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ikeromantic · 1 year

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Perfect Harmony

At 2nd place in my IkeVamp 1K Follower Celebration: Fluffy Le Comte. The resident hedonist nobleman, sweet and dry like a fine wine. Approx 3000 words of love and loneliness.

Le Comte knew he was falling in love. The way his pulse raced at the sight of her. His breath catching at the slightest touch. The flutter in his chest when she stood close. She made him feel in a way he had not for such a long time. Made him remember that this endless life of his had more in it than the shallow, brief encounters of his social circles.

And yet, it was this that made him avoid her too. Filling his schedule. Pushing her away with his gentle, polite, but cool responses. Each time he looked at her and felt his heart leap, he was reminded too of the pain he would feel when she was gone. Already, he knew it would hurt to let her go. Back to her time, away from the mansion and out of his life. Allowing her close would only bring them both more sorrow in the end. Even if she stayed. Especially if she stayed.

He held this truth in his thoughts, reminding himself of it with the constancy of prayer.

It was this line of thought that gripped him when she laid a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright? You look . . .”

Le Comte smiled at her, pushing his dark thoughts to the back of his mind. “I was just considering how I might reward you for your kindness. It is such a weighty concern. I am not sure anything I do could properly show how much I appreciate you.”

She looked aside, her cheeks heating. “I haven’t done anything special. Just letting me stay here is enough. And you’ve done that and more. Half the time I feel like a princess instead of an unexpected guest.”

“You should feel like a princess.” He knew he shouldn’t, but couldn’t help himself as he reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips. Her skin smelled of the lotion she used, a slight scent of olives and lavender. Beneath that, the faint smell of just her. Sometimes he thought her scent was floral, the slight trace of a bloom in the air at spring time. Other days he thought it more like the welcoming smell of bakery kitchen. Hints of vanilla and sugar and spice. All comfort and sweetness.

His lips brushed her wrist, and he allowed himself to enjoy the brief sensation of her skin against his mouth. The tantalizing feel of her pulse, racing as much as his was right then. Temptation. Resistance. For a moment, his gaze locked with hers and he knew from the way her eyes widened that she could see the heat and hunger in his eyes. He veiled the truth as he pulled back. Polite smile firmly in place.

“I . . . I appreciate you too.” Affection and hurt played across her expression before she managed to conceal them both. “I just wanted to ask if you had a preference for your afternoon tea. I was thinking with the season, maybe you would like jasmine or rose?”

“Jasmine. And your company, if you would give it?” He let her hand go with a reluctance he did not show.

She nodded. “Of course.”

When she left, his study felt more empty than it should have. “I’m an old fool,” he murmured. His scarred heart thudded in his chest, reminding him that love would bring pain, no matter the beauty of the bloom.

A short while later, she returned with the tray in hand. Le Comte stood and helped her set it out. Their fingers brushed against each other as they both reached for the teapot, stilling for a heartbeat before they both drew back.

“Sorry! I thought-”

“No, no, I should apologize. But please allow me to pour.” Le Comte brushed his knuckle gently along her jaw. “Sit down, ma cherie.”

She sat, cupping her cheek where he’d touched her. She did not look at him as he filled their cups. The petals in the tisane floated to the top and then sank again, vivid against the pale porcelain.

They sat together, quiet for several breaths. There were a thousand things le Comte could say. He knew how to draw a person out, or close them off. How to ease someone closer, or push them away with a subtle sting. But he could not find the words he wanted to say to her. What could encapsulate the torrent that poured hotly through his veins and churned in his chest?

“I was thinking I would go to town this afternoon.” It was she that broke the silence finally, with courteous and proper conversation. “I need to pick up a few things in the market. Theo’s birthday is coming up and I wanted to make him something special.”

“Oh?” He sipped his tea. “What did you have in mind?”

Her smile shifted to one of genuine pleasure. “I found a recipe for a brown butter pancake. It’s supposed to be very sweet and very fluffy.”

“Theo will love it, I’m sure.”

“I hope so.”

“Perhaps I can accompany you?” The words left his mouth before he had a chance to consider them.

Her eyes widened. “You want to get groceries with me? Aren’t you too busy?”

“I am never too busy for you.” Which was a lie and a truth. He’d begged off spending time with her or disappeared for days to see to his projects and acquaintances in Paris. His multitude of investments, estates, and schemes. Yet he would have rather been at her side each time, the importance of these events merely manufactured to keep the distance between them. And it would be wiser now to hold to that but . . .

“Abel . . .” She blinked and looked to the window. He did not miss the sudden dampness in the corners of her eyes. “I would- I would love that.”

He wanted to pull her into a hug and erase her sadness with a promise to never let go. He wanted it the way a man dying of thirst aches for cool water. Instead he took a sip of tea. Swallowed it. A breath. Then, “Excellent. We’ll make an event of it. There’s a shop I’ve been wanting to show you so this is a perfect excuse.”

“I really don’t need another dress, le Comte! I think I nearly have one for each day I’ve been here!”

“Ah, so I’ve missed a few days then? We must rectify that.” His answer won him a crooked smile from her. “Truly though, I love being able to spoil you while you are here.”

She gave a soft laugh. “And I love being spoiled. I just feel a little guilty. Since. You know. I should have gone home already.”

Le Comte felt a sudden sharp coldness in his belly. Home. He’d almost let himself forget. “That is my fault as well, ma cherie. The door. I haven’t been able to fix it. So please, let us both enjoy spoiling you for now.”

They left a short while later, taking a carriage to the city. The shops and markets were busy, full of people from all walks of life selling and buying all manner of items. It only took a little time to find what was needed for brown butter pancakes, and rather than carry the groceries around, le Comte arranged delivery to the mansion.

“So, what is this shop you are so keen to show me?” She looked happier than she had at the mansion, he thought. As if being outside the gates brought them closer together. Perhaps it did. It was hard to remember to keep her at a safe distance when his arm was looped with hers and he could feel the brush of her hip against his as they walked.

He gave her a bright smile, anticipating her reaction. “The shop designs and makes clothing, of course. And shoes and handbags as well. But what makes them special is the fabric they use. You see it’s all im-”

She interrupted as the shop window came into view. “Oh my god! Le Comte! Those are from my country!” Her hand shook a little as she pointed at the display. A mannequin in a flowing dress of embroidered silk. The color and cherry blossom pattern were gorgeous, and shown to great effect by the cut and drape of the design.

“Yes. They have items and fabrics from all over the world. I thought we might find something you liked here.” He felt a burst of warmth as she leaned into him, slipping her arm around his waist in a quick hug. Too quick by half, he thought, as she pulled back to the more polite grip on his forearm.

“You are entirely too good to me.”

“Truly, ma cherie, you deserve even more. Now let’s see what they have for us, hm?” He felt a deep ache in his chest at her bright smile. The way she was almost bouncing on her toes with excitement. He wanted to see her like this everyday. For the rest of his life. He wanted the impossible.

Inside, they were ushered to a private room to look at swaths and templates. Chilled white wine and a tray of delicacies were set out for their enjoyment. No less than three assistants were at their beck and call, running and fetching any item they thought le Comte and his companion might be interested in.

“This shade is exquisite with your coloring,” one of the assistants told her, holding up a cloth sample dyed in sunset shades of gold that deepened to a crimson so dark it was nearly black.

“Your lover would look stunning. And I have the perfect design in mind for her shape,” another commented to le Comte.

The comment took her attention, and though she pretended disinterest, he could see how closely she listened for his response.

“My lover looks stunning in everything she wears. But I agree, those colors suit her.” Le Comte’s golden gaze met hers as he said it. He could not keep the yearning from his voice nor the heat.

Her eyes held a reflection of that fire laced with the ache of his constant and gentle rejections. “We aren’t lovers,” she corrected the shop assistant. “Only friends. And he knows he shouldn’t tease me about it.”

“I do, ma cherie. You have my apologies.”

The assistant spoke up. “It’s my fault! I shouldn’t have assumed!”

Le Comte gave her a kind look. “It’s only natural to assume I would take such a beautiful creature as my lover. You are not at fault.”

The other two spoke in a rush to fill the sudden awkwardness between le Comte and his companion. Complimenting her and rambling on about the design and fit. They were quite good at distraction and the moment passed.

Soon enough, she was smiling brightly again, and laughing with the assistants as they escorted her off to fit her. Le Comte waved her goodbye and promised to wait right here for her return. One of the assistants stayed behind, ostensibly to show him some shoes that would compliment her chosen fabric.

“You know,” the assistant said, glancing up from the selection of shaped shoe samples, “they say it’s better to regret something you did, than something you didn’t do.”

“Hm?” Le Comte raised a brow.

“Sure? I mean, if you never do anything, you miss out on a lot of beautiful moments. You get to dodge the sad ones too, probably, but you definitely lose the good stuff right along with it.” She grinned.

Before he could come up with a reply to this unexpected line of conversation, she gestured to a delicate, slightly heeled slipper. “This one, by the way. The color on the toe matches the lightest gold in the fabric. It will look perfect when it peeks past the hem. And they’re pretty comfortable.”

Le Comte nodded. “Yes, to the shoe.” He paused and took a breath, considering. “And the rest as well. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” She packed the selection back up and hurried off, leaving him alone with his wine and his thoughts. Had he chosen to regret something he could not bring himself to do? After so many long and lonely years, so much self denial. Perhaps it was time to admit . . .

She stumbled in as he was contemplating what that meant for him. For them. And wondering if he had been a fool again in creating this wall of courtesy between them.

“Abel?” She took a step forward. “What do you think about this cut? I wanted to show you but it’s hard to walk in this thing when all the seams are pinned!” Her smile was vibrant.

He took in the sight of her as if seeing the stars for the first time. The dress she wore was made of linen, thin as tissue. He could trace her form beneath it, from the curve of her shoulder to the flare of her hip, the length of her firm legs. Le Comte felt his mouth go dry with desire.

“I love the way the skirt drapes and moves. Look,” she spun slowly, sending the cloth fluttering away from her legs. Her bare skin drew his eye like iron filings to a lodestone. A flash of calf, the back of her knee, the swell of her thigh.

“Beautiful,” he said, his voice rasping on the word as if he had choked. Le Comte stood, unable to keep distant, unwilling to even try. He cleared his throat to try again. “Ma cherie, you take my breath away.”

She laughed shyly, hand covering her mouth. “You always say the nicest things.”

He caught her hand and drew it into his own. “Not always.”

Her smile caught on the jagged edge of his words and faltered. Afraid of what he would say next. What polite cruelty he would set between them to keep her affection at bay. She pulled her hand away, fingers curling into a fist at her side.

“I should, though. Always say only the nicest things.” He brushed a fingertip along the side of her face, relishing the way she leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut.

But it didn’t last. She took a step back. “You said,” she swallowed, “we��re partners. Just for the dances. And dinners.” She smoothed her skirt, trying to force herself to relax and let the tension between them flow away. “We’re friends. That’s all we can be. Because I -”

“Am human. Yes.” He closed the space between them again, his eyes trying to catch hers.

“You will live forever and I will grow old and die. I know that. It’s just so hard to remember when you - when you look at me like that.” She finally lifted her head, defiance flaring in her. “I love you, Abel. Even if you can never really love me.”

Those words spoken into the air between them set his heart ablaze. He could not deny her any longer. The love he felt, foolish as it might be, tore through all of his defenses, burnt away all his caution. “Love is a powerful thing, ma cherie.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? I’ve been trying to deny it. To smother it. To feel anything else for you than this - this stupid love. And I can’t. Love has been eating me alive for weeks. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t spend a single moment without thinking of you. About you.” She set her hand against his chest as if she might push him away or perhaps to pull him closer. “Please don’t hate me for feeling like this.”

Le Comte knelt at her feet, holding her gaze with his bright, golden eyes. “I could never hate you.” He took her hand and kissed the tip of her pinky finger, then the ring finger, and the middle.

She made a soft sighing sound, and a tremor ran through her body.

“Your love is not stupid.” He continued to her pointer finger and thumb, then pressed his lips to her palm. “Nor should you deny it.”

“But you said -”

“I have said many foolish things. I always think I know best.” He trailed kisses down the lines of her palm to her delicate wrist. “And yet, I am wrong so often.” Le Comte paused in the motion of his lips to look up at her. “I am sorry, ma cherie, that I did not realize sooner.” He paused, almost afraid to speak the words even as they battered at his throat and burned in his chest. “I love you.”

She looked for a moment as if she might fall. Swaying slightly, her eyes filling with tears even as a smile tugged at her lips. “Say it. Again. Please.”

“I love you.”

Her knees did bend then and he helped her lower to the floor in front of him. He held her, cupping her face in one hand. She felt so fragile. So precious.

“I didn’t think I would ever hear you say those words. I thought I would leave through the door, holding to my smile by a thread. And spend my whole life hoping for a glimpse of you again.”

Le Comte gave a ragged laugh, so at odds with his normal composure. “And I thought I could let you. But we cannot squander this gift. So few people find the one they love, who loves them in equal measure. I want to enjoy life with you at my side, even if I cannot have you forever.”

She leaned into his touch as if it were all that held her to this world.

“Might I kiss you?” Le Comte leaned a little closer.

“If you don’t, I’ll kiss you first,” she smiled.

“Can’t have that. It would ruin my reputation.”

She laughed softly, sending warm puff of breath against his cheek. “What reputation is that?”

Le Comte smiled, close enough now to feel the slight motion of her lips as she grinned back. “Don’t you know, ma cherie? I’m a hedonist, a seducer, a celebrant. If you kissed me first-”

Her lips caught his, all honeyed-heat and satin.

He kissed her back with the pent-up passion he’d kept firmly chained for so very long. The loneliness of centuries, the sweetness of the last few weeks together. In his long years, it was the most passionate kiss - the most heartfelt. Le Comte lost himself in her touch and taste. The feel of her in his arms. He wanted to weep for every moment he’d resisted, and kept them apart. What use eternity if he denied himself this love?

“I will never let you go, ma cherie.”

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp le comte #ikevamp le comte de saint germain #follower celebration #otome #otome guys #cybird otome #fanfiction #fanfic #fluff #light angst

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violettduchess · 1 year

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A/N: Since I was not able to complete all the fic requests for the Fall Fluff Autumn Angst Content Creation Challenge, I thought I could still do the ones I had left as headcanons 🌟

I did them for Ikepri here, now its time for vamp!

Napoleon, Mozart, Leonardo x reader

Word Count: 1853

Ikemen Vampire Fall Fluff Headcanons 🍂

Napoleon - Hot Apple Cider 🍎

It is the middle of the night, an hour when everyone should be warm and snug in their beds, lost in the garden of their dreams. You should also be curled against the warm body of the man you love but said body is….not there. Your stretched out hand searches the bed but finds nothing. You wiggle closer to his side, still feeling around and still all you touch are cool, empty sheets. With a groan, you push yourself up, rubbing sleepily at your eyes. Napoleon is not in bed and you know exactly where he is.

When the kitchen door opens, you are greeted by the heavenly scent of warm apple cider. Allspice and cinnamon drift dreamily up from the pot that the man you love is stirring. He glances at you over his shoulder with a sheepish grin on his handsome face.

“I couldn’t help it, Nunuche. I had to.” The conversation you had in this very kitchen, not six hours ago, replays itself in your mind. He was determined to treat everyone to hot apple cider tomorrow. But as he made it, something……something was missing. And despite your insistence that it was perfect, you knew by the glint in those eyes, bright as peacock feathers, that he didn’t agree. And because he is who he is, wanting to do his absolute best at anything he undertakes, he snuck back to the kitchen to make it just right.

You sigh, the sound warm with equal parts affection and exasperation as you walk over to him, sliding one arm around his waist as you eye the dark orange liquid. “And?”

His smile could illuminate the darkest of nights as he reaches for another, smaller spoon and carefully dips it into the cider. He raises it to his lips, blowing softly until he is certain it won’t be too hot for you to sip and then leans close. You drink the warm cider from the spoon and the expression on your face tells him he was right.

“That….is amazing. Even better than earlier. What did you add?” When he holds up the small bowl with the magic ingredient, you don’t recognize it until you bring it closer to your nose. “Cardamom?” He nods, pleased you recognized it. “Oui. Now it is perfect.”

You slide your arms around his waist, expression soft. “Does this mean you are now coming to bed?” You reach up, running a hand over the soft strands of his hair. Napoleon wraps his arms around you, nodding as he drops a gentle kiss to your lips. “I will clean up here,” he murmurs, his voice soft and alluring, “And then….” He kisses you once more. “Nothing…..” Another kiss, this time one that lingers, full of tantalizing promise, “Absolutely nothing will stand in the way of my joining you.”

Mozart - Hot Apple Cider 🍎

The wet, chill fall weather has struck again, making you late to dinner. You had stepped out of the mansion to run an errand, but just before you left the bookstore, the gray clouds decided it was the perfect time to unleash a cold, lashing rain that would have had you soaked to the skin within minutes of walking through it.

Sebastian meets you at the door, taking your hurried explanation with a head shake and a smile. He helps you out of your coat and then directs you to the dining room where several of the men are gathered, playing cards.

What greets you is the following scene: Arthur, Theodorus, Napoleon and Dazai playing some card game that moves too fast for you and has them all intently focused. Leonardo is literally asleep in the corner of the room, not bothered by the light or the noise. And there at the end of the table is Mozart, watching the others with a smile on his face, cheeks flushed. When he spots you, he beams. You know that face, that look in his eyes.

