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pseudofaux · 2 years

Note

Hi!! I love your writing!! If your requests are still open, please could I request a drabble with Leonardo x MC x Comte, where MC has a hard day of work and they help her relax. If you could, could you make it sweet and spicy and include some praise please! Thank you so much, and have a great day :)

Ohhhhhhhhh man, this is like. 🤎💛THE DREAM💛🤎, right?! 🤤 Thank you for requesting, I hope you see this post and enjoy!

(Requests are currently closed, I am finishing up ones I owe from earlier this year. I’ll post a masterlist when they are all completed. Thanks for reading!)

They begin to massage your hands, working every knuckle and fingertip and even your weary palms. Leonardo uses his thumbs on the back of one hand and Comte makes the lightest, most pleasurable scratches down the sides of each finger on the other. You feel like you are floating somewhere between them, like your bed is the warm water of la thermae and they’ve stretched you out between them on top of the water as they sometimes like to do. It is heaven to your tired body. Behind your eyelids gentle constellations begin to bloom, just like the ones painted on the ceiling of the mansion baths. They keep you drifting and blissful like this for quite some time.

You are so tired. It’s almost worse that it wasn’t a bad day, just a hard one. There’s nothing and no one in particular to blame for your exhaustion. Still, you are bone-deep weary, and the walk to your room is more a trudge than a series of steps. You make it, somehow, and there’s a very handsome man sitting careless and beautiful on your bed that is a sight for your sore eyes.

“Buona sera,” Leonardo says, not yet looking up. He licks his finger and then creases the top corner of the page he’s on and shuts the book in his lap. When he does spare you a glance, he chuckles at what he sees. “You look like you’re about to faint on your feet, cara. C’mere.”

He’s not wrong, and he’s even holding out his hand. You go, and let yourself fall face-first onto the bed he’s practically unmade with all his moving around on your covers. It’s not a dignified position you fall into (your ass is in the air), but it feels so good to lean heavily on something that you breathe out something close to a moan as you enjoy the comfort of being done for the day.

The door to your bedroom quietly clicks shut, and when there’s a soft “What did you do to her?” you smile, because the voice belongs to the other very handsome man you love. If you ask them to let you curl up between their bodies and sleep, they will. Leonardo will tease you, they will both hold you, and you’ll be able to drift off into the safe, restorative sleep you need.

“I’ve been here for hours, what am I supposed to have done to her?”

“I can see you certainly didn’t make her tea. Chérie, I brought you chamomile. Would you like some?”

You would, tea sounds lovely, but you don’t want to get up. You apologize and tell him exactly that.

Leonaro’s hand is already stroking the back of your neck, and he wordlessly begins pulling his hands down a little farther and adding pressure right onto your sore shoulders. You sigh and sink yourself into the mattress, hinged at the waist and boneless but for your legs.

“Let him kiss you,” Leonardo says, voice a more gentle burr than you could have imagined. His hand lightens up on its touch, but stays high on your back. “Before he pouts.”

You are smiling when Comte’s mouth finds yours, and you are touched that he came down to you so near the bed. Then you are touched again when a sip of warm chamomile tea flows into your mouth when you open for him. His hand cupped under your check catches the drips and his thumb wipes them away when you are done. You feel Leonardo’s hand on your back when you swallow.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You hope you gratitude is evident despite your motionlessness.

“This is all our pleasure. It’s a gift to be able to care for you the way we want,” Comte says.

You expect a quip from Leonardo but he says “Yeah,” impossibly fond. It’s enough to make you reach back for his hand, just to squeeze it and show him how much this means to you.

Comte gets your hand—you can tell by the gentleness of the grip that it’s him— and kisses the palm of it chamomile-warm before he guides it down to Leonardo’s hand, careful not to bend your arm any way that hurts. Leonardo’s fingers slip through yours like an easy lace and he trails them down to your fingertips… and then does it again.

“You rarely let us, after all,” Comte says, standing again if you can trust the distance of his voice. “And you are so tempting when you are tired.” His hands curve around your backside, slow and appreciative, before he slides them to your hips and helps you up into bed. Leonardo helps move your arm so you can roll into him on the bed, and kisses your forehead when your body nestles up against him.

“You know I hate it when he’s right,” Leonardo whispers, “But he is. Why don’t you let us help you dream sweet, hmm?”

