, each turn taking you down an identical path. It was a wonder that your guide could tell heads from tails in the darkness.

"Watch your step," he called out as the two of you descended a set of grand stairs.

Just when you thought you reached the bottom, you were met with more stairs. Blood pumped in your ears as you focused on getting out of here, one step at a time. You sighed in relief when the first sliver of light peeked through the grand double doors at the opposite end of what, you assumed, was the foyer.

Once outside, you gawked at the building you just escaped. It was a three-story mansion. Grapevines crept around and across the walls and into some open windows. Dark clouds loomed over the estate, but the rain died down into a drizzle.  

"Don't fall behind, now!" Your guide called out from the garden up ahead. Rather than continue straight ahead and out the gate, he took a turn going behind the mansion. You stared at the open gate, contemplating your chance of survival. Feeling unsafe venturing out into the unknown, you kept up pace with him along a narrow cobblestone path.

He stopped abruptly, causing you to bump into his back, and asked, "Where did you say you were from?"

You huffed and said, "If you would've let me speak the first time..." You explained your situation to him, and he furrowed his brows. You then barraged him with your own set of questions. Rather than answer any of them, he turned on his heel and talked on the way.

He introduced himself as Sebastian. He woke up in a similar way to what you had described a few years prior.

“I’m sorry, did you say years?” You gaped. What hope did you have of returning home if he had not done so yet?

He continued. "I came face to face with the head of this mansion, a French nobleman who goes by the title, Le Comte de Saint-Germain. He gave me an offer I could not refuse, and so I serve the mansion as its butler."

He stopped in front of a quaint wooden garden shack.

Facing you, he wore a wry smile as he said, "I would like to consider myself lucky, as I haven't seen another human in quite some time. But you, I'm afraid, are out of luck to end up here."

Your eyes shifted. "What do you mean by that?"

"Wait here."

He ducked inside and came out with a backpack that looked an awful lot like a vacuum cleaner. The vacuum tube in his hands only further confirmed your suspicions.

He reminded you of a ghostbuster.

"Unfortunately, I don't know how to get you home. But what I can offer is a means to defend yourself for the night.

"Defend myself?" You echoed. "Against what?"

That was how you ended up back inside the mansion, carrying Sebastian's 'Poltergust 1899' (as he proudly called it) on your back, alongside an oil lamp in hand and an item pouch around your shoulder.

What’s the pouch for? You may be wondering.

After much debate with the butler, you agreed to retrieve "items of interest" for him if he promised to investigate a means of getting you back home. His final remark was to avoid disturbing the mansion's esteemed residents and, contrarily, to report back any interesting behavior you encounter, seemingly of said residents.

The main entrance door creaked open. The mansion's foyer was bedecked with a carpeted floor that stretched up its wide central staircase. White Ionic columns lined the sides. At the top of the stairs, bright moonlight shone through, enveloping the room in a bluish hue.

The door slamming shut behind you pulled your flighty spirit back into its boney prison. Several voices murmured behind the walls.

You caught some of their words, or so you believed.

"A guest?"

"They returned!"

"Oh dear."

"How delightful."

"Go away."

You wished you didn't.

Back to Masterlist

#ikevamp sebastian #ikevamp comte #ikemen vampire sebastian #ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire comte de saint germain #ikevamp writing #ikevamp #ikemen vampire fanfiction #ikemen vampire x reader #ikevamp x reader #humor #luigi's mansion au #ghost mansion AU #crack treated seriously #ghostbuster mc #spooky scary spectral vamps #alby rei

[niphredil-14]

Fill free to deny this request! But can you do Jonah, Isaac, Vincent, and comte with mc having a cat that isn't the best, and the cat is kinda mean? (Ex, biting and scratching if you try and be near her. Growling and hissing at other pets, and will hiss if you walk by them in the walkway.) My apologies, English is not my first language.

hey sorry it took me a literal year to write this...

IKEVAMP AND IKEREV REQUESTS CLOSED

Jonah: Jonah is a little cat-like and mean too, though he gets super pouty that your cat doesn't like him. Why wouldn't it? He's perfect! Would cry if your cat ever warmed up to him.

Isaac: Isaac is terrified of your cat and wants nothing to do with it. If your cat stays away from him, he will stay away from your cat.

Vincent: Look, I can't explain why, but your cat would tolerate him, I know it. Everyone and everything likes vincent, your cat included. Even if not at first.