“Hallo, meine Liebe! I have missed you so.” He makes this announcement in a very loud, very not-sober Mozart voice and you put a hand on your hip as you saunter over to the card sharks. “Ok who did this?” You gesture to the man you love and the smile still plastered on his face. Arthur shakes his head, blue eyes bright as summer. “I swear, luv, I had nothing to do with it!” Theo looks annoyed you’ve interrupted their game. But Dazai’s golden eyes are bright as coins. Suspiciously so. “Dazai……” And then you notice all the mugs of cider. You glance at Mozart who is indeed drinking the last drops from his and already reaching for the jug with more.

You quickly go to him, gently taking the mug from his hand, lifting it to your nose before you set it back down on the table. He blinks his beautiful violet eyes at you. “I’m thirsty.” You wrap your arm around his narrow waist, giving him a placating smile. “We can drink something upstairs. Come.” Mozart is not used to alcohol and you know if he keeps drinking, he will be cursing the cider, and Dazai’s generous and likely sneaky addition of bourbon. Together you navigate the steps and hallway until you reach his bedroom.

He humors you, allowing you to help him out of his waistcoat and vest. Your fingers undo the soft cravat at his throat. You’re about to suggest he lay down when his hands come up, catching yours. The spiked cider has melted any sign of his usually icy facade, any cool awkwardness he may still struggle with when he is alone with you. Now his expression is warm, inviting. His pale skin is flush with color, his eyes brilliant amethysts caught in sunlight. “I missed you,” he says simply, honestly.

Those words are rays of sunshine, warming you as you squeeze his hands in response. “I’m here now.” He smiles earnestly and some part of you thinks it is for the best he doesn’t smile at you like this often. You would never be able to leave his side if he did. “Come,” you say for the second time that night. And this time you fall onto his soft bed together, Mozart’s arms wrapped around you. As his mouth finds yours and you taste the lingering flavor of apple cider on his lips and tongue, a small part of you smiles. You’ll have to tell Napoleon how good it tastes.

…….in the morning.

Leonardo - Cozy Sweater 🧶

Leonardo walks into his own bedroom with no idea what is awaiting him. You’re standing in the middle of the room, half undressed. He blinks, taking in the sight of you in your long skirts and only your thin chemise on top. “If I had known you were waiting…like this…, I would have come much sooner.”

The expression on your face shrivels all the sensual ideas in his head before they even have a chance to blossom. You look….miserable. “Cara mia,” he says, voice now colored with concern as he reaches you, one warm hand touching the bare skin of your upper arm. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s silly….” but he can see it is anything but. “Tell me,” he says encouragingly, still rubbing your bare skin. You sigh, making a gesture toward the bed where he notices the soft, caramel-colored sweater you love wearing. “I was helping Sebastian trim some of the hedges and…” You walk over, lifting the sweater from the bed and offer it to him. He sees the problem. Along the shoulder, there is an ugly, jagged tear, right along the seam. He can also see that you have tried to mend it yourself, but the material is very tricky. It’s a stretchy, knit fabric. One that made it a very comfortable sweater and unfortunately, very difficult to fix.

You shake your head. “I tried to fix it but pulling or tugging causes it to keep puckering and it also just keeps clumping up where I need it to lay flat and why didn’t I think to change before going outside?” You look crestfallen and it tugs on his heartstrings, awakening the burning need to make you smile again. “Should I go and take a sword to the evil hedge that attacked you? Make it pay for what it has done?”

That gets a laugh. It’s a small one but it still counts. You sigh, turning away from him and open the wardrobe, reaching for a dark red blouse. He comes over, taking over the buttoning for you and then cups your face in his hand. “I’m sorry, tesoro.” You offer him a shrug and a small smile, half as bright as usual. “Thank you. Now I have to get over this and go with Sebastian and do the grocery shopping for this week. I’ll see you later.” You kiss him, a soft thank you on the plane of his cheek, and head out. It seems like such a small thing to be upset about, but it would be a lie if you tried to pretend you weren’t.

A few hours later, you make your way up the stairs toward the bedrooms, feeling better. The food stalls and vendors had helped you forget your torn sweater, distracting you with their vibrant wares and charming stories. You open the door to Leonardo’s bedroom, fully expecting to find him catnapping on the bed. He isn’t there, but what you find stops you in your tracks. Your sweater, your beautiful, soft, cozy sweater is folded neatly on the bed. You make your way over, lifting it up, your motion slow with the weight of shock. Sure enough, the ugly tear in the shoulder has been expertly mended.

“Welcome back.” You turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, his mouth curved in a satisfied grin. You look back down at the sweater. The kind of double stitching he did you’ve only ever seen done by a sewing machine, which certainly does not exist. “How….did you did this?” He offers you a nonchalant shrug. “You know me, cara mia. I sleep and I fix things. It’s what I do.”

You carefully set the sweater down on the desk chair, keeping it off the bed, before you cross the room to where he is standing. The look on your face has him straightening up, reaching back to close the door behind him, his own grin slowly growing. You lean against him, stretching up to lock your hands behind his neck as he slides his hands down over your hips. Oh he likes where this is going.

“So my knight in shining armor lifted a sewing needle instead of a sword and saved the day,” you murmur, your gaze bright and inviting. “How ever can I repay you for your kindness, cavaliere?” The Italian word for ‘knight’ falling from your lips nearly sends him over the edge of reason right then and there.

“I have a few ideas,” he answers, voice husky with anticipation. And then he has you in his arms, his kiss claiming you as wholly and utterly his.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @leotoru @ariamichel @kpop-and-otome

#ikemen series #ikemen vamp #ikevamp #ikevamp napoleon #ikevamp mozart #ikevamp leonardo #napoleon bonaparte #wolfgang amadeus mozart #leonardo da vinci #fall fluff autumn angst ccc #fluff #ikemen fanfic #ikemen fanfiction #violettwrites

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otomefoxystar · 2 months

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Duty of a Princess - Chapter 2

Fandom : Ikemen Vampire

Pairing : Arthur X MC

Genre : NSFW, Angst

TW: Break- up

Author notes: Smut in this chapter, minors be warned.

The stupid letter could wait. Arthur had to go to you and go to you now. He rode fast and with purpose. Your horse was already tied up when he got there. You were sitting next to the pound, throwing flower petals in. You turned when you heard someone walking. Upon seeing Arthur, you choked out a sob and ran into his strong arms. He wrapped you into his warmth, taking in your scent as you took in his. Both of your eyes wet and red from crying. You finally looked up at him. Seeing the tears running down his face, you wiped them away and kissed him hard. moving your lips together. There was no need for words; you knew what the other was thinking. This was the last time you could be together like this. This. Was. Goodbye.

You pulled away, and Arthur rubbed his nose against yours and pressed your foreheads together. "You," he said with a shaky voice, "are the love of my life. I will never love anyone the way that I love you." That only made you cry harder. "And you are mine, my light, my safe place." Your heart was breaking. "If only we could run away together, I would go, no questions asked." He shook his head with a pained face, "No. This relationship was doomed, to begin with. I knew you were the Princess and had duties to your family, but I couldn't stay away.

Now, my love." He cupped your face, backing up and looking at you. "Do what you must do, and I hope you can love this man one day. All I want is for you to be happy. I know this is hard right now, and we are both hurting. It will get easier." Another tearful kiss. "Arthur, you must promise me something. Move on. Find love again. I might not have that luxury, but you do. Find a woman you love as much as me or more." He shook his head vigorously. "Promise me, Arthur." He moved his hands to your hands, entwining their fingers. "I promise I'll try."

You shook your head. "That's not good enough!" He sniffled, "That's all you're going to get." You laid your head on his chest, listening to his nervous heartbeat. "Let's not be sad anymore and make the most of our time together." You lifted your head, looking him in the eyes, and he grinned.

You knew what he what he was suggesting. He wanted to take you into town. "Someone will recognize me." He kissed you tenderly on the forehead, taking your cloak off and putting his own on your shoulders, covering your head with it. "Not if they can't see your face." He gave you his signature cheeky smile, and you just gazed at him. "Follow me." He mounted his horse and rode into town with you following not far behind him.

Hearing the hustle and bustle of the town amazed You. It's only on special occasions that you go into town, and it's been a long time. You dismounted your horse as Arthur put his horse away. You looked around, feeling nervous that the townspeople would recognize you. Arthur came back, offering his arm to you. "No need to worry, Luv, let's walk." He took you around the town, strolling slowly, stealing small kisses. He bought a dessert to share with you. He poked your nose when you got cream on it.

You noticed the sun starting to set and looked at Arthur sadly. He shook his head. "No, not yet." He led you to an Inn and stopped in front of the door, searching your eyes, looking at you sincerely. "Stay with me tonight." You looked up, realizing where he had taken you. "You didn't even need to ask." You beamed at him, taking his hand in yours.

You walked into the inn, and Arthur requested a room as you stood in the back with your head down, hoping no one recognized you, especially at an inn with the King's scribe. You walked up the steps hand in hand to your room. Arthur shut and locked the door when you were inside the room. The lock made a noise louder than it should have been. The atmosphere quickly changed, and you weren't sure what to do with yourself or what to say.

You looked at each other, and he lowered the cloak from your head,

brushing your hair behind your ear. "Can I have you? If this is the last time I can be with you, I want to etch myself into your entire being." He moved closer, cupping your face and kissing you with all the passion and determination he had. "Let me love you one last time." You kissed his nose, "I would never say no to you, Arthur." He arched an eyebrow. He knew that if anyone found out he had deflowered the Princess, it would be his head on a stick. "It's different for you. You're the Princess. You should say no, but I want to be greedy tonight."

You smiled softly, "Then be greedy." He took off the cloak and kissed your lips sensually. This was a different type of kiss. He had never kissed you like that before. He pulled away, looked you in the eyes, and cupped your face with his large hands. " Close your eyes." Doing as he asked, you closed your eyes, and he placed a kiss on each of your eyelids.

It was clear that he loved you just as much as you loved him. He placed gentle kisses upon you, moving to your neck, eliciting a moan from you. Your cheeks turned red from embarrassment, and you turned your head away. Too immersed in tasting your skin, he didn't notice your embarrassment.

Moving behind you, he moved your long, wavy hair off your neck to lay over your shoulder. He kissed the back of your neck. He moved his hands to your arms, his fingertips moving down your arms. Then to your waist. He moved his hands up your curves. You started breathing heavily. " Are you nervous?" You swallowed, " Yes, but I want to be with you." He kissed your cheek. " I'll try to make you as comfortable as possible."

His hands, still on your sides, released you and went to the ties on your corset; he removed the ties one eyelet at a time until he slid it off your body. Feeling an overwhelming urge to kiss his lips, you turned around and wrapped your arms around his neck, looking him in the eyes and then crashing your lips to his. He helped you remove every piece of clothing until you were only your dressing gown. You discarded Arthur's clothing as he had done to you. Unable to resist, you smoothed your hands down his solid chest. You put your hand over his thumping heartbeat. He grasped your wrist. "It beats for only for you." Arthur helped You out of your last article of clothing, and instinctively, you crossed your arms, covering your chest. He smiled at how innocent you were. He picked you up, placing you gently on the bed, and laid on the bed next to you.

Looking at you softly, he traced the outline of your face with his finger. Running it over your soft eyelids and down the bridge of your nose. "I want to memorize you." Your legs entwined with his, you reached up, putting your hand on his cheek and kissing him. Then, put your head on his chest. "This will always be my safe place." You kissed his chest and felt a warm wetness fall onto your shoulder. You looked up, seeing the tears run down his face, and tears filled your eyes. "I love you; I will always love you. Even if we can't be together, I will still love you. I want you to know that." He gave you a tearful kiss. "I don't want to leave you, Arthur. I love you too much." He bit his lip, his blue eyes searching yours. "Just be with me here and now, and let's forget what tomorrow will bring." You cuddled into his chest and kissed his collarbones.

The sun had set, and a dark curtain fell upon the two lovers. Arthur kissed the top of your head, then lifted your head so you were looking at him. He kissed you with a passion he had never kissed you with before. His tongue twined with yours, his teeth nipping your bottom lip as he pulled away. His hand was on the back of your neck, your hair in his fingers.

He kissed along your jaw to your neck, and a moan and a sigh escaped your lips. "You like that, don't you?" You nodded, feeling unable to speak. He bit and kissed, careful not to leave any marks but still providing you pleasure. Distracted by his lips, you felt his hands caress the curves of your body, and you tensed. "relax. If you don't like it, I'll stop." Your body relaxed, letting him continue with his explorations. His hand smoothes over your belly and glides slowly up till it halts, and he stops his ministrations on your neck, turns you on your back, and sits between your legs. You knew the position change that things were about to heat up. There was no turning back now, not that you'd want to.

His hands cup your soft breasts, and you gasp. Not used to being touched there. He squeezes and massages your supple breasts, gauging your reaction, and your breath hitches. His fingers pinch your nipples, and heat flows through you, and you moan as he twists your nipples. His length beginning to harden. He bends down and takes a nipple in his mouth, lightly biting and circling the areola with the tip of his tongue. He does the same to the other side.

He kisses your lips and bends by your ear. "I'm going to touch you now." You nod with nervousness and lust filling you. He occupies your mouth as his hand slides down till it reaches your heat, and he cups it, startling you a bit, but him touching you there makes you tingle all over. he takes two fingers and moves through your folds. It felt different from when you touched yourself thinking of him. To actually be touched by him was so so much better.

"my love?" You looked at him, "can I put my fingers inside of you?" You nodded as you breathed heavily. As he gently slid a finger inside of you, the invasion felt better than you thought. He began thrusting his finger inside of you, and as you panted at the way he was making you feel., he was getting harder by the second. He added a second finger and was thrusting his fingers in gently. Desire was completely consuming you. You had never this way before, a physical need for him. Arthur pinched your nipples again, making your desire for him insatiable. He withdrew his fingers from you, and you suddenly felt too empty.

Arthur hovered over you and gave you another fiery kiss, his hardness touching against your thigh. It made you both excited and scared. When he released your lips, he cupped your cheek. "Will you let me make love to you?" There was no hesitation; you wanted this so badly. "Yes," you replied; he looked into your eyes, searching, "Are you sure?" You kissed his nose, "I'm sure. I want this. I want you." He kissed you, his tongue delving into your mouth. "I love you." He said as he nuzzled his face in your neck and kissed you there.

He spread your legs so that he was at your center; he ran his length down in between your folds, putting the right amount of pressure on your clit to cause you to shiver with pleasure for a moment. Once his length met with your entrance, he put his hands in yours, entwining your fingers together. "This will probably hurt." You creased your eyebrows, and he pressed his lips to yours, his tongue diving into your mouth to distract you. He pushed in gently, just the tip entering your warm cavern. Trying to be gentle, he slid in slowly, only allowing a little at a time. It had been relatively easy thus far, and you had no pain until he hit a wall. You winced in pain, and Arthur stopped, not wanting to cause you pain, but he knew it was going to happen. " Should we stop?" He asked

You shook your head, " No, I want to keep going. I want this, Arthur; I want to be one with you." He smoothed your hair back. "I want that too." He pushed forward, and you squeezed his hands tightly and shut your eyes tight as you went through the motions of the pain washing over you; you hadn't even realized he had finally connected fully with you. When he smoothed your hair and kissed your forehead, you opened your eyes. he looked at you worriedly. "How are you?" Your brows still furrowed, "I don't know? The pain is starting to subside." He smiled softly. " I hope it didn't hurt too badly." You leaned up and kissed him."Make love to me, Arthur, just go slow." He bent down and gave you sweet kisses. "I will"

He pulled back and thrust back in. He kept his promise and went slow, but soon you were feeling this insatiable desire for more and your hips bucked, trying to get closer to him. "You can go faster now. Please go faster." Arthur smiled, "It's starting to feel good, isn't it?" You nodded. He sped up his pace, and your hips lifted in time for his thrusts; your bodies were in perfect sync. He lifted one of your legs and placed it over his hip. The new angle had you reeling. Your moans were loud and frequent, adding to Arthur's pleasure and urging him to give you more.

Soon, you began to heat up. You felt the wave of heat from the crown of your head down to your toes. Arthur felt the pulsing of your walls, signaling your oncoming orgasm. “Arth…ur…Holy hell!" Your moans had turned high-pitched, and your leg fell off his hip. He reached between your bodies and began rubbing your clit in circles. Soaking in the intense feeling, his thrusts matched the erratic pace of you lifting your hips.

Before you knew what was happening, Your vision went white, your back arched, and shockwaves ignited your nerves. Your walls tightened around his length, and Arthur knew you had reached your climax. With you clamped around him, it was making it hard for him not to follow with an orgasm of his own. Just as you were coming down and you let your vise grip around his length go, Arthur thrust three and then four times and quickly pulled out, his seed covering your belly. "Sorry," he was clearly apologizing for finishing on your stomach. You just smiled, glad Arthur enjoyed himself as much as you enjoyed yourself. He got up to grab a hand towel and wipe your belly. He laid next to you and softly ran his fingers through your hair. "I love you, I always will." You took his hand, kissed it, and held it close to your heart. "My heart will always beat for you." The sadness you felt was echoed in his eyes.