Once you whisper your yes, they undress you carefully, as though all three of you are part of an imperfect-- Comte and Leonardo quietly snipe at one another over the way they unfasten your clothes-- but lovely ritual. You are left in your slip at the end, the long, thin silk and lace perfect sleepwear as far as you are concerned. They settle you on your back in the middle of the bed and rest your hands gently on the sheets, like you are some fairy tale princess and they are your attendant knights of sepia and gold. It’s not a particular touch but the enormity of their care that sends goosebumps down your arms, and your eyes fluttering open.

Their expressions of concern above you make you smile. “I love you,” you say. “Thank you both.”

Comte touches your face. “We love you.”

“No thanks necessary,” Leonardo says before he kisses your cheek. “Let’s see about those dreams.”

They stretch out, one on either side of your body, and slide their hands into yours like they’d planned this. Maybe they had. The warmth of each caress makes you sigh and close your eyes again. If they are determined to love you and care for you this way, you will let them. You don’t have the strength (or desire) to stop them, even to fight for your chance to be a more active participant in all this.

Leonardo must have noticed your brows furrowing, because he whispers again. “Don’t worry, insonnolita. We’ll get you there. You want to make us happy?”

You hum.

“Then remember it makes us happy to make you feel good, yeah?”

You hum again.

“Nothing is wrong,” you say quietly, suddenly eager to reassure them. “I’m just tired.”

Comte squeezes your hand. “Then let us put you to sleep,” he says.

“Why else would we be in bed?” Leonardo asks.

You smile even though he’s teasing. The first time you let them care for you this thoroughly, it felt like a little too much. But today it is exactly what you need: to lay in your bed and let them love you.

“You comfy?”

When you nod, he whispers “Brava,” real slow, and begins to kiss down the curve of your shoulder. Every press of his mouth is tender, he’s not teasing any more, only soothing and appreciating you. It’s a little like being kissed by Comte in two places at once, but when Comte starts to kiss your other shoulder you can make out the differences: Leonardo kisses with slightly more force even when he’s being gentle, and he’s faster even when he’s not rushing.

Or maybe it’s that he has somewhere else to be, because he’s moving down your arm while Comte appears to be staying at your shoulder, loving you with his mouth and the occasional and very delicate scrape of fangs, the kind you like best.

When Leonardo has made it all the way down your arm, he lifts your hand and kisses the back of it in sweet, courtly gesture. “Let him kiss you,” he says again. “Before he pouts.”

Your laugh is cut off by a firm kiss from a Comte who is already pouting. His frown over your mouth is proof. “Don’t listen to him, chérie,” he whispers. “He’s jealous he doesn’t get to kiss you.”

“I have no reason to be jealous,” Leonardo says, just loud enough to be clear even though he says the words into the silk over your belly. “You do your part and focus on that, or I’ll give you something to really pout about, yeah?”

Comte huffs an indulgent laugh, but you can’t tell which one of them is winning. Then Leonardo slides your slip up your sides, and you realize you are.

His breath is somehow chamomile-warm against you without him having had any tea (you know he doesn’t like it), just the right temperature to match just the right touch of his blunt, roughened fingertip as he prods at your weeping sex. He takes it away and makes an obscene and completely unmuffled sucking sound that makes your thigh muscles flex.

“Settle down, I’m getting to it,” he says, and he kisses high on the inside of your leg to prove it. “Wouldn’t ever leave, if you didn’t make me.”

The way he noses at your clit makes you gasp the breath right out of Comte’s mouth, and sweet man that he is, Comte smiles and says, “That’s perfect, that’s so good, mon bonheur. Will you let us please you?”

Your yes comes out throaty, because Leonardo hasn’t waited for it. He gives you the first wide, flat, slow lick and your toes curl tight.

You are still very tired, so your body doesn’t come off the bed like it usually would, but your shoulders do press you up a little— and Comte uses the movement to slide his hand between the silk and your chest, cupping the curve he finds and sighing like he’s found perfection itself.

“‘Jealous he doesn’t get to kiss you,’ he says,” Leonardo mocks from between your legs. And then he licks you again, all the way up until his tongue leaves the tip of your clit.

“Don’t pout, Leo,” Comte says, smiling against your mouth this time. “Especially not while you’re there.”

Leonardo makes a sound of exasperation, but his hands on your hips are calm and keep you right where he wants you for his feast. They also allow you to roll your hips toward his tongue as it returns to you, strong enough to press flat against your sex and drag up through the arousal he finds.