Comte: He is the epitome of perfection and patience. He understands and will do his best to not bother your cat. Chances are though, at some point your cat will start to like him.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen revolution #ikerev #ikemen revolution x reader #ikerev x reader #ikemen vampire x reader #ikevamp x reader #le comte de saint germain #le comte #ikevamp le comte de saint germain #ikevamp le comte #ikevamp comte #ikevamp le comte de saint germain x reader #ikevamp le comte x reader #ikevamp comte x reader #ikerev jonah #ikerev jonah x reader #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp isaac x reader #ikevamp vincent #ikevamp vincent x reader

[cherryxblossxms]

So to expand on my thoughts last night of Comte and somnophilia...

[Tw somno, fem afab reader. Minors/ageless blogs do NOT interact 🔞]

We all know how insatiable Comte is. He's so deeply in love with you, and he can never keep his hands off for long before he has to feel you in his arms again, making your sweet noises and cumming around his cock or his tongue. Often times, you two will spend the entire night making love until you either pass out or call for mercy, completely overstimulated by his skillful ways. But his desire for you is so incredible that he's already hard again when morning comes, body hot and cock standing to attention against your backside or snuggled between your thighs, begging to be buried inside you again.

As much as you want to keep up with him, your human body can only take so much, of course, and when you're on your 8th orgasm of the night, you're starting to lose your mind. So you two decide on a deal instead, to let him use you when his desire is too great. And of course Comte, the ever precious lover, makes sure you may also use him the same way if the need arises. (Honestly, just the thought of you using him as your own personal toy and for your own pleasure is enough to get him rock hard already.)

It doesn't take long after that until there's one night where Comte is especially insatiable, and long after you'd passed out from the pleasure, he was still fucking his fist to the thought of you beside your sleeping form. Despite the okay, he may still be hesitant at first, especially if he had really exhausted you. But when morning comes and he feels the same, while you're still sleeping your exhaustion off, he may finally be persuaded to cash in on your deal.

Comte is ever aware of your needs, and he will make sure to prep you before anything else. Even while sleeping, your pleasure and comfort is always at the forefront of his mind, even as the beast inside him howls to be unleashed. As his fingers trail along your body, teasing your breasts, down your sides to your hips and buttocks, then finally to your center, it gives him no end of happiness to see the way you react to him even subconsciously, nipples hardening, goosebumps rising on your skin, the way your pussy almost immediately slicks up for him and squeezes as he pumps one, two, three fingers into you. He almost wants to tease your body and make you squirm, cover you in hickeys and soft bite marks, but he'll save that for when you're awake and he can savor your full reactions.

And when he finally sinks into your soaked cunt, he has to hold back his moans so he doesn't wake you, so glad to be back in your heat again. Once he's done this, he isn't hesitant about being more forward and using your little deal, exploring, eating you out while you sleep and grinning as you moan and whimper in your sleep, twitching as you cum on his tongue. You can be sure he will come to you often, he can never get enough of you.

He's also incredibly excited for the days/nights when you finally turn to him and use him as needed. Just as your body is reactive to his touch, his is just as eager, a lovely blush staining his cheeks as his cock hardens beneath you. And although you can't say he never pleases you or never strives to make all your desires come true, there's something different about getting to have him so vulnerable for you as you grind your pussy against him or kitten lick his tip until he's bucking his hips in his sleep.

When he wakes in the morning with your sleeping body draped over his, soft cock nestled against your heat and the mess between your thighs the evidence of what had transpired, it drives him crazy to know you want him just as badly as he wants you. Don't be surprised if he's already hard by the time you wake up, because he can never quite get his fill of you. 💜

#comte x reader #abel x reader #tw somno #tw somnophilia #comte de saint germain #ikemen vampire #ikevamp comte #ikevamp smut #ikemen vampire comte #ikevamp abel #ikevamp hcs #the minx can write ✍️ #comte x you #comte x y/n #spicy minx 🔥 #cw somnophilia

[chaosangel767]

For Your Birthday

Happy Birthday Dearest Comte!!!