You both were hurting, and there wasn't anything either of you could do to ease the pain that you both felt. You looked out the window, seeing the dark blanket covering the sky with the moon illuminating your room. "You should probably get back before your family thinks you ran away." You nodded, "Yeah, I guess it's gotten pretty late." You said, melancholy seeping into your voice as you stared at the twinkling stars. "Look at me" Arthur turned your head so your eyes were locked on those azure eyes that you could lose yourself in. "Thank you for tonight. This is a memory I will keep locked in my heart forever." You kissed him hard and with need. You wanted to remember the softness of his lips, how he tasted, how his lips moved with yours.

Tears fell, not just from you but from you both. When you both reluctantly released each other's lips, you put your face against his chest, hearing the thumping of his heartbeat and taking in his smell. He put his nose on your head, combing your hair with his fingers, inhaling deeply, trying to imprint the smell of your hair. It was no secret that you were both in heart-wrenching physical pain from the impending goodbye. Both your faces were illuminated in the moonlight, making each other in awe of the other. Unable to resist, Arthur kissed you, twining his tongue with yours. He kissed you till you were both breathless.

Knowing you had put it off long enough, you both got dressed and walked back to the stables with Arthur's cloak shielding your identity. Arthur held your hand tightly the whole way, your fingers entwined intimately. No words were shared as this was the moment you both dreaded, the moment you both wished would never come. You observed him as he brought out your horse. You were rooted to the spot, unable to move, frozen with an uncontrollable grief. If you hadn't been a Princess, you could've fought for your love and won. If you weren't a Princess, you could be with him for the rest of your life. Damn, being a Princess.

When he turned around, your eyes connected, and it was as if, at that moment, you both shared the hurt; you knew exactly how the other felt. Without hesitation, he put his hands on your face and kissed you deeply at every angle, turning his head each time. This wasn't your usual kiss but a kiss of desperation. Suddenly, you both sank to the ground, your skirts in the dirt, but at that moment, all that mattered was being held by Arthur. Your eyes locked, and you threw your arms around his neck and pressed your body against him as the tears fell. Arthur held you tightly, his body tremoring with his own sobs. You remained this way until no more tears could come from either of you. You lifted your head from his shirt and noticed you had soaked it with your tears, but he didn't seem to care as he captured your lips in another heart-wrenching kiss.

When you both released each other's lips, you searched his eyes and put your hand on his cheek. "I love you." He spoke softly as he leaned into your tender touch. "I love you too, Arthur." Neither of you wanted to elaborate on the love you held for each other. You had caused each other enough pain for one night. He moved to stand up, helping you up in the process. He grabbed you by the waist, pulling you against his body, and pressed his forehead against yours. "Shine radiant like a twinkling star, the brightest star. That is what I want for you." He stepped back to look at you. "I want you to finish that Novel and share it with the world; I want everyone to see your passion, your heart of gold." You placed your hand over his heart. "Because this heart is sacred and deserves so much." You pulled away and stepped up on your toes, pressing your lips on his forehead, closing your eyes tight, knowing this was it. You had to leave.

You mounted your horse, but he grabbed your hand before you could go. You squeezed his hand back, knowing this was the final goodbye. Tears rolled down your face, and he kissed your hand, his lips lingering. Reluctantly, he let go, each of your fingers holding on until your hands were empty. You took the reins, and your horse started moving forward. You looked back as you got closer to the end of the town. You watched Arthur get further and further away, finally forcing yourself to face forward. The tears broke, and you couldn't control the panic setting in.

Arthur watched as you exited the town, and as you turned the corner, he knew he couldn't be strong any longer, and he let his weakness take over. His back hit the side of the stable, and he slid down until he was sitting down. He hugged his knees, looking at the castle, knowing that's where his love was, but it felt like you were so far away. When you arrived at the castle, you were still wearing Arthur's cloak; rushing straight to your bedroom, you lunged on your bed into the pillows. Your body felt like it was tearing apart piece by piece, and you fell into an unrestful, dreamless sleep.

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp princess au #ikevamp arthur conan doyle #arthur angst #ikevamp fic #ikemen vampire fic #ikemen fandom #ikemen vampire fanfic #arthur smut #arthur x reader

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katriniac · 10 months

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*STARING RESPECTFULLY*

Okay, okay, as soon as I'm done drooling over this new card, I will post my thoughts of what this image brings to mind.

Heh, it won't be as sexy as you think... 😅

#why do I love angst?#ikevamp leonardo #ikemen vampire leonardo #they gave him nips

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aquagirl1978 · 1 year

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Happy Thanksgiving to all everyone. Thank you to everyone who participated in the event, we loved reading all of your entries.

Day 1 - leaves

Dance with Me | Vlad | by @aquagirl1978

Colors of Love | Chevalier Michel | by @queengiuliettafirstlady

Leaves | Comte de Saint-Germain | by @pieground

Leaves | Lucifer | by @ariamichel

Day 2 - hot apple cider

Late Night Drinks with Keith | Keith Howell | by @atelieredux

Hot Apple Cider | Napoleon Bonaparte | by @violettduchess

Hot Apple Cider | Mozart | by @violettduchess

Day 3 - bonfires

Jean and Bonfires | Jean d'Arc | by @bluesparklingmoon

Day 4 - pumpkins

Pumpkins | Motonari Mouri | by @aquagirl1978

Pumpkins | Chevalier Michel | by @violettduchess

Day 5 - cozy sweaters

These Dreams | Clavis Lelouch | by @aquagirl1978

Cozy Sweater | Clavis Lelouch | by @violettduchess

Cozy Sweater | Luke Randolph | by @violettduchess

Cozy Sweater | Leonardo da Vinci | by @violettduchess

Day 6 - ghosts

Ghosts | Leon Dompteur | by @violettduchess

Ghosts | Lucifer | by @devildomwritersposts

Ghosts of the Past | Rio Ortiz | by @venti-tangents

Ghosts | Clavis Lelouch | by @violettduchess

Ghosts | Leonardo da Vinci | by @violettduchessuchess

Trapped | Clavis Lelouch | by @aquagirl1978

Ghosts | Lancelot Kingsley | by @ludivineikewolf

Day 7 - harvest moon

Harvest Moon | Gilbert von Obsidian | by @violettduchess

Harvest Moon | Hideyoshi Toyotomi | by @aquagirl1978

Day 8 - tricks

Multi-prompt Fic | Sirius x Seth | by @badass-at-fandoming

Day 9 - treats

A Rare Treat | Chevalier Michel | by @aquagirl1978

Home Sweet Homesick | Clavis, Chevalier | by @scorchieart

Day 10 - warming hands

Warming Hands | Chevalier Michel | by @violettduchess

Warming Hands | Gilbert von Obsidian | by @aquagirl1978

Warm Date | Gilbert von Obsidian | by @queen-dahlia

Warming Hands | Leon Dompteur | by @violettduchess

A Sweet Treat | Licht Klein | by @aquagirl1978

Day 11 - changing seasons

Changing Seasons | Comte de Saint-Germain | by @violettduchess

Nothing Gold Can Stay | Leonardo da Vinci | by @iphigeniainaulis

Change for the Better | Keith, Yves, Licht | by @scorchieart

Changing Seasons | Theodorus van Gogh | by @violettduchess

Seasons of Change | Chevalier Michel | by @aquagirl1978

The Queen's Command | Chevalier Michel | by @aquagirl1978

Day 12 - crisp autumn air

no entries

Day 13 - cinnamon kiss

Cinnamon Kiss | Gilbert von Obsidian | by @aquagirl1978

Cinnamon Kiss | Clavis Lelouch | by @violettduchess

Cinnamon Kiss | Chevalier Michel | by @violettduchess

Day 14 - masks

Masks | Gilbert von Obsidian | by @violettduchess

Wanderer | Dazai Osamu | by @queengiuliettafirstlady

Portrait of a Gentleman in Disguise | Clavis Lelouch | by @queengiuliettafirstlady

Three Masks | Keith Howell | by @aquagirl1978

#fall fluff autumn angst ccc #ikemen series #ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikemen revolution #ikerev #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen prince #ikepri #obey me #fanfic #otome #otome games

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pieground · 1 year

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L E A V E S

Le Comte De Saint-Germain

In partcipation to Fall Fluff Autumn Angst by @aquagirl1978 & @violettduchess~ here is my rushed work.

🍂Prompt: Leaves

🍁Word Count: 2.6k

⚠️ Slight spoiler.

ㅤ

A maple leaf idly danced as it slowly made its way to the ground, it had just fallen from a tree and was ready to join the dead leaves withering on the autumn-painted soil. A girl around the age of eight or nine was lying among them, she had her eyes closed and her breathing was soft. A shadow fell over her and as she opened her eyes, she found a man standing just beside her. He had caught the maple. She immediately thought of the man as someone odd, never had she ever seen someone enter the woods wearing such lavish and tailored clothing, let alone one with eyes the same color as the aureate sun.

The girl expected the man to go away soon but he seemed to be too preoccupied with his thoughts, it seems he did not even notice her either. He has a mysterious smile on his lips, she couldn't figure out whether it is rooted in happiness or not, his eyes do not reflect joy or sadness.

He is simply smiling at the leaf he had caught in midair.

She had given up and rose from the ground, several leaves falling off her blouse, “Is that a maple? ” the girl asked, doe-like eyes narrowing at the leaf in between the man's fingers.

“It is. ” He answers before turning to face the little girl. His eyes widened for a second before he smiled, he seemed to be delighted at the sight of the twigs that were stuck on her pigtails, which were also messy from lying on the ground for god knows how long.

The girl gets on her feet and dusts herself before cocking her head to the side. She took his form from head to toe and the man chuckled. She had no idea why he did that but she crossed her arms and stared him straight in the eyes.

“Do you know what it means when you catch a maple leaf?” she asks him again, this time, her voice laced with anger, her glare clashing with the fond look in the man's eyes.

“I'm afraid not.” He confessed, before reaching a hand to gently remove a stuck twig in her hair. He took this chance to introduce himself, “They call me Le Comte De Saint-Germain. It's my pleasure to make your acquaintance— ”

“—then throw it away, Old Man!” she yells out of the blue, making Le Comte pull his hand away. He then had to swallow a grin when he noticed that the girl was missing her two front teeth, he could fit a dime in there.

“Will you tell me why I should?” he inquired, raising the leaf above his head to protect it from the girl who then started jumping around him to reach it.

She groaned, momentarily stopping to answer him. “If you caught a maple leaf, you're gonna fall in love with the person with you!! You're too old for me! ”

“I see. How interesting,” he murmurs to himself, there is a wistful smile tugging on his lips, and his golden eyes wandered to the maple in between his fingers. “I wonder if it's true— ”

“–do you want to die?! you can't just say that! I'm just a child! I won't fall in love with an old man?! Just throw it away before it's too late!” she continued to wail, stomping and causing the dead leaves to crunch beneath her feet.

“What's your name? ” he asks.

“I won't give you my name! What if you use it to make me marry you?! You wanna die?! ”

That’s the second death threat! He grins, “I won't. I simply want to know your name. ”

The girl huffed angrily. However, it only made Le Comte chuckle in joy. She has twigs on her hair and withering leaves stuck on her clothes and yet here she stands with her head held high, accompanied by a ferocious glare and two missing front teeth! And suddenly, it had become a staring contest between a furious child and a mysterious man. The man was confident he would win but when he saw the girl's eyes watered and lips quiver, he immediately blinked.

He then folded his knees to match her height. By the time he had a good look on her face, she was already crying. “Cheríe? What happened?”

Her head hung low and in between sobs, she answered him, “I don't wanna marry you, I like Jimmy!”

His eyes twitched, “Jimmy? ”

ㅤ

Le Comte and the little girl sat side to side on a bench, watching a group of youngsters play soccer across the open field. The girl happily devoured the ice cream Comte bought for her— as a sorry for the leaf and finished it in no time. Seemingly expecting it, he handed her his untouched ice cream, which she gratefully accepted.

“Hm, if I am not mistaken, that must be Jimmy,” he spoke, eyeing a certain boy in the crowd, “the one with the ball.”

Elated, the girl nodded enthusiastically, the corners of her lips tugging into a wide grin and uncaring about the gap in her teeth. “See? Even you spotted him right away because he's so handsome! ”

“Considering you kept describing how he looks to me on our way here, I doubt it, Cherie.”

Le Comte had a smile plastered on his face, however, his eyes shone with bitterness, still eyeing the boy through the field. She was scowling at him earlier, glaring and yelling at him just because he caught a leaf, and yet with just a mention of the name "Jimmy" a smile naturally comes to her face like she's the happiest girl in the world. He felt ridiculous, is he jealous? Over a child? He wouldn't confess it outright but he is. Having to be a pureblood meant he will forever be subject to losing and today is a reminder of that.

After the soccer game, the two of them ended up talking and playing around the town. She told him about the books she read and the things she likes- he was grateful it didn't include the soccer boy. Comte too had told her about his adventures which she commented were a lot more fun than the ones in the books. He isn't sure if he would agree with that but if it's fun for her, then he wouldn't pop that bubble. He only had to console her with food again when she almost cried with a story he told her.

ㅤ

The sun was starting to set when the he and the little girl took off. She let him hold her tiny hands as they walked side to side. At that very moment, Comte had another mysterious smile on his face. Even he couldn't figure out whether it was rooted in happiness or sorrow. It is all very familiar to him, from the gentleness of the breeze and the warmth that comes from the bowing sun. At last, he stopped, it almost knocked him off his breath when he let go of her.

Before the old library, he folded his knees to match her height and caught the back of her hands, opening her soft palms, and there he laid the maple leaf.

“But didn't you like this leaf so much?” the girl inquired, curiosity peeked behind her lashes and her lips formed a small pout as she did. He smiled, So, it's still a habit of hers, he thought.

“I love it, Cherie,” he answered and the girl frowned.

“You sure are the weirdest person I have met! Did you fall in love with a leaf?!” She huffs in disbelief, then her eyes softened, “Hey Old Man, are you leaving now? I feel sad.”

It was his turn to frown. Sad? But why? She had only met him. And so, he asked. When she answered, there was no hint of hesitation in her eyes.

“It just feels like I wouldn't see you anymore but I want to see you again… So visit me! I’ll kill you if you don’t, alright?!”

He only smiled, choosing not to answer, and then he took the conversation back to the leaf. By this time, the sun had painted the scenery in painterly orange and yellow.

He’s running out of time.

“See this leaf?” he tapped her palms, “Long as you have this leaf, you will never fall in love with me. You can throw it away but please do once I'm no longer in your sight.”

Seemingly in her thoughts, she stared down at the maple on her opened palms. Just then the autumn leaves started falling upon them, hiding them from the rest of the world, inside a bubble of their own. Comte closed his eyes, a silent teardrop had trickled down his cheek, just like a rip on a perfectly smooth paper, his mask cracked and showed the loneliness that lurked on his very being.

Reaching for her with shaky hands that he tried so much to still, he placed one last chaste kiss on her forehead before he abruptly stood up and headed towards the library, each step he took was heavy and the farther he goes, the more his heart cracked and fissured into fragments. He ignored the confused and panicked voice behind him and reached for the door's handle. And just before the door closed, he turned and caught one last glimpse of her eyes,

Of his beloved's eyes.

“I love you until the end of time.”

ㅤ

The little girl hurriedly opened the library door but there was no one there when she entered. She went aisle after aisle, looking for him. But he was not there, it is as if he was never there at all. With disappointment and loneliness of losing the strange man she considered her friend, she left the library regretfully, walking back home while she stared at the leaf he laid in her hands.

That marked the first time she had met him, and to Comte, it marked as their fourth.

ㅤ

In the veil of the night, the moon became the candle that lit up the darkness of the sky, and thousands of stars hung on the cloudless eve. It had always been the same and never once changed, perhaps that's why two purebloods stood side to side on the terrace, staring at the twinkling ocean above their head, maybe it had become some sort of comfort or a reminder— a reminder of the eternal sea they are sailing, of an hourglass that never ran out of sand.

“You never told me what happened there,” Leonardo said, taking out one cigarillo and placing it in between his lips. He lifted a lighter and gave it a click, it sparked but didn't light up so he tried again, only he got the same result.

Comte reached for his breast pocket, brought out the lighter he never used, and took the initiative, clicking the lighter to life. It is only when the latter's cigarillo touched the flame did he speak.

“I let her go… at last.” Le Comte uttered, placing back the lighter in the breast pocket of his coat and smiling at him– one that said a lot more than words could explain but Leonardo understood perfectly, he wasn't a stranger of goodbyes after all. He just can't fully grasp what it is like to do that more than once with the same person.

“Why now?” He let out a puff of smoke into the atmosphere before his molten gold irises met Comte's rich aureate ones, searching for some sense. “You've been looking for her and found her many times, so why now?” He asks.

“I didn't meet her as the woman she was, Leonardo.” He answered, a bittersweet smile still lingering on his lips, “She was a child…”

He then began to tell the old friend about that autumn day and by the time Comte was done, Leonardo had already finished his second cigarillo. He remained silent for a while before words spilled out of his mouth,

“I had a friend centuries ago who believed humans were reincarnated four times, it's curious so I never shut the idea. When he died, I never saw him again and neither did anyone who looked just like him. His descendants' kinda look similar to him though, of course, it's science.” Leonardo looked over at his friend who stared longingly ahead of the stars, “But his son who died of disease at a young age did return exactly four times and died similarly at the same age…”

“Since she was a child when you met her this time, you wanted her to have a life less complicated than a life with you. Then again, as I told ya before, it is not you who gets to decide…” he trailed off, reaching down to his pocket for another roll of a cigarillo, “Besides, this is her fourth. It may be the last time you will ever see her, Comte.”