“Always so pretty, even when you’re exhausted,” Comte murmurs. “You can’t know how lovely you are or you’d never throw yourself on the bed like this.”

Leonardo is better at making you come quickly with his mouth. The ways he doesn’t hesitate to press all of his mouth against you with delicious friction or suck your clit into his mouth or drag his tongue against your walls, strong, always gets you there. Comte is better at soothing you, making an orgasm a pleasant build that ends in bliss without any angry clutching or desperation.

So when Leonardo is done and you’re whimpering and trying to find your breath, Comte helps you until you do, murmuring that you’re incomparable and radiant. And then he gives your mouth one last kiss and turns you slowly by the chin to Leonardo, who waits for you with a tongue that tastes familiar.

He murmurs something about this being harder than he thought, but worth it, and kisses you gently senseless while Comte presses his own kisses down your arm. He lets the points of his fangs graze you a few times, just the way you like.

“You feeling sleepy, cara?”

“Not anymore,” you whisper, one hand finding his. Your other hand settles into the sleek softness of Comte’s hair just as he kisses you low on your belly, and you do not let go until they really do put you to sleep.

But that’s some time later.

#ikevamp fanfiction #ikevamp fanfic #ikevam fanfiction #ikevam fanfic #ikevamp Comte x MC x Leo #pseu slings

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pseudofaux · 2 years

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ok, so how do you think lili and yang's first night REALLY went? apparently they went at it all night, but for someone's first time that's kind of hard to believe! i'm curious to see your take because you right yang really well! headcanons style or scenario, whichever you prefer!

So I have really been thinkin' about this one! I am glad you asked about it, it hits me right in the Yang/kinks and I hope you'll see this and enjoy!

(Requests are closed, I am currently finishing up what I owe from earlier this year. I will post a masterlist when they are all completed. Thank you for reading!)

➡️➡️I’m gonna put a warning on this one for some very misogynistic female virginity-centric thoughts from Yang, including about blood. To me they all make sense, and are appropriate given the ask and character, but they will be a lot if you’re sensitive to that, so just a heads up those are under the cut. Avoid if you need to!⬅️⬅️

She is not warm anymore but hot, and her fingers clutch at him with a reluctance that makes him grind a laugh into her mouth and tell her to hold on if she doesn’t want to hit her head against the bedframe.

She is (still) a good girl, so she does.

Her blood is on him, and it makes the space between them smell like wet coins and earth. There's no longer anything particularly arousing about the scent of blood to him, but he doesn't resent what he smells, or what he sees. She arouses him plenty for this purpose, and that is all he needs to see it done.

The ways she is warm, and pliant, and trying to keep herself from letting out another little mewl or yelp... he lets himself luxuriate in those comforts, like she is a long, trembling pillow that goes from overstuffed stiffness to the most body-cradling seduction of softness.

Her lashes sweeping up and then meeting, and the way those little cries have become short, sharp pants of sugar scented breath: he can admit that those things arouse him. He thinks they would arouse most men, not that he is like most men. But he is a man. And she is a woman now, beneath him. He can admit that he does not mind that.

There is no telling how long it will be before he begins to mind. Not long, likely. He knows his own nature. He knows enough about other people to expect she will eventually bore him, just like they have. It's mostly boredom that's brought the two of them to his bed, after all, more boredom than desire.

He recognizes there is some small desire in his brain to get the taste of her blood in his mouth. Does that wet coin smell mean it will taste like a punched disc fished out of a puddle on the street? Or does the sugar on her tongue live in all the places of her body? She is not warm anymore but hot, and her fingers clutch at him with a reluctance that makes him grind a laugh into her mouth and tell her to hold on if she doesn’t want to hit her head against the bedframe.

She is (still) a good girl, so she does.

When she’s fainted or fallen asleep or whatever it is virgins do when a man is done with them, he’s still smelling that wet coin smell. It’s a little saltier now, like the coin was fished out of the ocean instead. The ocean is dangerous and does not care what happens to people. He likes this change, likes that he has changed her.

He touches her face while she dreams, and breathes her in through his nose, tucked into a space at the bottom of her naked throat. He thinks about moving so he can get that taste he wanted and know for certain what water and metal have bled out of her, but he is comfortable where he is. So he stays.

Naps are meant for whenever he wants to have them, but that’s usually daytime. He’s surprised to wake up in the middle of the night between ruined sheets, with the woman not turned away from him at all, actually nestled quite close and her cheek using his arm like a pillow.