Fandom: IkeVamp

Pairing: Comte x F!Reader 

Prompt: Enchanted Evenings Day 9: Lingerie 

CW: lingerie, nipple play, slight breeding, vaginal penetration 

WC: 1000+

Tagging: @toloveawarlord , @thewitchofbooks , @queen-dahlia , @kissmetwicekissmedeadly , @aquagirl1978 , @canaria-blackwell , @devildomwritersposts , @ikesimp100 , @sarahann-1984 , @kpop-and-otome , @citizensofcradle , @littlewitty , @curious-skybunny , @lordsisterxotome , @queengiuliettafirstlady ,@namine-somebodies-nobody , @jihanel , @atelieredux , @violettduchess, @leotoru​ - If you want to be tagged or remove please dm me or fill out the form here.  

Your knuckles rap against his door nervously, fidgeting with how your robe is tied. The hallway is empty of residents, most tucked away in their rooms working. The clock striking midnight had brought you out of your room in search of your lover, wanting to give him his gift. 

“Come in” his warm voice washes over you, and your smile brightens. Opening the door you step into his study. “Ahh Ma Cherie, I was wondering who would visit me so late at night.” he smiles up from behind his desk and you hurry over to his side. 

“Happy birthday Comte” you announce as you open his door. His eyes widen in surprise as he looks over at the clock. Only a few minutes past midnight, it is his birthday after all. 

“I wanted to be the first person to tell you happy birthday and give you a present” You murmur, standing next to him and caressing his hair. His eyes rake over your figure before he pushes back from his desk and sitting in front of you. 

“This is new” He murmurs, fingers brushing against the silk of your robe. Teasingly tugging on the fabric, he watchines more skin of your chest revealed.  The babydoll lace lingerie  only teases the vampire, the fabric drapes over your skin, complimenting your skin tone and leaving very little to the imagination. It had been quite a feat for you to hide this commission from him, wanting to surprise him for his birthday. 

“So this is what you kept leaving the mansion for?” Your nod has a smile gracing his face. You cup his cheek, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. Unable to hold back any longer, Comte tugs the robe completely off your body. Arms snake around you as he pulls you into his lap. 

“Happy birthday” you whisper, your fingers lovingly stroking his cheek. His lips press against your hungrily in a kiss. Deepening the kiss, you feel his tongue explore your mouth and you pull away for a breath, a smile playing on your lips. Looking into his eyes, you catch a familiar predatory look in his gaze.  His fingers start at your cheek, wandering down your neck and shoulders, caressing all the skin they find. You shiver as his finger presses along the fabric, feeling it brush against your sensitive nipple. When you let out a soft sigh, his smile turns teasing. Mouth leaning forward to catch your breast, his tongue lapping at the fabric. The sensation has your hands curling on his shoulder, digging into his shirt for stability. His hands move behind you to clear off his desk. Parting from your breasts long enough to set you on the desk, he steps in  between your legs, fingers tracing the hem of the skirt. You shiver at his wandering touch, looking up at him with eyes clouded in need. 

“This is almost too good to take off” He murmurs in your ear, watching your face betray all the pleasure you are feeling. 

“So don’t take it off”  you whisper, “It’s yours to do with as you please” Reaching forward, you capture his lips in a kiss, teasing his tongue. Your hands go to his pants, undoing them enough to palm at his length. You can feel the moan in his throat as you muffle it. His fingers return the favor, rubbing against your core, he starts to prepare you. 

“That’s it” He murmurs, feeling your thumb circle his tip. His fingers thrust in your core, curling to stoke your sweet spot. It’s his turn to  muffle your moans as your walls clench around his fingers, protesting when he withdraws them, moving your hands away from his length as well. 

“Comte” You start to protest, but his hands grab your thigh, lifting you into the air. He doesn’t say anything else as he brings you to his bed, moving quickly before dropping you across the cool sheets.

“You said I could do what I pleased?” His voice is husky, raw with desire and you nod in agreement, letting out a groan when he flips you onto your hands and knees, hands roughly going up your thighs. He pushes the fabric out of the way, his hands massaging your bottom as he looks you over. 

“So pretty” he murmurs, fingers brushing along your slit to collect your juices,  spreading it over his length. His hands go to your waist, gripping the delicate fabric in his hands as he holds it in place. 