“Exactly. It may be her last so I’d rather she live it free from the hurt that comes in loving someone who is subjected to eternity,” he utters, fists clenched as he glanced over Leonardo with resolve in his eyes, “She already loved me once, it is enough.”

“And spent the other three looking for her only to turn your back once you found her. You know she will always defy your expectations and crack that stubborn indecisive head of yours.” the latter sighed, stretching his arms above his head, “You’re kinda cruel, friend.”

Comte smiled in a deprecating manner and loosened his fists, “I guess I am.”

“You two are complicated, as usual.” Leonardo spoke, placing his cigarillo in between his fingers, “It’s always either you leave or she leaves. You say you want to let her go but every autumn you wish to catch a maple because that is how you always meet her. Say, you haven’t rid yourself of those maples in your room, have you?”

“I intend on keeping those.”

“You could’ve had your fourth maple, you know she’d give it to you despite all the death threats she throws.”

“No. She liked Jimmy.” Comte uttered with bitterness.

“It’s been years and you still hold a grudge over the little soccer boy. I didn’t know you were that petty.” Leonardo smirked, lifting his lighter which only gave a faint spark when he clicked it, “I guess I’ll fix this. See ya around.”

Leonardo casually raised his hand and left, leaving the count to his thoughts. He lifted his head, facing the ocean of stars twinkling above his head and the full moon once again.

He wonders if she's looking at it too but there is no point in it when he has already given up. It's like the sun and moon chasing each other and yet they are still out of each other's reach.

With one last look, he stared straight at the moon. Uttering his silent plea,

Let her be happy.

Slowly, the moon started to vanish from the sky and darkness started to inch closer to the count. He stilled, not knowing how to react when suddenly something landed on his face with a gentle slap.

He hoisted his hand and took the object off him. His eyes widened, but it was impossible.

He whipped his head around, looking for something, anything. His heart pounded wildly against his chest and his breathing was getting more shallow every moment that passed. It was as if he was thrown into a maelstrom and he heard his own heartbeat through his ears and then everything stilled.

Leonardo was right. There she is, in the garden just below the terrace, grinning at him.

“Is that a maple?”

“It is.”

“Well, you better not throw it because I didn't.” She gleamed, “After all, you never visited so I'll bite you to death.”

“Well, you certainly grew teeth.”

“Oh shut up, Abel.”

#fall fluff autumn angst #ikevamp #ikevamp comte #ikemen vampire comte #ikemen vampire #le comte de saint germain #ikemenseries #cybird #ikemenvampire #ikemen leonardo

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ambrosiallkiss · 1 year

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I'll follow you.../Galileo

#ikevamp galileo #a sketch #into the past!galileo #a blood promise #possibly nsfw?#have some angst...#headcanon he had longer hair in the past...

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miss-scarletletter · 1 year

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What the Heart Yearns to Know and Remember

Pairing: Comte x OC (Anastasia) Word Count: 9.3k Rated: G Hello everyone! It's been a while since I posted something. As a New Year celebration, I am sharing this fanfic I wrote around December but hesitated on posting it. It's been a long time since I wrote a fanfic (I think it was back in 2019), so writing this fanfic feels weird, and I'm kinda scared of how this turned out. I also published this in AO3 under the username: ComtessesWritingDesk. This fanfic is inspired by the idea of Comte dancing to the song "Once Upon A December", and I also put in some stuff here that is loosely based on a historical event. Also, recently watched "Russian Ark"--and it convinced me to write this fanfic. I hope you guys enjoy this, and feedback would be amazing :)

Ever since she was officially named as his fiancée, many of their friends and acquaintances have presumed that she would know every secret and untold exploit of the Count of Saint-Germain. Indeed, the future Comtesse was aware of who and what her lover was; the intimacy they shared, even before their engagement was announced, gave her enough of the solid foundation of his character, and she was proud to be the key to that knowledge—so proud that she preferred to keep those secrets to herself. Or at least, that was the assumption made by the public.

The truth was that Anastasia did not want to jeopardize le Comte’s identity, which could also undermine hers to some extent, especially if you thought of how she acquired her lover’s background and history. It would be a confusing tale, and even frightening if the concept of immortality, time travel, or vampirism were seen as a source of unnatural horror. Nevertheless, another truth was—there were so many things that Anastasia had not yet known about him.

Surely, she already recognized his character—from his preferences in food, his skill in playing the violin, the way he expressed his fondness for the residents and the subtle ways he knew them in-person, his love for those ridiculous clip-on ties, the brand of his oxford shoes, the sounds of his footsteps, the way he saw her as his greatest pride, and of course: his moments of vulnerability such as the time she saw him in total helplessness that he opted to drown himself in alcohol. The list could go on, but these were the small details she observed as both a participant and bystander in his life. And with these aspects, she knew that Comte was more than just a noble philanthropist with a pretty face. No, there was more to him beyond those golden hues.

She knew him in his present, but his past—a time when she didn’t exist yet—was left blank. She did, at one time, explore a small part of it with the guidance of the red-eyed florist. It was only a chunk in comparison to his long life, but it created a significant impression on her—she understood the depth of his misery, the reason for his hesitations, and the Romantic child in him that yearned to be free from the practicality and logic he was groomed to have in him. She never felt any hatred from that revelation, but rather—pity and frustration. In the end, she had come to the resolve that she loved him unconditionally even with those flaws. And that was why she would eagerly yet quietly ponder about his past.

There was no doubt that you could see that love in those smiling silver eyes of hers. On that one night, for instance, while she was on the other side of the ballroom with Claudine, Anastasia was watching over him as he listened to the old viscount and viscountess from Moscow with such attentiveness. He had a very distinct profile with some sharp features, and that swoop of golden hair that fell over his left eye made him more charming. His smile was both familiar and rare, ambiguous yet visible. And his voice—she knew oh-so-well how much power it could evoke, but it also had a very reassuring warmth in it. He was just so beautiful under the glitters of the chandelier, yet he had no idea how much his darling loved him.

Comte suddenly turned in her direction, and when their eyes met—he smiled and gave her a wink. You won’t miss the way the future Comtesse turned hot and red as she tried to distract herself by talking to Claudine.

“Don’t you think you tease her too much, my dear Count?” asked Viscountess Petrova, who was a cousin of the ball’s host on that night. She expressed no interest in coming to the “minute” celebration until she heard reports of the Count of Saint-Germain’s acceptance of the invitation alongside his future bride. “Look at how the poor thing tries to hide from you. She’s as red as a beetroot!”

“You may say that I am very cruel, madam,” Comte smiled. “But I confess, that expression of hers is a sight worthier than the Crown Jewels.” He was, of course, not just referring to her being flustered but also the way he caught that glimpse of starlight in her eyes when she looked at him. Comte recognized that sort of face—that was the very same look he gave when Anastasia first debuted in Parisian high society. And it still was the same look he gave whenever he caught sight of her. He adored her—so much so that he beheld her as if she were the heaven-sent star that was promised to him to reignite the fire in his life. On that night, he had seen that gaze, again—only this time, it was the star who looked back at him. And what man or beast would not feel the immense joy of being loved by a woman like her?

“She is very peculiar,” Viscount Petrov commented after finishing a glass of champagne and waved to the nearest server to give him another. “Last time I remember—when you introduced her, you said she was merely a ‘friend’ and a ‘guest to your house.’ Who is she really, Count?”

With an amused grin, Comte replied, “Well, sir, if you so want to know where she comes from, you can ask her yourself. But rumor has it that she transcended time and space. I mean what could explain the ethereal glow she has in her?”

“Ah, there you go again with your riddles, man!” the viscount scoffed half-humorously. “If that’s the case, I can see why the two of you ended up together (though, it did take a while)—you want to marry someone who is about as enigmatic as you, Count. But still,” the viscount’s tone made it sound like he was desperate for his initial question to be answered, “that doesn’t negate my curiosity about her origins. And I thought you, being her future husband, would know.”

“Dear, please!” his wife, the viscountess blurted. “I think it is rude for you to insist, it sounds like you want to interrogate the girl.”

“Now, now, don’t jump to conclusions. I have no plans to force an answer out of her. It is not like she came from a commoner background and married the man for money. Well, unless she other reasons—”

“What do you mean by ‘other reasons,’ my lord? And what if she were born a commoner?” Comte interrupted, his brows were slightly furrowed, and there was a visible annoyance behind his golden eyes had these audiences been more observant.

“Oh no, no! I would never think that she came from the poorhouse, that would be absurd for someone in that spawn to marry you—” the viscount babbled rapidly when he noticed the Count’s piercing gaze on him.

“Let me be blunt, Viscount Petrov—perhaps you are forgetting that you are speaking about my bride. She will become my wife. And regardless of whether she was raised in the squatters, she will still have the title of the Comtesse. I did not want to marry her out of pity, monsieur. If you are in any way insulted by her or the circumstance of her birth, then I should walk away from your company.”

“Count, as I was implying, I highly respect Lady Anastasia,” the viscount murmured, slightly shaken. “I don’t want to assume that she is a horrible woman. But I was saying—she is so secretive whenever I ask about her family. You know how we are all open to our lineage—I only asked for names, no need for any details. Unless of course, her reason being that she was born out of misfortune. As such, we never want to talk about the Fedorov family and how they were massacred.”

“Oh, God… is that necessary—” the viscountess looked at her husband in disgust.

“Well, how else do you expect me to explain myself?” the viscount exclaimed, causing some of the nearby bystanders to turn in their direction. “Anyway, surely, you’ve heard of their unfortunate demise, right, Count? I’ve heard your grandfather used to have some connections with the family.”

“Yes, I have.”

“If so, then, you must understand how it is not the most appropriate subject to address in our social circle, let alone to a surviving victim. It was called a massacre for a reason. And if your fiancée, who has been a stranger to us, happens to be someone who has that experience within her family, then we beg your pardon.”

Comte did not say anything.

“Those poor souls—the children, they were robbed of their futures,” the viscountess sighed. “It was unfortunate that they were born from that accursed brood—”

“Oh, come now, don’t make it sound like they are bad people—” the viscount scolded.

“But they are!” the viscountess yelled, causing more eyes to turn to them. “That man was so full of himself, letting his woman spread her legs to a priest—!”

“Enough! You have no right to slander the dead, especially those who offered their hospitality to us,” the viscount hissed. “Besides, that blue diamond around your neck—didn’t you steal that from the woman you were just accusing as a whore?”

“How dare you!” the viscountess grabbed her necklace, nearly scratching her throat. “This is a gift! How dare you accuse your own wife of being a thief! I’ll have you know that unlike that wench, I have a dignity to preserve.”

“You believe what you believe, no one is forcing you otherwise,” the viscount said exasperatedly, drinking the last drop of his champagne.

“Why do you even try to defend that woman? What is she to you?” The viscountess’s face then twisted into that of a mad woman. “Ah, I see—her mouth must’ve been delicious around your—”

“Viscountess, please refrain yourself!” The future Comtesse, who had watched her fiancé from the sideline for the past fifteen minutes or so, just came to their circle and stopped the older woman’s inappropriate commentary. “And I’m not only referring to you, madam—but also you, monsieur. I don’t mean to disrespect any of you, however, you have to consider your place as guests—especially in your cousin’s house, viscountess. Don’t you see how you nearly cause a commotion with whatever heated subject you have been talking about? Are you not embarrassed? I just excused myself from Lady Claudine because I was turned off by all the shouting from you.”

Anastasia’s voice—as euphonious as it naturally sounds—was firm with a hint of impudence that could earn her a scolding from the etiquette police. But at that point, she was too wrapped up to care if she lost her footing, especially when she noticed that Comte didn’t say another word for the last five minutes. Typically, he would function as the mediator in that feud, just like his role in the mansion thanks to his saintly patience. Except for that time, she knew she had to take on that part when he just stood there—pale and paralyzed.

As she spoke, Comte placed his hand on her waist—an act she used to be so flustered about until it became too familiar. It was like his second nature to keep himself in contact with her and it could mean a thousand things. Either way, she responded by squeezing that same hand and running her thumb over his knuckles. The two of them were standing side by side while staring intently at their older counterparts.

There was, indeed, a handful of people who had been staring at them—gentlemen standing there pretending not to look, and ladies whispering to each other behind their fans. Viscountess Petrova, in an attempt to block off the judging eyes, took the nearest drink she saw and gulped it down. Finally, it was Viscount Petrov who spoke first—

“Forgive our rudeness, Lady Anastasia—and to you, too, Count. We didn’t mean to stray our talk to this point.”

“It’s quite alright, monsieur,” Comte replied uninterested.

Anastasia sighed, “Honestly, what was it that you folks were talking about? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to dwell on it too much, I just want a simple answer.”

“We rather not say any more of it, my lady. It was a sensitive topic.”

“Ah, understandable.”

“But on another note, we were talking about you, Lady Anastasia,” the viscountess added.

“Me?”

“Yes. Well, you see, Ma Chérie, the viscount and viscountess were very curious about you. They keep asking me where you came from, so I told them that you came from a far-off land and time-traveled to Paris in the 19th century,” Comte answered with a wink.

Sensing that his spirits were slightly lifted, Anastasia returned the same teasing gesture and wrinkled her nose, “Oh, you naughty boy! Why would you tell them that? And here I am entrusting my secret to you. A thousand punishments for your betrayal, Comte!”

For the next few minutes, the two couples were laughing and chatting away while the rest of the guests moved on to the next thing that entertained them. It was as if they’d forgotten about the previous conversation that caused a mild stir in the reception, but not for the Count and his bride. Anastasia recognized that far-off look on his face—it was one of many faces she could never unsee: one when he would reminisce the bygone days—the pain would peak through his eyes, and he would utilize his gentlest smile to mask his self-deprecation while internally condemning himself. Comte could fool the world that he was just a hedonist, but she knew better. She wanted to help, but how could she when there was so much that she didn’t know yet?

Suddenly, the musicians started to play the waltz from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. As Comte and Anastasia made eye contact, they immediately participated.

“Comte—Abel, are you ok?” she whispered, not sugar-coating the worry in her voice.

Comte considered his response; he knew that she was just trying to look out for him, but he didn’t want to make a serious issue out of something ‘trivial.’ Besides, was it right to tell her his troubles when he could manage them on his own? “Yes, Ma Chérie. It’s nothing important.”

“Hm… is it really nothing important when I saw how deathly pale you looked earlier? Not only that, but your hand is so cold.”

“... honestly, I can’t hide anything from you, can I?” he muttered with a resigned smile. “But seriously, you don’t have to worry about me. You know I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t doubt your fortitude, sweetheart. But you looked as if you’ve seen a ghost, and you can’t tell me that I shouldn’t be worried about you.”

“I… I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t and you won’t. It’s only natural for me to feel this way, Abel. Besides, didn’t I tell you that whatever you are going through, whatever doubts and hesitations you have, you can tell me about it?”

Comte recalled the scene when Anastasia decided to stay with him, even though the cost of it would be an eternity of unseen futures. “Fortitude” … if anything, she was the stronger one. Her determination remained in her spirit, and there she was in front of him—breathing, dancing… living the best of her human life with him. He let her continue speaking—

“I won’t force anything out of you, Mon Cher. But I just want you to know that in your sadness, I won’t let you cry all alone.”

And just like that, he suddenly felt a throbbing pain in his chest.

As the music reached into that crescendo, while the rest focused on the exuberance of the dance, filling the room with amused laughter as they picked up the pace of the music—Comte took that as an opportunity to lean down on his lover and kissed the corner of her small lips, never mind if they were uncoordinated or if anyone assumed they were making a scandal. When he pulled away, he looked down at her with the most poignant and reassuring smile on his face.

“Thank you, Anastasia…”

They came home to their mansion an hour after midnight. They were too tired to talk any further, so they decided to retire. In his room, Comte tried to convince himself to pass out as he took off each piece of clothing. Unfortunately, his mind was somewhere else, and for the next hour, he stayed still on his bed, gazing up at the empty ceiling like it was a blank canvas. The sand in his hourglass continued to fall, piling at the bottom until it created an eroding hill. It was getting late, but his mind’s eye began to rile with images of dancing figures, golden lights, and white horses in the snow. From the dark, there was a gunshot, then another, and another, and another, and then: death—all of these were memories he once thought to have lost in time. Time—his cruel mistress who did not pause for him even in his moments of wretchedness, decided to remind him of the things that cannot be undone nor reattain.

Comte wished he could forget all of it, attempting to suppress it by locking these memories away in the abandoned attic of his mind—but his heart said otherwise. After all, from the same darkness that harbored the sound of guns—there also came the rustic lullaby of the music box. He wanted to remember it, but he would hurt himself if doing so. His heart began to swell upon hearing the echoes of her voice in his head until he couldn’t bear it. In response, he got up and took out his violin.

At around three in the morning, a white figure woke up from a hazy dream, emerging from one of the rooms into the halls with silent footfalls. Passing through the closed doors, everyone in that house was in deep slumber, except one. Having been in his chambers more than the number of times she could count, Anastasia recognized the ember light of Comte’s lampshade seeping through the crack and splayed on the hallway’s Persian carpet.