He is more curious than angry.

“Hey.”

Her eyebrows flinch but smooth out.

He thinks about calling her something rude, something that would dig right into whatever hurt about her decision to let him fuck her. What’s the worst thing to call a woman who loves the God here? Whore?

He does not call her that. But he does not like to be ignored, so he bites the point of her nose until she cries, and the sound makes him want to kiss her again so he does. Her confusion arouses him-- it does-- so he moves on top of her, pulling his arm out from under her face without a thought for how her pretty hair will tug her head.

But he likes the way it does, when he sees it. So he moves his mouth to her ear and whispers that he’s going to have her again, then bites the supple flesh there, too.

She tucks her chin down toward her chest like a bird, and her hands land on his shoulders with the delicate weight of nightingales finding their perch. It’s so good it makes him want to destroy her.

So he does. He makes her silly little throat go hoarse, makes the whole house hear them.

Ha.

Something about the way her chest moves when he’s slamming deep into her hips makes him want her on top, and it’s not as though she could be more broken in at this point (or that he would care if there were still something that would tear and bleed inside her), so he gets on his back and tells her what to do.

His voice is low but softer than he planned. He’s not hoarse.

Hmm.

She does what he says, but he slaps the heft of her ass when she is trying to settle herself, just to remind her not to get too comfortable beyond resigning herself to whatever he wants.

And now whenever he wants it.

The view as she plants her soft hands on his belly and moves her hips as though her bones could be shy puts him in a good mood again, maybe because it presses her breasts together full and shameless despite her shame. He likes it, at any rate, and finds himself curling both hands around her ass, patting the place he hit.

She’s like a pet, he reminds himself. Nothing wrong with stroking a well-behaved pet.

He brings one hand around her front and strokes her until she sucks in a breath and tightens all around him, and he grunts like he can punish her with the sound as he floods her yet again, but she merely looks tired.

The red that was on her thighs is all smeared to nothingness, practically worn away. There’s still a tint of it, like someone used a watery ink on her legs.

He should be tired, but the idea of painting her is too interesting. He decides to do that instead of sleep. But he puts her on her back and lets her sleep. For now. He can tell he’s going to splatter onto her defenseless belly loud and hard enough to wake her up, if she knows what’s good for her.

When he wakes up next, the sun is sharp and someone’s already started making breakfast. He can smell it. He smells earth and shore sand and metal and blood and sex, too.

He doesn’t remember sucking at her skin so much, but she looks like someone pinched her in a half dozen places and that’s just what he can see above the sheet. Under the sheet are more marks, and bigger. They look like real bites and bruises, and he... feels, about that.

He has never seen her so deeply asleep. He remembers the ways her exhausted body went slack against him several times, especially her stomach against his and the weight of her on top of him when her hands tried to let go of their grip on the bedding. Cute. Like a kitten.

He had no specific plan to discard of her, but he realizes that he wants to keep her for awhile and see how far that enthusiasm goes, especially now that she has given everything up. Sweet little sinner.

Maybe he should wake her up with his tongue between her legs.

He’ll think about it. For now he breathes deeply through his nose and thinks of coins in watery puddles that are tinted red, and of the way the waves of her hair fanned out like a phoenix’s triumphant wings just as she completely surrendered.

It makes him hungry.

#piofiore fanfiction #piofiore fanfic #piofiore yang #basically i think they really did fuck all night but his stamina and ability to stay up (ahem) are stronger than hers. rip lili <3 #pseu slings #who cares what the best time to post is let’s GO

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pseudofaux · 3 years

Note

I loved your recent work! Harr with breeding kink? 15/10 👌🏻 Alright here goes my request🙈

If you’re up for it, could I please request Ikevamp Vlad x fem reader breeding kink? (Vlad is the one with the kink) But can the setting be in his rose garden at night? So maybe also some exhibition kink going on too? (If this is too specific or too much, just let me know!)

Hoooo, this is a beautiful idea! This ended up very slow/deliberate mostly calm, that feels like Vlad’s style, to me, even in terms of kink. I promise the kink is there (and unsubtle), you just have to make it through several walls of roses (…/text) to get to it. :} I really hope you will enjoy!

(Requests are closed, readers, but there are a lot still to be filled in June! And, uh, clearly July as well. Feel free to follow along or just check in and enjoy as many as you like. A masterlist will go up when they are all completed.)