His name is a scream from your lips when he thrusts, sheathing himself inside with one thrust. Your breathing struggles to recover, his thumbs rubbing circles into the skin. Once he feels you regulate yourself and start rocking for stimulation, he picks up his thrusts.Your orgasm tears through you and your body goes weightless, trembling against the bed until he lifts you up. Nestling you against his chest he gets a deeper angle, only amplifying your orgasm. Every thrust hits your sweet spot, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your body, as his hand creeps to your breast. His mouth busies itself with your neck and shoulder, teeth scraping against your skin as marks bloom across your shoulder. 

“I can’t wait to fill you up” He murmurs in your ear, scraping his teeth against your ear. Shuddering between his thrusts and his touch, you moan his name as your second orgasm quickly approaches. Pushing you back down, he buries your face in the pillow, body pressed tight to yours as his thrusts grow sloppy. Your name is a grunt in your shoulder, the feeling of his seed spilling against your wall triggers your pleasure. Consumed by the warm feeling, your eyes glaze over, body collapsing against the bed the instant his hands lose their grip. Whispering words of love, Comte wraps you up in his arms, length still pressed deep inside as he whispers promises and caresses your skin. 

#ikemen vampire smut #ikevamp #ikevamp smut #comte de saint germain #comte x reader #ikevamp comte #Enchanted Evenings 2022 #enchantedevenings2022 #Happy Birthday Dearest Comte

[mirangel]

comte de saint-germain drabble 1

the ever so charming vampire loves to spoil you! whether it’s with elegant clothes that can barely fit in your closet anymore, or with affection befitting the hedonistic reputation he has amongst the mansion’s residents! he loves you so much, he feels spoiled just by being in your presence already. but he feels like you don’t know that nearly enough!

“ma/mon cherie… i love you so.” you’d giggle and tell him you���ve been told that the tenth time today, but he shakes his head, telling you that it’s not nearly enough for him! he peppers your face with saccharine kisses, the ghosting of his fangs reaching your neck before he retracts, bringing your mouth to his to engage in a hot, steamy kiss. his hands cup your face, as if you were a delicate treasure meant to be worshipped, he truly believes words alone aren’t meant to describe your beauty.

eternity will never allow him to forget the way your body feels wrapped around his when he’s being embraced with your love. how he wishes for time to stop just to savor this moment.

#⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎ starry scribe ✧ #ikemen vampire #comte de saint germain #comte x reader #saint germain x reader #ikemen vampire comte #ikemen vampire x reader #ikemen series #ikemen comte #comte de saint germain x female reader #comte de saint germain x male reader #comte de saint germain x gender neutral reader

[violettduchess]

A/N: A day late but better late than never! I thought it might be nice to celebrate the anniversary of my first fic with the suitor who was the subject of it! Comte was my first Ikemen route ever and he holds a special place in my heart 💜

Prompt that won the poll: Pulling suitor by the tie in for a passionate kiss

Comte x f reader

WC: 875

The party in the remote country estate, several kilometers away from Paris itself, is over. It was a night filled with delightful music, warm candlelight, and the soft murmuring of people dressed in their finest clothes, drinking the finest wine and spinning across a dancefloor of the finest Italian marble. Your host, a gracious baron and friend of Comte’s, was warm and welcoming, greeting you with a smile on his mustachioed lips.

And how you seized the night, your skirt billowing like a glittering, golden cloud around your ankles as you turned around the dance floor, the amber jewels at your throat and ears drinking in the warm candlelight. Your partners were admiring, complimentary, and above all respectful because while they enjoyed the time in your radiant company, everyone knew who truly holds your heart.

When you and Comte finally danced together, the night held its breath. The casual possession in the lay of his hand at your waist, the way he held you just a hair’s breadth too close for propriety’s sake, the way your gazes locked with one another and held, a covalent bond, hydrogen and oxygen. The way you moved together, smooth as water, across the floor, grace in motion. And underneath it, the visible crackle of electricity in the slight part of your lips, the hungry gleam in his bright eyes. There was no hiding it. Some party-goers snapped open delicate folded fans, cooling the sudden flush to their cheeks. Some felt the grip of the green-eyed monster's fist, wishing they would be so lucky to have someone look at them that way. 

You bid your farewells, arm in arm, before your carriage pulls up. The driver opens the door with a polite nod, doffing his hat to you both before setting it back down on his snowy white head. Comte climbs in first and then helps you up as you thank the driver. He’s hard of hearing and often just smiles and nods, but there is no one who knows the streets of Paris and the surrounding area better.