“I guess you can’t sleep either, Mon Cher,” she muttered under her breath.

Placing the candelabra on the nearby table, she opened his door slightly. Inside—Comte stood there with his back turned to her, his tall silhouette moved in such motion, and she saw the violin resting between his cheek and shoulder. He was playing a piece that sounded like a waltz, yet it was so soothing that she felt her body rocking like a cradle. There was something sweet and melancholic about it, and the recurring melody seemed to sound like a memory that yearned to be retold over and over, again. It was her first time hearing it, but it managed to bring her some sense of nostalgia for a past she never lived—a past that belonged to someone else. She held onto the doorknob and moved to and fro along with the music like the waves of the vast sea.

As the silence fell at the end of the last note, Comte relaxed his posture before turning to the door. “You know you don’t need to hide from me, Ma Chérie.”

Anastasia entered his room with a bashful smile on her face. “That’s awfully unfair of you to pretend not to notice me this entire time, Abel.”

“Ha-ha, well I expected you to enter anyway.”

“In the middle of an amazing performance? I don’t think so.”

She watched him unscrewing the knob of his bow and putting away his violin.

Instead of waiting for him to come to her—by some unseen force, she went up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, which was a sudden move for the Count but no less welcoming. She didn’t need any reason for doing so besides the fact that she just wanted to do it. Anastasia then started to rock them lightly in the same beat as the song from his violin. For a while, they were just two figures standing in the ember glow of the room, surrounded by the stillness of the moonless night.

“Ma Chérie, why are you not asleep yet?”

“I was. But I just woke up for no reason. What about you, darling? Why are you still awake?” She moved her hand higher to his chest as if she were trying to reach out to the depth of his heart.

Comte squeezed her hand and answered, “I was thinking.”

“Is it something that troubles you?”

“…yes, for a while.”

“Does it have to do with what the viscount and viscountess were talking about?”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Comte nodded his head.

Anastasia moved in front of him and gently held his face. She knew how much of a hard shell his lover was to crack; she would not expect the man to be so forward when he had his own hesitancies. Still, he couldn’t live like this. “Abel, do you want to talk about it?”

He gazed at her silver eyes, which were full of sincerity and compassion. It would be selfish of him to take advantage of such kindness, but then— “I don’t know where to start, Anastasia.”

“You can start however you like.”

Comte gestured her to take a seat. Sitting across her, he told her how the viscount and viscountess were actually inquiring where she came from, how Comte tried to hide her identity behind his teasing, and how the viscount nearly instigated him due to his assumptions.

“They thought my family was poor?”

“He considered that it would be ‘absurd’ for you to marry me if you came from a poor house.”

Anastasia looked down at her hands, hiding the hint of disappointment in her eyes. “Well, I mean… there is some kernel of truth in there. You know my real parents were never rich to begin with.”

“Yes, but with that tone of voice and how he thought it was ‘absurd,’ I don’t see the point of any excuse for him,” Comte hissed, gritting his teeth. “Either way, it was slanderous and even if I accepted his apology, I could not forgive him.”

She sat there, grateful that her lover defended her, but also upset by the fact that there were some people in both worlds (of humans and vampires) who would not easily acknowledge her place in their societies. It was the harsh truth that she must face, where her entire being was seen as unnatural in one world, and she would be misjudged in another. If she had been smarter, she should’ve gone back to her home in the future where everyone was more forgiving. But when she looked at the man in front of her—whether she allowed the wool to hang over her eyes to blind herself from that reality, or that she indeed had the guts to face the unknown—she still held on to that hope that they would see past their differences.

“… is that also why the viscountess nearly called me a ‘whore’?”

“A ‘whore’? No! If any of them did, we would’ve left the party sooner without an explanation. No, Mon Ange, it wasn’t you she was calling a whore—it was someone else.”

She drew in a breath. “Did you know that person?”

Comte nodded, “Yes…” he explained the complexity of their discussion, starting with how the viscount made another assumption of Anastasia’s background, which led to the reminder of the ill-fated family. Out of curiosity, she asked him about the Fedorovs. Comte answered—

“Nicholas Fedorov came from a line of dukes who were cousins to the royal family at that time. When it was his turn to rule the dukedom, he inherited all the estates and properties of his forefathers, including the men and women who toiled for them day and night with almost no wages. Unfortunately, he also inherited their vanity and ignorance, caring more about his appearance in the aristocratic circle than facing the destitute reality outside his gates. He was one to squander his wealth over unnecessary luxuries and flaunt them to his friends—in fact, he used to have a summer home somewhere here in France. Besides that, he was also a philanderer—so he was not the best husband nor the best father to his wife and children.”

“What were the rest of the family like?”

Comte paused. He only stared at her as he felt the tears gathering in his eyes, before finding the strength to speak again.

“They were wonderful. The children, who were not even in their prime when they died, were raised in a sheltered household. But it was the duchess, their mother—Maria, that taught them humility. She understood the situation in her husband’s dukedom and tried to advocate for them. However, her sickness restricted her from her duties, and she was seen frequently by a priest in hopes that she could be healed through his prayers. But it only backfired when they spread rumors of their nonexistent affair, thus tarnishing her image until it reached the common folk.”

“…Did her husband do anything to stop it?” Anastasia questioned.

He looked down sadly. “If only that’s the case. He allowed it by saying that he also participated in his own debauchery.”

“How despicable!” she hissed. “Also, I don’t understand why she was seen as a bad woman even to the public despite the fact that she was only trying to help.”

“Darling, understand that appearances were and are everything inside and outside the noble gates. Maria was unfortunate to be married to an oppressor despite her good heart. And the false report about her affair with the priest was depicted in erotic sketches for everyone to ‘understand’ that the advocator was nothing more than a harlot.”

Anastasia sighed, “Still… it is so unfair…”

“Yes, Maria did not deserve to be treated like that,” Comte shut his eyes, recalling the days he caught her hiding her face in shame and grief. “She never wanted that marriage to begin with, and she begged for her father to send her to a convent. But when she had children of her own, she only wanted nothing more than a day in the countryside—just her and her daughters—away from the sneers of the court.”

“Comte…? You seem to know so much about her. I mean, I know you said you have some connections with her, but the things you just said, well… I don’t want to assume too much.”

“You are right to say so, Ma Chérie,” When he returned his gaze to her, she could see the tears glazing his eyes against the orange light. A sad smile then transfigured his face. “Maria was my godmother.”

“Oh, Comte…” she looked at him in shock, and even more so—she felt the heaviness of guilt weighing in her heart as if she just opened Pandora’s box. “I’m so sorry, Comte. I’m so sorry…”

Comte shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize, Mon Ange. It already happened and there is nothing we can do about it. But yes, she confided in us to express her troubles since my parents were not too quick to judge and have been understanding of her situation. On the other hand, I was the boy she was constantly watching over; she was like my second mother, and I—the son she never had. She was the one who molded my sense of humor, and she would allow me to skip my lessons so I could play with her children. By night, she would bring her music box and play it to me while she sang a lullaby until I fall asleep… to this day, I still remember the melody of that song, and her voice—distant as they are, still haunts in my head.”

Anastasia recalled the piece he was playing on the violin. She knew immediately by his implication that it was the same tune coming from the duchess’s music box—which was maybe, at this point, abandoned somewhere in time. In other words, Comte couldn’t reattain the physical remembrance of his second mother, so he recreated the song from memory. It was perhaps a painful process for him (his eyes showed too much), but at the same time—it must’ve been cathartic.

“You must’ve loved her so much, for all that she had done for you…”

“I do… I miss her… I understand that the people had their cause, and it could have been prevented if those in charge actually listened. But I wish—I wish—she didn’t die that way…” Comte’s voice trembled. Then, the awful memory of the gunshots flashed in his mind.

“I was there when they died.”

Comte was only a young boy (at least, in the eyes of humans) when he spent his last winter ball with the Fedorovs in their vacation home in France. The celebration went well for most of the evening; everyone was in the midst of ecstasy under the influence of champagne and filled their stomachs with the best veal. It was not until Nicholas Fedorov raised his glass for a toast that someone shot him in the heart. Apparently, an assassin—a commoner who suffered under Nicholas Fedorov’s authority—was sent to kill the family and any of their relatives. He was accompanied by other masked men who helped him obliterate the place into ruins, seizing whatever they could find, and killing those who tried to fight back. There were some who died, and many were injured in the process, but it didn’t matter for the rest as long as they made out alive.

In the midst of this hysteria, Comte lost sight of his mother and father. He couldn’t remember how he lost them when they were just in front of him a moment ago. He couldn’t remember how the duchess managed to find him in the tempestuous current of people running in fear, trampling each other for the exit as their last route to survive.

He remembered vaguely how the duchess herded him and her daughters, how a man stood in their way, and how she tried to shield them from his bullet. But Comte clearly remembered the blast of the gun, the blood that spurted out of her chest, and the way she fell like an angel crashing her head on the cobbled street. It all happened so fast like a storm passing in the dark. The woman whom he used to call “Mama” lay there, staring at the empty space with dark eyes, her mouth slightly opened as if to tell them to run.

He remembered himself running with the other children into the woods, how some of the men were only a few feet away from them, how their legs gave away to the numbness of the cold night, how he tried to protect them just like their mother did, and then—another gunshot.

He couldn’t remember how his father managed to grab him and brought him to the safety of his own mother’s arms as they rode away. He only remembered Maria’s death, the sight of her children being shot twice in the head, and the guilt that still ran in his veins.

A year earlier, Comte was taught about the difference between humans and vampires—between the transient and the eternal, between the dying and the deathless. On that winter night, he was reminded of that cruel reality, and it was one of his first lessons in regard to the briefness of human life.

“For the next ten years, we steered clear from that side of France. I didn’t have the chance to see their funeral, or else we would have been caught. When we came back, the mansion was rundown, and the family was all buried in an unmarked grave… ever since, I had forgotten where that mansion stood.”

Throughout the entire time, he told the story to her in this trance-like state, focusing only on the details of his hazy memory, that he didn’t realize how cold he became. Furthermore, he didn’t realize that his lover was already at his side and pulled his head to her breast. It was not until he heard her heartbeat that he finally felt her warmth, and he allowed himself to be soothed by her whispers of apologies.

“No, Ma Chérie. Forgive me. I knew it was an upsetting story but here I am—”

“No, Comte. Please, please, don’t say anything. You have enough…” she embraced him tighter, burying her face in his golden hair. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry you have to go through all of this… for bringing this up… for everything…”

Comte blinked once, realizing there were still more tears left in his eyes. The guilt still ran in his veins. He murmured, “I’m sorry…”

III

Time passed, it was the morning after Christmas and everyone in the mansion was still asleep until high noon—or at least until the alcohol left their systems. Like a household tradition, they had a celebration the night before, which meant the Count spending his money on supplies and ingredients needed for the banquet. And per request by the residents—the best wine and champagne were served during the feast, and, at some point, during a drinking game. It was a riotous occasion, but it was something that Comte welcomed in his house. That celebration served its purpose in making it into one of his core memories—he would remember those wild hours of mirth and pleasure-seeking just for the way his family was living the highest point of bliss. He wanted it for them, and so he contributed and participated from the sidelines, looking over them as he usually would. Until a certain Italian challenged him on who could empty the most bottles before passing out on the dinner table.

When he woke up, he started cursing Leonardo under his breath for peer-pressuring him, which didn’t help the headache that suddenly pounded his skull. Just then—the door opened, and Anastasia appeared. Comte did not overlook the mischievous grin that plastered on her face as she strolled to his bedside like a fairy child who had done some minor chaos in her trail.

“Did I wake you, my darling?” she asked while pushing away the swoop of hair from his eyes.

He groaned. “The headache did, but I’ll be fine.”

“Do you need anything? I could make you some tea if it could help.”

“Maybe later, Ma Chérie,” he took a closer look at her—she was dressed elegantly in her favorite white muslin dress that was decorated with cultured pearls. She put on her cosmetics, and her hair was curled and tied with a satin ribbon. He looked at her neck—she was wearing the necklace he gave her as a Christmas present, and he could smell the whiff of ambergris and saffron from her perfume. In short, she dressed as if there was another celebration.

“You seem… too content, sweetheart.”

“What, I can’t be too happy to see my husband?” She said coquettishly, lying her head on his pillow so it was easy for her to gaze into his eyes.

“Not when you say it in that tone—I am inclined to believe that you did something,” he said, returning the same playfulness in his voice with a smirk.

“Ah! I’ll have you know I am not like your boys,” she tapped his nose. “At least I did not cause some serious damage.”

“So, you did do something.”

“I didn’t say I deny it.”

“You naughty girl! What did you do?”

Biting her lip, she said, “I told Sebastian and Leonardo to give me the day off because you and I are going somewhere.”

Comte chuckled, “And did they believe in you?”

Anastasia blushed, “Only if you tell them. And I don’t mean to say that to skip work or my studies, I would rather just want to spend the after-party with you.” Then she pouted, “Unless you have a busy day ahead, then I’ll—"

“Now, why would I prioritize anything else over you, Ma Chérie?” He pulled her into his arms, making her lie on top of him while he brushed her dark hair. He would also very much prefer to skip his paperwork for the next day and pamper his wife. After all, the after-effects of the party were still fresh, and the adrenaline was still running high. “What do you have in mind for us?”

“Well, since the weather is a little bit better than yesterday, we could go horseback riding,” she answered, clinging to his sleeve while watching the branch trembling gently against the winter wind.

“Horseback riding? To where?”

“Anywhere!” she said enthusiastically. “We don’t have to go shopping or anything like that. Let’s go somewhere we’ve never been to before.”

Comte smiled at her and caressed her face. “I don’t think there’s ever a place where you’ve never been to, Mon Ange. If I take you to one place, it will feel like I am just taking you to another corner of your home.”

“It is all thanks to you, Abel,” she said, shifting herself higher until she was hovering above him. Pecking his lips and lightly touching the tip of her nose against his. “But I don’t think I have explored every corner of your world as you may have thought.” She looked down at his golden eyes, wondering if they were blessed by Aurora’s kiss as they glimmered in the afternoon sun. “I know there is something more out there, and I want to see it.”

Comte deeply adored her—no doubt fascinated by her honesty and tenacity in her pursuit to know him better. That part of her never changed, and he smiled at the reminder that this was the woman he married.

“Well then, Ma Chérie—you should get your coat.”

Comte left some instructions to Sebastian while he was preparing their horses. He also told Leonardo that he and Anastasia would probably ride out of town. To where specifically—no one knew. Before they left, Anastasia saw Dazai and Arthur peeking through one of the windows. She made a gesture that meant she still had her eyes on them even during her absence; they just gave her a thumbs-up while making a blank expression. A moment later, they rode off.

They did pass through every street in Paris. The cold wind swept through their tangled hair, hooves treading on the snow, the flutter of their coats, the rush of adrenaline in their veins—it almost felt like a competition, never mind who became the winner in the end as long as the excitement lasted. At some point, they reached an open road.

“Are you ready to head back now, Anastasia?” Comte asked while patting his horse.

“Uh-uh! No way!” she replied breathlessly. “Let’s go for another mile, then we’ll go home.”

Comte laughed in amusement and agreed to her deal. She went before him, but before he could catch up, he stopped his tracks halfway and turned to the wooden area to his right.

Anastasia turned around and saw her husband in an immobile state. He was staring at the woods like it was an ancient entity he encountered once in his life. She did not know what was happening to him—he looked almost afraid. Did he sense that someone was watching them? Were they in danger?

“Comte? Is everything all right?” she called.

He promptly turned to her, “Yes, dear. It’s just that—there is something odd about this road.”

Anastasia went to his side and there was indeed a trail that led somewhere further. “Do you think it is safe?”

“…I think so,” he answered (well, it almost sounded like a question). His sight not leaving the set of trees that lie on the deepest end.

“Should we go and check it out?”

Comte nodded his head.

They went in silently.

While Anastasia navigated this unfamiliar place, Comte was experiencing a sense of déjà vu. He looked at the way the branches loomed over the ground, how the roots coiled in the dirt, how the snow contrasted the black barks—he had seen all of these before. Then, there was the smell of mint—all of those memories when he was a boy came flooding back to him.

“Comte, there was a mansion over there!”

In what was considered as a cruel twist of fate, he was led back to the place he never knew he would see again. On the other side of the woods, there was a mansion that was far greater than the one they had back in Paris—it almost resembled a palace, which made sense since its former master wanted a “copy” of his house back in Moscow. Great as it was, it stood there like a withering flower in the dead of winter. The walls were no longer white like they used to be, as the entire facade was covered by soot. The pillars that held up the entry were cracked, and the stairs were decorated by moss. The windows were all shattered, and some of the doors were barricaded with rotten wood. On the side, a statue of an angel fell from its pedestal and smashed its head on the ground, decaying into the earth along with the rest of the house.

Comte got off his horse and moved slowly to the entrance. He recognized the same pathway he took when he was a boy, how he would run in that same yard while his godmother watched over him. He let his hand graze upon the marble surface of the pillar—recalling how they used to be the size of colossus in his youth. Through the threshold, he could already see the grand staircase that led to the ballroom, He kept telling himself to retreat, but the idea of revisiting this part of his past was very tempting, and his own foolishness got the better of his logic.