There’s a wrought iron table in the middle of a terrace in the garden, and because roses grow only as high as they are trellised, moonlight can reach the tabletop every night it shines upon the earth. It makes a lace of shadows, and from May until October there the scent of full blooms luscious in the garden, their greenery and the cedar mulch secondary notes to the heady scent of sweet, sunsoaked roses that lingers well beyond the sun itself.

It is nighttime now, and the glow of the moon drenches the flowers instead. They bob gently in purple-blue breezes, and every movement spreads their scent more thickly over the entire estate, especially in the air around that wrought iron table. It’s the sort that should have two chairs, so people might be seated and share conversation in such a lovely space, but Vlad owns everything here and has chosen to use the table as his seat. He has insisted that tonight, your seat will be his lap.

You have never met a man who is so firm. Perhaps one day you will find out if that is because he is a vampire or because he is Vlad. His legs are made of supple skin, you know this from countless touches and your time spent between them, surrounded by them. But beneath you tonight he is so strong he might as well be made of iron himself.

He would of course be wrought in the most beautiful, classic pattern: roses. Their stems curling in a smith’s poor imitation of nature’s perfection. He has told you he only trellises certain plants for their health, he likes the idea of a flowery space gone wild but when he tried it, it did not make him happy. So he ripped it all out and started over.

The tension under you makes you think he is going to rip your nightdress sometime soon. There is a current of tension under his elegant calm. Vlad has the patience of a gravestone but sometimes the roses and the phases of the moon get in his blood and he moves. He would never strike you, but his impulses tend to MOVE with the suddenness of a fist. So you have learned not to get attached to any of the silk slips he buys you. They are not destined to be long lived.

How could you mind that? His speed is always so pleasurable for you, the speed and the sure way he grips your body and the way his hair shines truest silver in moonlight. These things work in constant concert. Most importantly, you love the beauty of his soft, true smile when you are alone in the garden, your only company each other and the many roses.

The other castle residents know to stay away from this place at night. Vlad only likes an audience for certain things. Your late night discussions are private, and your occasional garden lovemaking is something he’s only teased arranging an audience for. As far as you know.

“Fullness,” he muses after a long silence. The backs of his fingers slide along your shoulder. “Is that what you are thinking of, too?”

You snuggle into the space above his chest instead of answering. The side of your face knows no better pillow in all the world. Even when he is made of iron, there is a give and a gentle depression there. It cradles you as though his bones love you as much as his heart does. He’s told you that, you remember it now. My bones and sinews and blood love you, and you know how important blood is to one like me.

You hum to acknowledge his question. “Yes,” you begin slowly, “I was thinking of how happy the garden makes you, and how happy that makes me.”

He nuzzles at the top of your head and it makes you think of an old woodcut illustration from collection of fairytales: the Beast, tenderly embracing Beauty. You have not thought of him in that term before because he is so beautiful. But you like it.

“I like it when you are happy,” he murmurs. His voice is soft and deep, and it raises the curious, comfortable goosebumps only he puts on your skin. They feel warm in the space where the backs of his fingers touched you. “It has become necessary to me, did you know that?”

“I’d never presume,” you say demurely. His smile deepens against the top of your head, and one of his thighs flexes under you. It must be what sitting on a bench during an earthquake feels like, his strength nearly lurching you forward. Vlad is at least as terrible and powerful as a natural disaster. He has certainly made your entire life resettle around the shock of his presence. It’s not so shocking these days, your time together has become easy and sweet. Like the roses.

“The sort of fullness I was thinking of,” he continues, voice going just a bit lower and his hand gliding around your middle, as smooth and slippery as the silk he’s put you in, “would be here.” His press is as gentle as his words, and just as meaningful. “This has become necessary as well, I believe.”

Your breath catches in your throat like a single dandelion seed caught on a thorn. It’s not unpleasant. It’s very, very natural, and when you swallow it is like the dandelion seed has settled itself onto hospitable ground. The two of you haven’t been trying to prevent pregnancy in any way, but you haven’t talked about attempting it, either. Sometimes his eyes shimmer at you in the afterglow like sunstones lining a streambed, their power and warmth heavy with meaning. But he has never said anything. He has touched you so many ways, but never as he is touching your belly right now.