The door closes and soon the carriage lurches forward, over the stones of the baron’s long driveway before turning onto the road that will take you the long way back into the city. A small lantern hangs discreetly in the corner of the carriage, swaying back and forth, spinning shadows within the carriage’s plush interior. Comte, sitting across from you, glances down as he carefully removes his gloves. His handsome face is half-lit in soft, yellow light and half in wavering shadow.

“What an evening,” he says as he leans back against the plush maroon cushioning of the carriage’s walls. “I had heard wonderful things about the musicians Baron Gourgaud hired for tonight but they far exceeded any expectations. I must tell Mozart–”

You have other things on your mind. Sliding to the edge of your seat, eyes bright even in the dim lighting, you reach out and take hold of Le Comte’s chocolate-brown silk tie. Your eyes never leaving his, you slowly wind it around your hand, reeling him in, closer and closer.

“Abel….I don’t want to talk about the music.” One light tug and he is breathless, balancing on his own seat’s edge, the light in your eyes sending a shower of hot sparks cascading down his spine. The tie is now your prisoner, held tight in your fist as you smile slowly. “I don’t,” you whisper as quietly as a feather on the night’s breeze, “want….” You pull him even closer, your lips now a heartbeat apart, “...to talk at all.” 

You pull one last time, firmly, and your mouths meet, the sparks flickering in both your veins exploding like fireworks, sending a flood of heat rolling between you. He is a gentleman but you know what lies beneath that controlled beauty, that intelligent gaze. You know what needs to be done to unleash something uncharacteristically reckless, something thrumming with licentious want. Keeping your grip on his tie, your other hand slides up into the tawny locks of his hair, fingers curling into its strands. He is now caught in your grasp, yours to maneuver as you will. You press your body against his, forcing him back onto his seat before settling yourself over him, your voluminous skirt spread out across the cushioned seating like a shimmering, golden blanket. 

His hands press into your back, warm through the silk of your gown, his face tilted up like a man searching for answers from a higher power as he meets your demanding mouth. Right now, in this moment, there is no power higher than his desire for you. No divine call that could ring through his body like yours. You release your grip on his tie and he growls softly, your name now a carnal sound, before tightening his grip on you and burying his face into the curve of your neck. 

Your last coherent thought, as you feel the scrape of his teeth against your skin, the possessive clutch of his strong fingers, the shift of his body as he pulls you even closer, is how very lucky you are that your sweet driver is hard of hearing and the way back to the mansion so very long.

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

#ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen comte #ikevamp comte #comte de st germain #le comte de saint germain #comte x reader #ikemen fanfic #ikemen fanfiction #otome fanfic #violettwrites

[pieground]

The Story of Nothingness and Time

⏳️ ╎Comte x Narrator

☄️╎AU, inspired by Comte's route chapter 23-ish, short story. I HIGHLY suggest listening to Claire De Lune while reading for better immersion.

Darkness. All I see is nothing but darkness in all directions

At some point, I asked, shouldn't there be something in here? Anything?

So I started looking with no certainty of what I'm looking for until I spotted something bright from a distance. I went to it.

A pebble? That's certainly not what I was expecting, but then again, it was something. I reached for it and watched in awe as the pebble grew shinier and brighter, then it was luminescent and as clear as ice. And inside was a universe with tiny specks of dust and swirls of colorful smoke, dots revolved around each other and some even crashed; forming antimatter, a black hole where there is nothingness.

Am I in a black hole? After all, all I have been seeing in this place was darkness. But if I am in one, then it wouldn't be true to say that a black hole is where there is nothingness. I am here, and I found something here.

Shouldn't there be anyone else in this darkness? I couldn't be the only one in here… it feels.. it feels lonely in here.

So I wandered once again into the darkness with a universe in the palm of my hands, the only light that I had. I walked tirelessly for I don't know how long. It seemed like time only moved where I was. However, I felt no exhaustion, I only have this feeling that I should be looking for something, like something is waiting for me to find it… and when I find it, time will continue running, the void will be filled with space, and in the space, I will place the universe then I wait for the end and go and go back to the beginning.

For now, I need to look for something more.

In the darkness, I do not know if I reached the end or if I went back to where I originally was. I trusted the universe to lead me, so patiently, I searched and sure enough, it did lead me to something.

A door.

The closer I got, the slower I was. The universe, however, remained in its own phase.

So I went inside.

Huh?