He turned to Anastasia apologetically, “Forgive me, Ma Chérie—but I need to see something in here. I won’t take too long—"

She shook her head, got off her horse, and took his hand. “I’m going with you.”

He squeezed her hand.

Inside, the rundown state of the mansion was even more palpable. Every corner was filled with black tar and mold. Shards of porcelain and rubble were scattered on the floor. The carpets and drapes were torn apart. The diamonds on the chandelier were fogged by cobwebs. And some of the furniture was toppled over. As they walked up the stairs, the foundation creaked lightly under their footsteps. When they reached the second floor, they were greeted by the foreboding shadows of the sculptors, lining up from the east wing to the west as if they were the last sentries to guard this wasteland.

There was a broken chandelier, lying in the middle of the ballroom, cracking the glass dance floor below. The paintings that were once hanging on the walls left only a mark on their wake, except there was one that was abandoned on the side.

Comte crouched down and straighten that painting—it was a woman, with skin as white as death, light hair, and eyes as blue as the sea. She was wearing a wedding dress, a wintergreen wreath on her head, and diamonds around her neck while looking desperately at someone on the side in helplessness. Anastasia couldn’t see his reaction, but when she read the name at the bottom of the golden frame—Duchess Maria Fedorova—she gasped.

Comte only stared at it in solemnity, hoping that his silent prayer could be reached in Paradise where she might be resting. He looked down and there was a small box peaking behind the frame. When he picked it up—his eyes couldn’t believe it.

“Comte, is that—?”

“Yes… the very same…”

It was the duchess’s music box. Even in age, its golden embellishes never lost their luster, there was hardly a crack on its blue paint, and the key was intact in its place. He opened it, showing two bears positioned in a waltz, and the lid had an illustration of swans spreading their wings. He tried winding the key, but no matter how many times he attempted—it was jammed in its place, rendering it soundless the entire time. Comte felt his last chance of hope being snatched away from him when it was already in his grasp. On the other hand, he knew it could still be salvaged by either Leonardo or Isaac, but his impatience and desperation overwhelmed him at that moment.

Still clutching onto the memorabilia, he started to look around the ballroom as if he were expecting a voice to turn up.

“Here… everything happened in here…” he murmured, wandering in the hollow room like a soul stuck in purgatory. Everything was silent, the only sounds that occupied the space were their breaths and his footsteps. The ceiling was so dark he hardly saw the murals over them; it used to be a well-lit room, full of chattering, and tireless dancers.

He remembered how the chandeliers looked like pixie dust in the air. The small sizzles of champagne in the tall glasses. Masked faces moving in circles. The sway of the men’s tailcoats and ladies’ skirts across the floor. The sound of laughter and smiling voices while they spoke. His mother and father impressed the rest of the guests with their footwork on the dance floor. Maria’s daughters, who were all dressed as cygnets, were doing a simple ballet that they had recently learned at the side. The musicians played one piece after another as the audience would request an encore.

When the crowd dispersed from the dance upon the end of the Glinka’s mazurka*, a boy with golden hair and sunshine eyes trotted his way to the duchess with the brightest grin on his face. Maria was only twenty-seven at that time, but her sickness slowly drew out the youth from her body to the point that it physically hindered her. Since the beginning of the night, she had been sitting on her chair, watching her children and her friends prancing around like merry horses in the white light. Her husband was nowhere to be seen at that moment—so, she was left in this position where she only felt the coldness in her solitude. But when she saw her beloved godson, dressed as a bear, coming in her direction—she felt a comforting warmth enveloping her as if his presence alone was magic.

“How do you like the dance, my little Helios?” she asked with a weak smile on her face.

“I love it, Mama. But I don’t think I did well with the mazurka.”

Maria laughed, “You don’t need to worry about that, child. You will master it eventually, just like how you mastered the foxtrot within a week.”

His eyes turned serious all of a sudden, “But what about you, Mama? Don’t you want to dance, too?”

“You know I couldn’t dance for too long, child,” she brushed a strand of hair away from his face. “I mean I could, but I don’t think I could last. I’m simply happy that you are all happy.”

“… I would rather have you dance with us,” his chin started to tremble. “You told me that tonight is your last night with us.”

“…Yes, I did tell you I am going back to Moscow tomorrow,” she said, looking at him piteously. “But I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

The young boy only stared down at his shoes, and from the corner of his eye, he could see his parents talking to one of the nobles. “…I wish you could dance with us just for tonight. You keep saying that you are ‘happy,’ but you always look like you are ready to cry… and when you said ‘soon’, it almost sounds like you are not coming back… I don’t know when we will see each other again…”

The way he spoke sent shivers down her spine; there was something heartbreaking and melancholic in that child’s voice. And the look in his eyes reminded her of someone in desperation—it reminded her of her own eyes whenever she felt the overwhelming painfulness in her isolation. Had this boy been that lonely in his life? Did he realize that he was bound to survive in a life full of expectations and judgment? He was too young to know the bitter realities of the world. At least, they should let him be a child for a moment. But if that’s the case, she would do in her power to shield him from that suffering.

“Of course, we will see each other again!” she explained in a lighter tone. “You have to understand that I have to go back to Moscow so I can find a cure. That way—we could spend more time together. We could take a hike into the alps, hold parties, go to an opera—whatever you name, we could do it together as long as I could walk properly with you.”

He looked at her for a short while before he started blinking rapidly and avoided her gaze. His cheeks were dry, but his eyes had this glaze as if he were trying to hold himself from crying in front of her. Her only response was her touch, holding his little hand in hers. It was comforting, but the sight of his golden skin against the pallor of her worn-out hand only hurt him so much—a small drop of tear fell on her skirt.

From the background, the musicians started another piece—this time, it was softer, requiring the participants to dance slowly, which was the antithesis to the previously vivacious music. He refused to partake in the dance with the other children, and instead—volunteered to accompany the handicapped woman beside her. In thanking him, she thought of an idea and took out the music box from her purse.

“I know I said I couldn’t dance with you, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t.”

She winded the key—the two bears started to twirl and in came the bell-like sound of a lullaby.

He stood while she sat, holding her hand as if they were positioning for a waltz. They started moving their arms to and fro while they sang together.

Dancing bears, painted wings

Things I almost remember

And a song someone sings

Once upon a December

Someone holds me safe and warm

Horses prance through a silver storm

Figures dancing gracefully

Across my memory

He turned under her arm while she smiled blithely. Any time now, this boy would become a young man. She could see it, and she could see herself watching him grow in the sidelines, captivating the entirety of Paris with his golden touch.

Someone holds me safe and warm

Horses prance through a silver storm

Figures dancing gracefully

Across my memory

She got up from her seat, cradled him in her arms, and moved slowly with the music.

Far away, long ago

Glowing dim as an ember

Things my heart used to know

Things it yearns to remember

And a song someone sings

With the faltering strength in her knees, she sat down, still carrying the boy in her arms. From the crook of her neck, he looked and saw the face he would remember for the next one hundred years…

Once upon a December…

“Abel?”

As if waking up from a deep sleep, he jolted around and saw Anastasia standing five feet away from him. He looked around, realizing that he was sitting on the other end of the ballroom with the music box still in his grasp. He was back to reality where the lights no longer flicker in these empty halls, and everyone had left, sailing to the Elysian Fields. All of these, the crumbled edifice of the past glory, were nothing more than rubble. It could be repaired, but it would no longer be the same without the souls that once inhabited it. ‘Everything passes,’ Dazai was right. The past was a dream, melting away like snow in the rain.

Then there was Anastasia, slowly walking to him with an outstretched hand. Of course, she was there—she was always there for him. But he only dragged the poor woman to his own pathetic state. He realized how much of a fool he was to let her see this side of him—her husband, who was supposed to be the stronghold of their house. What did he do while he was in that unconscious state? Did it matter? No! He showed her enough of himself that could never be unseen. He thought he deserved punishment for his selfishness. They were laughing earlier, but then there they were—him on the floor while she could only watch him turning into a lunatic.

And yet, what he received was not condemnation—she kneeled down and wrapped her arms around him.

Anastasia would never forget the night her husband told him about the story of the family he considered his own. She couldn’t imagine the depth of his despair until she saw his ghost-like form wandering in that ballroom while repeating the only melody he remembered. She herself had lost two mother figures in her life—she knew what it was like to lose someone, she knew what Comte was going through. For a man who had lived for so long and had experienced nearly every chapter of history, the past will always haunt him to the very end. He would forever be tormented by his own immortality—an eternal sea of mourning after watching one life flicker away like a candle in the wind. That’s what she understood about him, and she acknowledged it. The best course of action was to help him alleviate his pain, to remind him of the present, and to be lost in their own happiness. She just loved him too much to abandon him like that.

The warmth of her body and the beating of her heart against his ear were the sweet reminders of her being alive. It was her gesture of love and promise that he would have someone to accompany him in his moments of loneliness. Comte had no other choice but to give in, pouring out all the remaining tears he held back from the beginning, filling the silence with the sobs of a man who finally admitted he was hurt, until he finally dropped the music box to the cracked floor.

They stayed in the same place for a while until she helped him to his feet. Without saying a word, Anastasia took his hand and led him into a slow dance, humming the same lullaby he played on that violin. A moment later, he decided to take the lead while also humming the same song with her. They moved across the room as if the gilded sun waltzed with the brightest star in the gray heaven. There were no other guests to accompany them to their dance, not even a musician or the music box itself was playing their song. It was just them—she let herself glide as her skirt was floating above her ankles. He held her close by the waist as he sang.

Far away, long ago

Glowing dim as an ember

Things my heart used to know

Things it yearns to remember

And a song someone sings

Comte felt immense relief in Anastasia’s caresses, returning the same affection with the sweetest kiss. Ah! The smell of mint was replaced by the scent of ambergris and saffron. The waltz was over, but neither dared to part.

Both eyes—gold and silver—stare at each other with longing. Yearning to spend the rest of their lifetime—their future—in each other’s embrace.

Once upon a December…

Note:

Glinka's Mazurka: dance sequence from Mikhail Glinka's opera "A Life for the Tsar".

#ikevamp comte #ikemen vampire #ikevamp fanfic #ikevamp le comte #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp oc #comte x oc #hurt/comfort #angst #comte maybe ooc #loosely based on the story of the Romanovs #once upon a december

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corpiote · 2 years

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Charles and MC battle for the position of house wife

#text #cybird #ikevamp #ikevamp charles #ikevamp vlad #ikemen vampire #loving all the fluff #cant wait to be crushed by angst

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iphigeniainaulis · 2 years

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Nothing gold can stay

Thank you so much for hosting this event, @aquagirl1978 and @violettduchess 🍂

Character: Leonardo da Vinci

Promt: Changing seasons

Tags: angst

Warnings: minor spoilers, turns a little bit suggestive (nothing explicit)

"...You know, in the 15th century lots of people were thinking the same way you were. Some tales claim that humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, two faces. They were complete, nothing missing, never lonely. Zeus split them in two, forever separating. But even though the god split them, they kept on seeking what they once were. Used alchemy to try and get it back. Immortality. They tried to recreate it. But these experiments failed. So, tell me…how beautiful do you think immortals are now?..." (Leonardo's route, chapter 23)

“Titan! to whose immortal eyes

The sufferings of mortality,

Seen in their sad reality,

Were not as things that gods despise;

What was thy pity's recompense?”

Lord Byron

They say when humans rebel against gods, nature is on the latter side. Prometheus granted people with fire, and the earth reopened the sores buried deep in its soils, spreading plague and diseases all over the world. Ancient Egyptians, once ready to disobey Ra, choked with their own blood as the Sun god sent the lion goddess Sekhmet to punish them.

Yes, Leonardo always imagined that on the day like that he would face the force of nature like Moses did, gazing at the sight of the Red Sea parted in front of him, dark as despair, deep as an unfathomable abyss. The rumble of thunder would resemble the drums calling for every alive or dead creature to witness the justice of Heaven. The rain would silver in the air, covering houses, statues, faces with its snake’s scale, and thick darkness would make those with sharp vision become blind.

But the spring night that wrapped the city of Florence in its warm embrace was soft and calm. Lily-white cypresses were rustling quitely, a thin layer of dust was settled on the ground and the roofs of tiny dandelion villas. Somewhere on the other side of the central square there was a gypsy woman sitting in front of a fire, surrounded by three children. Her deep sad voice echoed with hope through the painted walls of the Basilica di Santo Spirito, the most obscure one among all the basilicas in Italy.

Meanwhile, here, in the cold and damp basement settled right under the benches where people prayed to the sacred void, Leonardo spent sleepless nights, researching and perfecting the art of hic et nunc, here and now, the one he would be praised for by his predecessors as the Master of Life. Because if you want to study life, you should firstly experience death. And so the great polymath was there to turn his plan into a reality.

He was in a morgue.

There was a disgusting scent — a mix of ammonia, smoke and mould — coming from the bottles on the table. Old yellow sheets of paper were dropped on the floor, each and every one written with chaotical symbols and even holed in some places the brilliant Renaissance man felt mostly excited about. Alchemical signs on those sheets were looking at him with anger and animosity, as if they were a curse screamed in the holy place. They were indeed, though.

Leonardo looked up from the pile of schemes and formulas, walked up towards a low stone pedestal with a fur tipped on top — a present, or more specifically, a mere pittance offered by his patron, King of France.

The pureblood kneeled in front of a woman lying over there. The moonlight made her face features soften, and she looked almost like a child watching her innocent dreams. Her curly hair didn't hide — on the contrary, it pointed at — her sharp ears and a gossamer of sunspots flowing from her neck to chest. The woman was radiating with peace, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Leonardo couldn't stop thinking about how he wanted to paint that strange face, how he should blend hyacinth with aquamarine to underline the shadows under her eyes or find the most beautiful shade of ocher to colour her dress, the one he would give her after the awakening. Her or his, he couldn't decide yet.

Leonardo didn't recall the young woman’s name. He didn't know whether she had a lover, a favourite dessert or a strange human habit of counting sheep before going to sleep. According to Giovanni, local baker who had wrinkles sparkling with laugher in the corners of his half-blind eyes, the girl used to sell smeraldo flowers on the central square every Friday but had never earned a single soldo, she was an orphan and hit by a carriage of one of those pseudo-Medici bastards.

Life full of loneliness, destroyed so early. Da Vinci knew quite well what it was like to live on loan. To look for the lights in the windows that were never meant to greet you. To forever part your ways with people while wishing them good night. To make friends accepting that every promise would be untrue. Time. Cruel, insidious, merciless, miraculous time was like a chariot of fire, dragging him along the road where the only direction was forward.

He had to restore justice. He had to save the girl, use all his knowledge, experience, innate perceptiveness, extraordinary intuition. And he was about to do so. Ignoring a tiny voice in his head whispering that it was him Leonardo wanted to save most.

Taking a pot off of the heat, the pureblood poured the boiling liquid into a bottle and pressed it gently to the woman’s lips. After years of experiments, secret meetings, private talks, one of which resulted into him being charged with sodomy, Leonardo knew exactly how to make the elixir of life. The reason why so many bright minds had failed before him was that immortality, the main ingredient, couldn’t be invented. It was only possible to grant it. And the only one capable of it was someone who carried immortality within himself. A pureblood vampire.

He had to bite her.

Her body was still warm. Skin was scented with olives and salty sweat just like the skin of any other commoner. Honest, true, strong and alive. After a minute or so everything would be the way it should be but never the same.

Blood. It tasted like a promise. Of a story ended up too early. Of hopes stolen by a cruel coincidence. Of love that was about to bloom. Of happiness they both deserved.

A second lasted forever. Drops of water were monotonously tapping the ragged rhythm of his heart. Only once had he ever experienced something like this. When the young and wild artist from the town of Vinci was standing in front of his master, the famous Verrocchio, and waiting for his verdict.

A second lasted a moment. Verocchio took Leonardo’s painting in his hands. The girl’s chest fluttered like a bird’s wings. The teacher dropped his brush in defeat. The eyes still capturing the reflection of death stared at the pureblood wide and curious.

He did it. Prometheus won over the Olympians.

Rough gloved fingers caressed her cheeks, tucked dark curls behind sharp ears, tenderly brushed the right temple where the scar from touching the ground could still be seen.

“I should have apologised, piccolina, but then it would be a lie. Cause I’m glad to have you in this damn world.”

Now he can’t sketch her face. His mind refuses to play the loquacious soprano of her laugh, it hides the dim remembrance of twenty five shades of red that touched her cheeks when she was angry, thrilled or surprised. Treacherous time has been slowly but gradually gnawing Leonardo’s memories, leaving nothing more than the shadows of them.

Yet, they once were real.

There were walks under the searing heat of the white Italian sun. There were talks about everything and nothing in particular. She used to wear a shamrock green skirt and buckle a red ribbon around her waist, rushing in the honey scented meadows like a sea breeze while Leo was trying to catch the red silk with both his large hands.

‘Gotcha. Heh, can’t say it was easy, mia gioia. You’re pretty fast.’

‘Hmph. I just didn't want to listen to your nugging, grumpy old man.’

‘Hm? Did you say anything? I think I’ve heard kitty's meowing.’

‘Put me down, you—’

The great Italian taught her to draw and told about distant planets, and the girl mumbled that he’d better learn how to get rid of the mess in his room instead of counting stars. Little signorina, that's how he called her, baked apple pies, spicy and stale, but she looked so proud of herself, so happy to have something she could treat him with that Leonardo swallowed the dish without hesitation.