Still, this approach is very like him: physically unyielding, voice exquisitely gentle, only the desire of the words themselves revealing what he wants. The greatest pressure is his presence, thick as the fragrance in the air around you. You have no desire to deny what he is planning, but if you did you think he would simply slide his hand away. For the time being. Your lover is not a man who easily relinquishes a desire. It is why he holds you so securely there in his garden.

You haven’t given it much thought, it’s not a dream you’ve had. You have been too busy loving him. But his suggestion flows into your consciousness with the gentle density of an evening fog. You like the idea. So you dare to whisper “Perhaps it already has,” and notice the exact moment the hand resting on your belly goes very still as he takes your meaning. Your eyelids flutter shut as he begins to stroke you through the silk. He is not tentative— that is not his nature— but he is very gentle.

“Already?” he whispers mildly. He hums as he thinks, a bit of song that might as well be a scrap of sheet music caught on the briar of his mind. “I had expected to have to convince you.”

You feel heat in your cheeks at the way he’s caught your sudden willingness, but since he has caught you there’s no use denying it. Your hand slips over his, not as smooth as his movements— you will never be a pureblood— but more sure. You know he’ll catch your certainty. And he always respects what power you do possess. “When?” you whisper. “How soon?”

He puts his other hand over yours. “Since you are willing,” he whispers back, “And since it is such a beautiful night, I see no point in delay.”

The way his hands sandwich yours on your belly reminds you of the many mattresses of a tested princess. You wonder how soon you will feel it when you become pregnant. Surely his seed grow in you like a well-tended rosehip. You can’t imagine anything about him not doing exactly what he intends.

“Come here,” Vlad demands warmly. He brings your mouth to his via a forceful hand slipped up behind your head. Once he’s made your head spin from his tongue, he asks onto your dizzy lips “How do you feel about right this moment?”

“...Full of happiness,” you slowly answer. His hum of pleasure at your response is low and deep, and he tucks the last trace of it into your mouth with his tongue again. His hands reach for yours and guide them up behind his neck, and then he trails his fingers lovingly down your arms and to your back, where his palms find their own places to rest against silk and skin.

His kisses are slow, building your passion high like Rapunzel’s tower. His fingertips curl against your skin so gently you find yourself melting faster than usual, getting anxious for him. You can’t stop thinking of what he plans. Your nipples pebble the silk of your nightgown and your hands rake through his hair to surround your fingers with that moon-magic silver, luminous and beautiful. When you sigh his name into a kiss he puts yours on the heel of it, ever-attentive and ready to echo you.

Vlad says “Hold onto me,” and you cling as nature intended. He stands up with you in his arms as you reverently suck his lower lip, and you release it as he begins to spin you, a show of joy he only makes when you are alone. You cling tighter and smile under his mouth, loving him and his magic. When he slows to a stop you are dizzy from him, not the whirling, and not so dizzy you miss the careful way he places your back onto the table in the place your bodies warmed. He shocks you plenty, but he will not even allow the weak chill of metal on a summer night to surprise your skin.

You’re grateful enough, and enough in love, to keep clinging when he tries to stand up. You even make a few soft nos and tell him to stay. The hair at the back of his head is Rumpelstiltskin’s white-gold prize between your fingers, or maybe fairy strands of platinum made gossamer. Whatever they are, you don’t let them go.

He kisses your chin, then your throat, and reaches behind himself for your wrists. “I am not going away,” he promises. “Release me now.”

He can speak his every wish as an order. To you he says everything in such soothing, gentle ways that even though they are very much-- and very inarguably-- directions, you don’t feel any cruelty in them. You relinquish your grip on his beautiful hair but he does not let go of you, keeping your hands where they were but without purchase.

The gentle weight of his cheek is against yours, and then he kisses your mouth. Then your chin. He is loving you with his preferred slow, attentive seduction. Achingly slowly, he brings his lips together over a spot on your throat as though the loving drag of his mouth over your skin is supposed to tell you something he is not. He presses against you in a kiss and opens his lips again to suck until he raises blood close to the surface of your skin without piercing it. “See?” he points out as he clasps your wrists together and guides them down to an unwarmed part of the table above your head. “I am right here. How could I be any closer?”

You can think of a significant way, but you don’t have the courage to tell him. His idea-- his plan-- is so attractive to you it has robbed you of your voice. You use the table to press yourself up toward him and enjoy the way the silk of your nightdress skims against all his clothes so smoothly.