It is a maelstrom, light, and darkness swirl towards each other, attracting and pushing each other. The wind was malevolent and unforgiving, I held the pebble to my chest and as I went to look over it, I saw the universe move in erratic paces then it slows before running anarchic. I looked back to where the door once was, but as I did, it gradually disintegrated into smaller matters, to sand, to atoms… and then back to nothing.

I'm inside the chaos.

For the first time since I found myself in the dark, I felt scared for myself and for the little pebble where my universe was. I'm afraid to even move. Just who knows what's in this seething mass? What if… something is out there to take my universe away? What would I do?

"I've been waiting for you, Time." A voice said.

I looked up to see someone had been standing in front of me. He wore a smile, he looked happy. And life burned brightly in his irises that reminded me of the yellow stars I found in my universe, however, they aren't just the stars, his eyes held galaxies upon galaxies, comets, and clouds… his aureate eyes held the universe. But more than anything, I saw me; all inside his eyes.

"Time?" I asked him.

"That's your name." He answered, "You told me that a long time ago."

"I did?"

"Yes."

"Have I met you before?" I asked once again, "My mind tells me no but my heart tells me otherwise."

"Do you truly not remember?" He took a step closer, "I can show you."

He closed the gap between us, leaning down, and our foreheads touched. I closed my eyes and felt the chaos calm down and surrounded us with pleasant warmth and the harsh wind became a gentle zephyr as it kissed both our skins. Slowly we descended, our feets touching the softness of the grasses. I opened my eyes once again, I saw his face illuminated by the bowing sun and the breeze playing with his golden hair. He leaned into my touch as my hand went to caress his cheek. And there, familiarity came showering me and everything else scattered and made sense.

"Abel."

He hummed, his face painted with relief. "See? Even time can not erase me from you."

"I took too long, didn't I?" I smiled sheepishly at him.

I only stayed in the chaos for a short time, but it was long enough to make me realize just how scary that place was. It made my universe run turbulent. I couldn't begin to imagine what it is like to be stuck in there for so long, waiting for me.

"It only feels like yesterday. Do not worry." He said, leaning down once again, "However, if you want to make it up to me, a kiss will—"

I pressed my mouth against his. A smile graced his soft mellow lips as they move with mine, dancing gracefully as if we were back in the times when we danced ceaselessly in the dark. I cradled his neck while his hands held me firmly by the waist. And just like that, we'd fallen right back in place as if I'd never been gone. His touch felt so familiar. How could I ever forgotten? We must have had millions of these encounters before. How else could it feel so natural?

Abel said his name meant "nothingness". But Abel is wonderful, especially to me. He holds the planets and the stars, the antimatter and fire that make up the universes of which I visited every time. He probably wouldn't understand right away, but me, who wandered through his darkness, have seen countless shiny pebbles; all enough to create universe of our own. Abel is so much more than he could see, and as Time, I will continue running towards him to remind him that.

"I'm always with you."

When Abel woke up, Time was gone. He was once again alone in the memories. A sad but hopeful smile on his lips, which his fingers subconsciously touched, reminiscing how Time's kisses felt.

He sighed.

Time must be wandering in darkness again…

It's okay. After all, Time promised. And that promise is always true—no matter how lonely it is to wander in the dark, Time will always come back to me.

☄️

In the beginning, there was only nothingness and time. The two co-exist, interchange, and orbit each other. Until space is filled nothingness and matter are born. Gradually, Nothingness disappeared and Time could do nothing but run through the universes in search of him. In the end, Time comes across a singularity in which a new universe is born and time wanders the darkness once again.

#The Story of Nothingness and Time #ikevamp le comte #le comte de saint germain #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp fanfic #comte x Narrator #comte x reader #universe

[beautifulsnake2162020]

Okay because I'm desperate for feedback over my first time writing an erotic love scene and for some reason my fic is not showing up on the tags.

To any Count de saint Germain lovers who would like to read my Birthday fic called "Birthday Honeymoon" please read it here :

As much as possible please leave feedback so that I may improve on my love scene writing.

#Ikemen Vampire #Ikevamp comte #Count de Saint Germain #Ikevamp Abel #Ikemen comte #Ikemen Abel #Ikevamp le comte #Comte x reader #Comte x Fem Reader #Comte x Y/N #Ikemen Count de Saint Germain #Birthday fic #Birthday Honeymoon