Summer reached its zenith. In the mornings Florentines stifled in the heat, and in the evenings — from the lack of air after siesta as crowds spilled into the streets, dancing, singing, arguing. Oranges were burning in tangerine fires, gardens were soaked with green and roses were filling lungs with the sweetness of velvet. Never ever did life seem so full of meaning to the pureblood.

One night, when the Moon was high in the sky, Leonardo was rowing a boat, a seal of frozen puzzlement was put on his handsome face.

“Hey…”

She lowered her gaze from the stars, curious eyes immediately catching the shift in the man’s expressions as well as a small wrinkle of doubt at the corner of his lips.

“Still don’t know your name. And you’ve never asked mine.”

“What’s the point?” She brushed his question so casually as if it was a mere trifle.

“How am I gonna find my tesoro, if yall get lost?”

“You don't need my name for that. Listen… ”

Little signorina leant closer so their eyes could meet.

“...names only make it more difficult. It's like putting a label on goods. Before they represented something unique. After that they turn into one of many others.”

Then came a pause interrupted only by the sounds of silk dark waves beating against the boat. Leonardo grew silent, observing the girl’s face and, as if having reached some kind of conclusion, grinned broadly.

“You’re a curious one.”

Silent tenderness of his features was replaced by something new, something hidden deep inside those warm hazel eyes — devotion and poorly restrained passion.

“So, how should we call each other, bella?”

She already prepared the answer.

“You’ll continue to call me Gioia, because I’m the only one capable of bringing you happiness. As for me—”

His Gioia pretended to act indecisive, though it certainly looked like she was enjoying herself.

“You’ll be anima gemella. My other half. Reminds me of that funny story about Ze..Zeus splitting people with two faces, four arms and four legs in two parts. I‘ve heard it from foreign traders. Do you mind listening?”

Surely, she couldn't see through the night shades. Otherwise, she might have caught a glimpse of pure pink blush pinching Leonardo’s ears. All the guides lost their meaning. All lighthouses were destroyed. There were only a river and a man following blindly the scent of olivas and the ghost of the Moon on shining curls.

Prometheus was able to screw gods. But he had no idea how revengeful they might be.

Autumn gradually claimed its rights to Italy. Every day laughing workers gathered together to go to vineyards bathed in dazzling yellow, forest green and umber colours. Every afternoon Italian women, proud, with high-bosomed figures and thick long braids that were about to burst under their own weight, went down the hill with baskets full of chestnuts and olives. Their skin, wet from sweat, was sparkling, reflecting the red glow of the sunset. Wherever one looked, all he could see was an endless sea of pear and bronze. Summer went unnoticed, making way for the fall melancholy.

By the beginning of November, pouring rains washed away the golden Renaissance of the Florentine autumn, and the city’s streets looked like a bright piece of canvas with sapphirine inks accidentally spilled all over it.

This was also the time when certain rumours began to spread across Florence. Allegedly, there was a monster scouring the night streets, hunting people and drinking their blood. For Leonardo those talks could mean only one thing — another pureblood vampire came to his city.

He was standing in front of a large window in his workshop located in the western wing of Florence where wine and oil fragrances blended, where artists walked arm-in-arm with rich nobles, where Italy gave birth in agony to its geniuses. Heavy rain drops were drumming outside, grey smoke was wriggling like Hydra with its tentacles spread to get inside and choke the fire his lovely Gioia was trying to keep burning. Leo watched her hands nervously sorting out the brushes, honey gaze never leaving the sight of dark curls waving in the air from quick rushes across the room. Recently, she began to eat more, and her body became even more curvy and beautiful. How scared the man was of his signorina’s deep clear eyes losing their humanity and, instead, filling up with the evil desires. But it seemed that he feared for nothing as she never showed interest in blood. Probably, Leo thought, it was a side effect of the elixir mixed with the vampire’s poison. Or, maybe, Heavens finally had heard his prayers, granting the poor creature another chance to live life free from pain and sorrow.

The young woman put brushes into a jar with water and turned to face him. And again Leo was ready to swear that her eyes could look through him, reaching the very soul.

“Anything happened? You’ve been acting like this the whole day.” She pressed hot cheeks against gloved hands, lips kissing long fingers.

“People say there’re murders occuring in the streets. You’d better stay here, Gioia, where I can watch you.” Not so many knew the flower girl, and even those who did paid no attention to her sudden return together with the well-known engineer and artist. Da Vinci feigned a story that the girl’s injury after the incident wasn’t fatal, and those who preached the opposite were just the Medici’s enemies. People tend to believe in nonsense that sounds logical, and even the girl herself at some point believed in his lie. Leonardo didn’t mind. After all, he had to be the one bearing responsibility for those actions. He was guilty of dragging her out the Styx without permission, so why bother her with his pitiful doubts on what was right and wrong?

“Everything will be alright. I have you by my side.”

Tiny hands flew up Leo’s shoulder, caressed broad hairy chest. Somewhere far away the thunder spoke, but Leonardo couldn't care less. The artist’s hearing, nerves and whole body were devoted to that gentle ray of light, the scent of olive soap, hoarse breaths and fingers drawing magical formulas on his back. Most certainly, to tie him completely and entirely to his little signorina who was whispering his name in the dark workshop in one dark night city.

They were lying on a leather coach under Leda's thoughtful gaze. Fire flames sharpened the mythical queen’s features, making her look pale and pathetic, if not grieving. Carefully, not to bother her dreams. Leonardo wrapped his arms around the woman, no, the real goddess, sleeping beside him. The end to his inner demons finally came. No more nightmares, tears of pain and fears of the future. For the first time in his long eternal life he knew something for sure.

He was no longer alone in the world.

The next morning chill welcomed him with sticky fog and the sound of the window slammed shut. Damn drafts. The pureblood stretched his hand, wishing nothing more than to warm up in his lover’s sweet embrace. But the only thing he could touch was emptiness.

Scraps of clothes were lying on her pillow, and it didn't take the ultimate Renaissance man long enough to realise what big red spots covering them were made of.

Gloomy landscapes, boring buildings, narrow streets. Dirty puddles near apple carts. Rose petals left crushed on the paving stone. Loud screams, green faces, sikly mixtures of smells, loneliness was the top note. Leonardo ran about the streets like a wild animal locked in a cage, hating the city that managed to turn from the Garden of Eden to Hephaestus’ blacksmith within one night. Florence, the mother of his youth, remained silent to his pleas, refusing to give him a single clue about where his Gioia could be hidding.

The pureblood visited every shop and tavern, talked to street vendors, postmen and watchmakers. Nobody had ever seen her. Despair was fretting his stomach, crushing chest bones into pieces, chaining his once again beating heart with grave coldness. No thoughts except one. Her saying,

“Everything will be alright. I have you by my side.”

Gosh, she didn’t. He failed her. Betrayed. Wasn't smart enough to predict it.

When the sun dipped below the horizon, Leonardo, wet, dirty and desperate, reached the Santo Spirito square. A strange feeling of nostalgia coupled with the presentiment of an inevitable disaster suddenly came upon him and became unbearable the moment Leo crossed the backyard of Santo Spirito, the only witness to his heretical sins.

Jaw-stiffening scent of blood reached the vampire’s nostrils, and he let himself succumb to ancient predatory instincts. Pale blue spilled on the grass, lighting the backyard statues of Cupids, an empty draw well and a body lying near it. Another figure, much smaller, hunched over the body, leaning with greed towards already lifeless hands. Crunchy and chewing sounds urged Leo to vomit, but he resisted the need and stepped forward, picking up a thrown dugger from the ground — a weapon probably lost by the victim.

The Moon emerged from behind the smoke clouds, and Leonardo got it all.

Poor Giovanni was looking at the sky with his strange half-blind eyes, wrinkles of laughter already dropped across his cheeks like tears. Little signorina raised her curly head and stared at Leo emotionlessly.

Autumn wind touched her curls, and she started speaking with the husky colourless voice of an old woman.

“I wanted to eat…so much. But that wasn't enough…I needed…I needed more—”

The baker’s hand was brushed away with disgust. Another look — now hot from tears of pleas and rebellion — pierced Da Vinci’s soul.

“What have you done to me? Turned into a monster…And now all those lives…I am guilty…I…”

Shaking hands squeezed head tightly, hair turned crimson red with blood. Leonardo stared at the person who had given him nothing but joy and made no effort to approach her, to say that everything would be okay. He couldn't do that.

“Please, put an end to this. I’ve never asked you to do anything for me. Now I do. Stop it, Leo. Stop me.”

He flinched as if from a hit. Turned away, knowing it was cowardly of him. But yes, he feared. Oh, how he feared to meet her eyes and not be able to read blame in them. No anger, no disappointment. Just love, just a few drops of humanity. The humanity he deprived her of, striving for his own selfish ambitions.

Spasm convulsed her muscles, yet she slowly walked towards Leonardo like a cobra ready for the last jump.

“We’ll figure it out, bella. I will. You don't have to suffer on your own—”

Distant voices interrupted him. A gypsy’s figure could hardly be seen in the black blue void. Her daughter was following her when suddenly she stumbled over a stone and fell to the ground, crying from pain.

In a matter of seconds the creature behind him jumped over the backyard, driven by the scent of innocence and blood. Leonardo didn't have time to think about what to do. He saw the shadow of his lover moving gracefully and fast, fangs ready to soak the red liquid. The next moment a loud sound of flash piercing resounded right at the sacred walls of Santo Spirito.

But the holy spirit was about to leave that place. Gioia, his dear innocent Gioia, was crying with relief. Leonardo catched her weakened body, searching for the familiar human warmth, but it was almost gone.

Gioia touched the tip of the dagger in her chest, allowing her fingers to get soaked with blood. Then pressed those cold, lovely fingers to his cheek.

“Do you think immortals are beautiful?”she whispered softly.

Florence got silent, watching the agony of defeated Prometheus who once dared to laugh at gods.

“If I had an extended life, could you let yourself love me?”

You see his face losing any colour. Tick, tick, tick, goes watch on your arm. Counting down the seconds of your life.

“You can turn me into a vampire with a bite. I’d agree to it, if it allowed us to be together.”

Leo’s smile captured the sorrow of a thousand years. Memories of hundreds of countries. Fragrances of a dozen types of roses. Loneliness of a single universe. You know the answer and still have to clench fists so tight that nails leave crescent marks on delicate skin.

“What I think, cara mia, is that it’s not your destiny to love someone who will only make you cry.”

Your dreams made of glass are cracking right behind you. His dreams. There are always shadows that cannot be replaced with the brightest sunlight. There are memories you think you’ve already escaped from, but they still bring you pain like the scar that remembers the wound. And this pain is the worst possible. Chill emptiness. You can’t get rid of it. You should only learn how to live with it.

But how can you convince him?

#ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen leonardo #ikevamp leonardo #fall fluff autumn angst ccc

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ikeromantic · 2 years

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First of all I wanna just say that you are AMAZING!! ❤️❤️🥰 I love your blog and everything you write, you are such a good writer and totally know these characters so well!

Your Leonardo re-write of his route is my absolute favorite fic EVER! ❤️ I have reread it so many times!! I was hoping it'd be alright to request a fic, drabble with Leonardo, if that's okay? Something angsty, spicy, comforting, if that's a thing?

Possibly something where, we all know Leo is very "mature" seeming and even said in the game that while intimate doesn't react or make much noise. He also seems to prefer to have his partner from behind (in almost all his stories.) Well as much as I love this man...er, vampire. These traits would make me a bit insecure. Like he is not enjoying it or he doesn't want to actually look at me during the deed. It would make me pull away from intimacy so he wouldn't have to "deal with me."

Would it be possible for an MC the same way? How would Leonardo handle this?

I'll understand if this is too much though. Anyway thank you so much for all the wonderful content! Have a fabulous day! 🥰❤️

This was a lovely ask. Sorry it took me a bit to get to it, anon! Approx. 1700 words with a dash of spice, a pinch of angst, and a helping of comfort. I hope you enjoy ^_^

Leonardo saw his cara mia in the hall, dusting baseboards. She was bent down, moving in a line, her head nodding to some music only she could hear. It was adorable, and it made him smile. Even when doing chores, she moved with joy. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her up.

She squealed and kicked out before realizing it was him. “Leo! You bastard! You scared me half to death!”

“Oh? Did you expect someone else to grab you from behind, piccolina?”

“No. That’s the point. I wasn’t expecting it,” she said with a pout. “Now put me down.”

Leo chuckled. “I don’t think I will, cara. It’s been days since I got to spend any time with you. I think I’ll just keep you for myself today.” He placed a kiss on the back of her neck. At first she reacted the way he expected her to, inhaling sharply, a little tremor running down her spine. Then she tensed up and pulled away.

“Put me down. Please. I promised Sebas I would get this done today.”

“Sure, cara. Sorry.” He rubbed a hand through his hair, feeling a bit confused. “Bad timing, I guess?”

She nodded. “Y-yeah. Anyway, let’s . . . let’s hang out tonight, ok? I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.”

Leonardo couldn’t help but notice the way she looked to the side as she said it. There was something wrong, but he could tell she wasn’t going to talk about it. “I’ll see you tonight then. My room.” He kissed the top of her head.

That won a small smile from her. “Ok. See you then.”

The rest of the day, she was in Leo’s thoughts. Maybe he’d really frightened her. Or . . . had he done something days ago - something that caused her to avoid him like this? He didn’t remember anything, really. They’d gone out for a picnic. Spent time in the gardens. Then made love in her room. He pushed her up against the window so they could both look out at the moonlight and the scattering of stars. It had been perfect.

Or, he thought so. She seemed pleased although . . . she had left to clean up in a hurry, and went to bed without giving him a kiss. Leonardo settled his head in his hands. Give a man a thousand years, and women would still be a mystery. Whatever upset her, he only hoped he could make it up to her. His cara was everything.

That night, he waited in his room. He even cleaned off the seating, piling his books and papers higher in the corners. Nervous, he opened his window and lit a cigarillo. The sweet smell of the tobacco settled him as much as the ritual of smoking.

Above him, the stars moved in a slow waltz across the night sky. The moon crept up from the horizon, hanging over the mansion, sickle-thin curve aglow. His door opened.

“Cara.” He turned to look at her.

She gave him a tremulous smile, her expression so shy and full of an unspoken sadness that it reminded him of her first days in Paris.

Leonardo wanted to pull her into an embrace. To kiss the worry from her brow. But not every heartache could be so easily solved, and he determined to listen first.

“I wasn’t sure you were still up. Your light is off.” She smiled and came in, closing the door carefully behind her.

He gave a low chuckle. “And miss my first time alone with you this week?”

Heat rose in her cheeks and for a moment, her eyes met his. Then they skittered to the side, focusing on the sky outside. “Sorry. Again.”

“Don’t apologize.” He closed the distance between them, blocking her view of the window. “Just look at me, cara.”

Slowly, she tilted her head up as if it cost her great effort to do so.

He sighed and stroked a finger along the line of her jaw. “What is this I see in your eyes?”

“N-nothing.” She bit her lip, thinking. Then she seemed to come to some conclusion. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward her as she rose up on her toes. Her lips met his in a hungry kiss.

It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Leo met her lips with a thirst of his own. Parting her lips with his teasing tongue, wrapping his arms around her to pull her flush against him.

His cara slipped her hand under his shirt, her nails drawing down his sides.

Leonardo felt the sting of it, and it only made him want her more. He began to tug her shirt from her skirt.

She was just as eager, her hands sliding down to his hip. One came around to cup his hard length through the thin cloth of his trousers, stroking him while she undid his belt.

Her shirt fell to the floor, followed by her skirt. The thin, pale starlight hid the sight of her from him, but he didn’t need to devour her with his eyes when he could map every bit of her with his lips and tongue.

A moan broke from her throat, raw and needy. She bit his shoulder, sending a shudder through him and muffling her cries.

Leonardo wanted to draw this out, but he needed to feel her. To be in her, to possess her as much as he felt possessed by her. He turned her, easing her legs apart. But then he stopped as he felt her tense. Instead, he kissed from the nape of her neck down her back.

She relaxed a little, but after a moment, stepped away from him.

“Cara . . . what is it?” He held a hand out to her.

“I . . . I can’t. I can’t do this.” She bent down and picked up her shirt.

Leonardo watched her as she pulled it on, confusion and hurt in his wide amber eyes. “Is there someone else?”

“What?” She stopped with her skirt in hand. “No!”

“Then what is wrong? I can’t help if you won’t tell me.” He sat back on his bed, still watching her. “Didn’t we promise to be honest with each other? No matter what?”

She sniffed, wiping at her eyes as if to rub away tears. “I don’t remember promising that.”

“Well. Tell me anyhow.”

“I . . .” she sighed and plopped down in the chair he’d cleared off. “Do you even really like me? The way I look?”

“Like you?” Leonardo blinked. “Cara mia, I love you. You are the treasure of my heart. You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Why would you ask me that . . . why now?”

She made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Y-you never look at me when we make love. And - and never make a sound. I-I don’t even know if you’re enjoying it!”

He saw the silvered gleam of tears in the corners of her eyes before she wiped at them furiously. Leonardo was too stunned to say anything but he held his arms open and she fell against him, burying her face against his chest. He stroked her back, his eyes staring at some distant point while his thoughts gathered.