“So eager.” He says it calmly, but there’s the most wonderful note of approval in his words, and he trails his fingertips down the swells of your arms and over your shoulders. His hands find the curves of your breasts and cup them, idly thumbing your nipples. “So eager,” he repeats. He puts pressure into the touch without pinching, managing to push the nipples down only to let them stiffen back up under his thumbs as soon as he releases them. The touch makes you feel pinned like a specimen, and it puts twin lines of need in you, thin as the fairy gossamer you imagined his hair to be, strong enough to speed through your insides right down to your sex. His hardness is evident through his trousers and your nightdress, rocking against you, with his usual gentle inexorability. Never have you wanted to avoid him, and thank goodness. He is entirely unavoidable.

He sighs. “I am not eager to share these,” he says, pressing with his thumbs again, deep enough that you buck against him. “But I suppose compromise is in order to get something else I want.” He presses his hips down onto yours, a third pin to hold you in place, that first length pressing against you hardest of all, and you whimper for it. The night is not cold, but his warmth through his clothes and your nightdress feels so good.

You’re reveling in it when he leans back and takes it all away, the devil. He is not gone long, but you’re pouting by the time he’s done getting a knee up on the table between your legs. All the fine musculature of his body seems concentrated into the place just above his knee, which he nudges toward you until there’s a satisfying press of contact and your body yields. As it always does. You can feel the way you’re wet behind your doomed panties, the silent squish. You listen closely but can’t hear it even when he relaxes and the pressure lessens.

“It’s nice to know we’re of one mind,” Vlad says, as he presses his knee back against you. He is so firm and you have so much give thanks to have warm and needy his idea and his touches and kisses have made you. Your sex and your womb feel heavy like hunger, the way you can ache from emptiness alone. As he eases back again, his hands smooth down your face, gentle as a blessing. When his thumbs finally drift away from the lowest part of each of your earlobes, he presses against you again. With a little more force. It’s enough to make you groan.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been lonesome with this thought.” His tone is so level a mathematician would covet it, so soft a musician would weep. But there’s a catch of challenge in it, not displeasure... unraveling his mood is like undoing a tapestry, some nights. Does he want you to guess? It’s hard to talk when he’s grinding against you with such directness and passion when all the rest of him seems so calm, so gracious.

“I dreamed of you with a round belly ages ago,” he confesses. “All filled up and swollen.”

You were already convinced, but he is using his voice to make it all sound so sexy-- you want him to say all filled up and swollen again. And again.

“Please keep talking,” you whisper. “I love it when you tell me what you’re thinking.”

He does not move his knee, but he leans back so he can look at your eyes. You can look at his, too, and the gentle pleasure evident in his face is so beautiful you want to reach for him, but since he put your hands on the table you know that’s where he wants them. You use your own words again. “You’re so beautiful,” you add. “That is what I am thinking.”

His smile is small, so it is really from the way his eyes crinkle at he corners that you can see he is delighted by the compliment. Vlad dips his head to acknowledge your words and places a gentle kiss on the tip of your nose. “We are thinking the same of each other,” he promises. “You are the loveliest bloom in this garden.”

You know how proud he is of this space and how he cherishes each plant. He is paying you so fine a compliment you’re not sure how to respond. Your eyes slide down from his face when you’re unable to withstand the great love in his gaze, and then they close when his hands lace into the hair at the sides of your head. You are cradled by him. You feel surrounded and deeply cared for.

“Since that is so,” he continues, returning to your throat with more kisses and more words, “Let me tell you that I have often thought-- very often thought-- of making you pregnant.”

“Define ‘very’, please,” you dare to ask. He doesn’t demand respectfulness, but it is expected.

There are flares of heat on your scalp when his fingers tighten in your hair, and your breath hitches when his teeth are flat against your neck in a gentleman’s hiss. “Daily,” he admits, lingering over the word. His body is still perfectly calm, but his grip and the sound of frustration flatter you. “It is... my favorite fantasy,” he adds. Even when it is colored with so much heat, his voice is entirely composed.

“Commanding your body to yield to me,” he says slowly. He murmurs more against your neck, weakening your nonexistent resistance like sugared poison in tea. His voice takes you down into his imaginings as he continues to gently rock his knee against the wet patch of your nightgown. “Is there anything I desire more? It has been a struggle to think of much else. I dream of you beneath me in all the places of the earth, your body alchemical and your hips toward heaven while I push transformation into you.”