Leonardo was a genius. He could design mechanical devices, musical instruments, paintings, sculptures, and a thousand other things he might turn his mind to. But he had yet to understand the vagaries of the heart or the pitfalls of love. It took him some time to think through where all of this went wrong. The answer came slowly.

“Cara. I’m sorry.”

She looked up at him, sniffling. Her eyes were red rimmed and her cheeks, tear-stained. “What? No this . . . it’s my fault. I know you love me. I just . . . I don’t know . . .”

He smiled at her, his eyes warm and gentle. “No. This is all me, cara. You can’t take the credit this time.”

That brought a little smile to her lips, a question on the tip of her tongue.

Leonardo took her chin in his hand, wiping the dampness from her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. “I am sorry that I didn’t ask you what you wanted. I thought,” he cleared his throat, “I thought in that position it would feel better for you. But I should have asked. You’re a smart girl. You know what you want.”

She studied his expression as if she could discern the truth from the set of his jaw and the flutter of his lashes. “I . . . I do like it. But maybe we could other things? I want - I want to see you when we make love. Your eyes. Your face.” She was serious now, her gaze intent. “I want to hear you.”

He chuckled, feeling a flush creep up his own cheeks. “Hear me, cara?”

“Mhmm.” She traced her fingers over the bitemark on his shoulder. “I want to hear you enjoy the things I do to you. I want you to tell me how much you like it.” Her whole face was hot as she said this, and she could not keep meeting his eyes.

Leonardo felt oddly shy about this. He’d never been a vocal lover. But for her, he thought, he would try. Even if he felt a little . . . silly . . . what was that to him, if it made her happy.

Slowly, he brought his face closer to hers and shared a sweet kiss. “I never want you to doubt, cara mia. I love you. Will you promise to tell me next time I make you unhappy?”

“I promise.” She snuggled onto his lap.

“Good.” He stroked her hair. “And I promise to ask what you want.” He leaned close, letting his lips brush the curl of her ear. “So tell me, cara, what do you want?”

She shivered, turning her head so that she could look him in the eyes. “You. If - if you still want to . . .” She swallowed.

Leonardo laughed. “Cara mia, tesora. I want you. Always. Right now and tomorrow and every day after.” He set his other hand on her leg and slid her skirt up her thigh. “Now, you must tell me what you want me to do.”

She surprised him by laughing as well, and pushing him down into the tangled bedsheets. “I think . . . I think I want you to lay here and tell me if - if you like what I’m going to do to you.” Her expression was all nervous excitement, hopeful and anxious all at once.

“Alright cara. I’ll do my best to sing for you.”

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp leonardo #ikemen leonardo #leonardo da vinci #fanfiction #fanfic #otome #otome guys #slightly spicy #light angst #comfort

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violettduchess · 1 year

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Leonardo request: he and mc break up (he breaks up with her so she will go back to her time and she does), and now it is her time and she runs into him after she has been back in her time for a while and he has lived through the years until he has finally caught up with her

if it is a happy reunion or painful because she is with someone, I leave up to you!

A/N: Here you go, lovely Bellerose. Thank you for your request!

Leonardo x female Reader

I had to pick a hair color for the reader in this, which I usually don't, so I apologize if that bothers anyone.

Word Count: 3157

You would think there is nothing that can rival the beauty of a moonlit lake, a sky littered with silvery stars, the soft whisper of grass as it's ruffled by a gentle wind. But the enchanting scene surrounding you is nothing compared to the glow of Leonardo’s golden eyes, the softness in his smile, the feel of his hands as they hold yours. His gaze lights a warmth inside you that spreads slowly like honey, sweet and delicious. He leans down and you rise to meet him, lips already parted in anticipation.

It is not what you imagined.

It is so much more.

He tastes vaguely smoky, evoking the comfort of a fire on a cold night. And sweet, but not excessively so. More like chocolate and hazelnuts, rich and earthy and absolutely decadent. As he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close to the shelter of his body, you find another word to describe what kissing him feels like: home.

Leonardo extends his hand, helping you up into the carriage. The door closes and soon you are rolling over the uneven cobblestone streets, away from the concert hall. He’s tucked you under the protection of his arm, unable to resist the urge to hold you close. Even at night, when you are curled up in his bed, he needs to touch you. Maybe it’s only his ankle over yours or his hand on your back, but you are his lifeline to finding joy in the endless, weary march of time and he wants every single moment possible to be filled with you.

Your sigh pulls him out of his reverie and he turns to look at you. Your sparkling diamond earrings swing gently with the swaying of the carriage as you look out the window and at the darkened city that rolls by outside of it.

“Cara mia? Is everything ok?”

It takes you a moment to tear your gaze away from the glass, shaking your head as if clearing away cobwebs.

“I’m fine. It’s just….” You trail off and he frowns slightly, nudging you with his lips to your temple.

“It’s just?”

He feels the way you sigh again, with your whole body, a wave passing from you to him. Whatever you’re feeling weighs on you heavily.

“The song Mozart played. ‘Sonata facile.’ My mother taught me to play that on the piano. And she knew it because her mother taught her. And I just always thought….” You lift your shoulder in a small shrug, glancing at the darkness through the window again. “I just thought I would teach it to my children someday.”

His heart feels like it's been dropped with sudden speed into a frozen lake, splintering as it crashes through the ice. Grateful you’re not facing him, he takes a moment to compose himself before speaking, his tone deceptively casual. “Children were a part of the plan then, yeah?”

Your earrings swing, glittering even as you speak in a quiet voice, hushed like dusk as it settles across the sky. “I was an only child with parents that were often away on business. That could be….lonely, sometimes. So I promised myself that I would have lots of children so there would always be noise in the house. And so they would always have someone to play with.”

It is impossible for him to miss the flash of sadness that crosses your features, subtle like lightning too distant to be bright but unmistakable nonetheless. Long fingers of cold wrap themselves around his heart. What you have dreamed of for yourself is something he cannot give you. Something he will never be able to give you.

Even as you sigh again, nestling closer to him, resting your sweet cheek against his shoulder, he can’t shake it.

And spends the rest of the carriage ride avoiding the sight of the darkness outside the window.

The dishrag hits the marble counter with a satisfying whack. Untying your apron, you bid Sebastian a good night as you make your way out of the kitchen, your steps hurried as you make your way towards Leonardo’s room. Worry had been gnawing at you ever since you returned home from the concert last night.

He had been unusually quiet, almost distracted in a way you were not familiar with from him. You asked him to unhook your gown and there was no provocative curve of his lips, no low sensuous murmuring. He had simply undone your gown and then proceeded to undress himself, the motions perfunctory, almost careless. It was only when you had joined him in bed after removing your jewelry and unpinning your hair, when you had slid your arms around him and pulled him to you, stretching yourself under him like a cat in its favorite patch of sunshine, that he returned to you, lowering his head to claim your lips, his hands coming to life as they slid their way over the curve of your hips, across the span of your ribcage before finally sliding up into the expanse of your soft auburn hair.

And even then, when he made love to you, it had felt….different. He was slow, exploring the entire expanse of your body, deliberately lingering, as if committing every part of it to memory. True, you had only been intimate a handful of times, but the times before this were electric, your body feeling like it might overload and burst like lightning, illuminating the whole mansion with the force of your radiance. But last night you were embers, glowing with the warmth of his slow, tender attention. And when it was over, you lay with your cheek against his heart, its steady rhythm lulling you to sleep.

He’s not in his room. Or the library. Or the dining room. Or the salon. You pause at the bottom of the staircase, wondering if you should go knocking on the doors of some of the other residents when Arthur approaches, a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of dark fudge in the other.

“Hello luv. A bit late to be wandering ‘bout the place all alone. I’d offer you my company but….” His blue eyes are alight with mischief. “I’m afraid ol’ Leo might not be pleased with it.”

“Do you happen to know where he is? I’ve been looking everywhere for him.”

Arthur pauses, already a few steps up and gestures with the fudge to the top of the stairs. “Last I saw him he was visiting Comte.”

You thank him, pass him on the stairs and hurry towards the sitting room Comte uses on this floor. Your knocking gets no answer so you boldly enter. It’s empty. Disappointment shadows your heart and you are about to leave when you notice the door to the small balcony is open.

He’s there, alone, forearms resting on the smooth stone of the balcony railing, a lit cigarillo between his fingers. The balcony faces the mansion’s gardens and he’s staring intently out into the dark as if he might be able to find some answers there.

“Leo?”

He turns, startled and then breathes out when he sees it’s you. “Cara mia.”

Frowning, you make your way to his side. “Is everything ok?”

He is silent, wrestling with a decision he needs to make. You wait, letting him battle it out internally, watching the thin plume of smoke from his cigarillo as it rises, twisting and turning as if anxious and unsettled.

“The door to your time will be opening again in two days. Maybe…..you should use it.”

His words are so unexpected you wonder for a moment if you understood them.

“What……why would you say that?”

You can hear the tremor in your voice, the aftershock of his suggestion jolting you.

His jaw clenches, his gaze still searching the dark and silent gardens.

“Maybe you would be happier there. Could live the life you always dreamed for yourself. See your family again. Your hometown. There are a thousand reasons.”

You reach out, placing a firm hand on his arm. “And one very big, very stubborn one right here.” His breath shudders from his body as you pull, forcing him to turn towards you. “I made a commitment to you, Leonardo. We discussed this. I’m staying.”

He tosses his cigarillo over the railing, its small glow swallowed by the night. When he finally meets your gaze, the conflict in his beautiful eyes makes your heart ache. “Cara mia…..I cannot give you a family. I cannot promise you safety. I-”

Your hands reach up to cup his face, your grip determined. This is no time for gentleness. He needs to understand. You speak slowly, each word carefully weighed and measured.

“I want to stay with the wonderful, funny, intelligent, kind man that I have fallen in love with. For as long as I can. And there is nothing that can change my mind.”

He holds your gaze as you hold your breath, waiting. Finally he nods and you echo his gesture, nodding back in response. “Ok….” you whisper. “We’re ok.” You step into the circle of his arms, burying your face in the soft, rich fabric of his clothing.

He holds you close, but his eyes remain open, once again returning to the impenetrable darkness of the gardens.

The next day he’s gone again but you try to keep yourself busy and ignore the uneasy feeling that keeps scratching at your heart. The sun sinks to its rest and the moon rises, cold and pale among its nest of stars, and still there is no Leonardo. No other residents have seen him and worry flashes in Comte’s golden eyes when you ask if he knows where Leo has been all day.

Your thoughts are heavy, each one hammering a different worry in your mind as you make your way up the stairs and to his room. He’s bound to come back from wherever he is and then you’ll be waiting.

It’s far into early morning when Leonardo returns, pushing his way through his bedroom door and stumbling inside. You sit up in bed instantly, sleep having only caressed you and never quite fully taken over.

“Where have you been?” You can’t keep the frustration out of your voice or block the sound of your thrashing heart in your ears. “I’ve been worried!”

His movements are slow, radiating something unusual. Something that slowly begins twisting your stomach into an uncomfortable knot.

“A man can go out, yeah? Without a thousand questions.”

His voice is thick, perhaps with drink, perhaps with something else. Either way it sends a cold shudder through you as you slide out of bed.

“Leonardo…..what’s going on? This isn’t like you.”

He turns, his eyes liquid amber, unnaturally bright in the soft orange light of the lamp you left burning low.

“Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think. Maybe I’m not the warm, intelligent, kind man you have fooled yourself into believing I am.”

Hearing your own words thrown back at you like daggers nearly sends you staggering back to the bed. A hand reflexively rises to cover your heart as if you had really been pierced by some wicked blade.

“That’s not possible. I know you. I know who you are and–”

He growls, closing the distance between you quicker than you can draw a breath. He does not lay a hand on you, instead pinning you in place with the force of his heated glare.

“I am a pureblood.” His voice is low, the words dragging over your heart like plow teeth across the earth. “I am eternal. You are a minute, yeah? A second in an endless succession of days and nights. A blink of an eye.” Your lips part but before you can even see if you are capable of sound, he continues. “I am dangerous.”

“You would never hurt me.” The words slip out, small and unsteady, but born of the conviction that still lives in your aching heart.

His eyes close a moment, freeing you from the pain of his excruciating glare. And then with a snap of his head, his fangs protract and he growls, the sound more primal than anything you’ve ever heard from him. A primordial fear skitters down your spine, sends goosebumps across your skin. He’s changed the framework from lovers, to something much more sinister: predator and prey.

“Get out.”

You don’t know if you sob or if you simply turn and run. The way back to your own room is a blur of shadows. It is only when you have closed your door, have turned the key in its lock, that your legs turn to water and you sink to the carpet, your breath coming in uneven, painful gasps.

He has never threatened you before. You never thought he would.

Now the only sound you hear is the cracking of your heart as it splinters into a thousand tiny pieces.

The next day, when the door to your world opens, you walk through it.

He is not there to say goodbye.

Epilogue: 21st century London

The vintage bookstore is a popular one. Some people are milling about the coffee bar, deciding how they want their caffeine intake today. A handful of children are sitting on large, oversized bean bags, excitedly flipping through colorful books. There is a low buzz of people’s talking, an undercurrent of appreciation for stories and writing and reading that he is happy to be around. He is somewhere between the New Releases and Staff Favourites bookshelves, thumbing his way through a copy of “Love in the Time of Cholera”, when the small bell above the bookstore chimes, announcing another patron exiting or entering. He still doesn’t know what exactly caused him to lift his gaze from the page. Perhaps the hand of Fate caught his chin and pulled.

He is not prepared for the sight of you. He has not seen you in over one hundred and thirty years. But now, as if by magic, there you are. For the first time in a century his heart leaps with emotion, hurriedly and haphazardly clearing away the cobwebs of loneliness that had settled there, delicate yet incessant. He steps behind the bookshelf, forcing his eyes closed. They want nothing more than to drink in the sight of you, an oasis in the desert of desolation he himself had created when he pushed you away that nightmarish evening.

The one where he had made the decision that he would not destroy your dreams by selfishly keeping you all for himself, robbing you of the chance to build the life you imagined for yourself.

So he did what he deemed necessary to make you leave.

You had stepped through the door that led back, your heart broken. And he had been the one swinging the hammer.

Time is a merciless teacher. Its harshest lessons were taught in the black heart of night, that gaping pit of time when no one could hear the rattling sound of his remorse, the anguished cries of regret. It was then, before the relief of morning’s pale light, that he understood what he had done. While he had, at the time, seen his intentions as noble, all he had truly accomplished was to destroy the chance at happiness you had been so freely and adamantly offering him.

He breathes out slowly.

He has been given a chance. A gift. He must not squander it.

His golden eyes open and he peers around the bookshelf. You look the way he remembers. A bit older, maybe, but it's the same face that has visited his dreams countless times, the one he has kissed every angle of and traced with devout fingertips.

The cold of a London winter has left your cheeks tinged pink, your hair dotted with tiny snowflakes that are slowly melting, glistening even in the book store’s artificial light. You look enchanting, like a fairy tale character from one of the children’s books on display.

A knot has formed in his throat and he swallows against it, trying to ignore the twisting of his stomach and the roaring of his heartbeat. Leonardo da Vinci, for the first time in centuries, is nervous.

He’s about to step forward, to say the name that hasn’t crossed his lips in ages except for anguished whispers in his sleep, when something brushes past him, lightly bumping into his leg, and then haphazardly carrying on, barreling forward towards its destination.

“Mummy!!”

You turn and your face is alight, as bright and warm as summer. Dropping down, you open your arms and catch the cannonball of a little girl, pulling her close to you.

A man with a sleeping baby strapped to his chest brushes past Leonardo, offering a polite “Pardon me” before he stops in front of you, his shoulders dropping in relief.

“I’m sorry, darling. She saw you and took off like a shot.” He sounds slightly exasperated as he approaches you and his wayward daughter who has now thrown her small arms around your neck.

She has your soft auburn hair and bright, intelligent eyes.

Leonardo’s heart is quietly crumbling in his chest.

You stand, lifting the little girl up along with you, much to her delight. “Did you find a book for the plane ride, Cara?”

This is what he wanted for you. So why does it hurt so much?

She nods, brushing her hair away from her face enthusiastically. “Yes!” She turns. “Show her, Daddy.” Your husband smiles, his warm golden-brown eyes softening at the sight of you two. One hand absently pats the soft baby carrier and its sleeping passenger while the other holds out the book. Your daughter reaches over, taking it.

Your husband looks a bit like him. Same brown hair, same golden eyes. Leo’s heart continues to break.

“Oh, a children’s guide to the most famous paintings in the world. What a good choice.” You slowly set her down and she reaches for your hand.

“It has all the best ones in it, Mummy. Including your very favorite, the Mona Lisa!”

There is now nothing but dust.

You smile, running a hand over her hair. “I can’t wait to look at it with you.”

As you wait in line to pay for the book, the small bell above the bookstore chimes, announcing another patron exiting or entering. You don’t know why you glance up toward the door. There’s nothing to see except the receding figure of a man in a long brown duster as he crosses the street, arm raised to hail a taxi.

Your gaze lingers, inexplicably drawn to him, until your daughter tugs on your hand.

“Mummy?”

Jolted back to the present, you shake your head to clear the strange, momentary fog, offering the woman at the register an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry. How much for the book?”

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