You are panting under him, enjoying his visions and the way he is loving along your neck. His soft, slow kisses and deep breaths of your scent are familiar. You are both content for a moment to indulge in this comfortable unfolding of arousal and purpose. It’s always a special joy to see the reveal of your desire for one another. He takes his time in the rose garden. You may be here until the sun rules the terrace again.

“I want what I want because I adore you now,” he tells you. “But the most moving idea is that you will change for my desires.”

“Change?” you ask. It comes out so small.

“Change,” he whispers, sure as ever. His hands slide from your hair, flowing down over you like perfumed bathwater. “Your chest will change,” he explains. Lower go his hands, down along your sides. “Your hips will change.” He squeezes them slowly. The pressure of his grip builds, never unpleasant but significantly stronger. The ways he has already changed you mean you can withstand this kind of handling. You won’t even bruise where you can feel him dimpling your skin.

But your heart might, from his quiet groan. “I cannot tell you how badly I want to see it,” he tells you, stroking your neck with the points of his teeth. It gives you goosebumps. It’s not just a baby he wants from you. He wants you to be pregnant with his child. All he is saying means he finds the idea erotic. That makes you find it erotic, too, and it makes you feel safe to relax into his desire. And to admit your own.

You say his name and he hums and begins to guide you toward his knee. His pace is measured because he is never a frantic man, Vlad, he is an elegant person who moves slowly and meaningfully. That is the way he is moving now, against you. And that is the way he is moving you against him, because he is in control. Meaningfully, so you know exactly what’s to come.

It is impossible to keep your breath quiet. It feels impossible to keep any kind of quiet when he moves you like this. Thankfully, his smile on the side of your throat is proof of what he always tells you, that he likes it when your body is honest.

He adds some teeth to the kisses he’s laying on your skin. The nips are slow and hot, and they roll your eyes back and make you grip at the metal lace of the table beneath your hands. “There are other... sensitivities... that I look forward to seeing heightened,” he tells you.

“All your skin, of course,” he explains, flexing his hands around your hips when he grinds against you so hard you gasp. He slides his grip up high before he pulls back down to mash your sex against his knee. You feel every layer of arousal, cotton, silk, and him. “All this beautiful skin. A magic line,” he says, letting his thumbs stroke from your navel to very, very low on your belly, so long you anticipate a touch he doesn’t give. Instead, he licks your neck in a wide strike that goes all the way to your jaw. Down. Up. Your head swims. “The way your pulse will change,” he murmurs against the wet skin. There is a tiny bit of wistfulness in his voice that nearly makes you swoon. “The way there will be two pulses. The way I’ll be right here to hear them.”

The masterfully cultivated balance of his voice tips toward passion. “Your taste will change,” he says quietly, letting his fangs scrape enough that you shiver, and only as you tremble finally piercing you directly, just deep enough to draw one appreciative suck into his mouth. You feel all of the magic from a shallow bite same as you would from a deep one, and the slow-building, gushy heat he has set in you suddenly bursts bright all over, making you write under him on the table as he swallows.

All you know is pleasure. All you know is his pleasure, and how much you want to give it to him. You want him to put a baby in you, you want him to touch you while you grow, you want him to kiss you over your nursing child.

“Perfect,” he slurs, drunk from one sip of you. “I wonder if you’ll still want to drink from me when your appetite changes.”

It’s odd to hear self-consciousness from him. “Always,” you manage to moan, and even though your body is already healed, your neck burns where he bit you. “I love you.”

His laugh near your ear is confident again, low and warm, and it settles on your sensitized flesh like a shroud of the thinnest tissue. It makes you feel vulnerable and naked there on that table, at his mercy in the middle of the garden in the middle of the night. This man is going to change you in all those ways. He wants to. He wants you. The knowledge makes you feel full of want and love and readiness. You’re as eager as he said you were.

“I love you,” he says sweetly, holding your hips in place again. “I crave you.” The way he rocks his knee back and forth across you, not just into you, is proof of his words.

His affection has never been in doubt, his very presence demands acknowledgment of his interest, but he has never said these things to you together and the words braid themselves up with the feelings of desire burning in your heart, and they make you feel tight as a snare.

“Have me,” you tell him, direct even as your voice shakes. “I’m yours.”

The curve of his smile against your jaw is softer than a petal-stuffed pillow. He hums. “I know you are mine. That is what I have to need to rush.” He releases your hips and inches his knee forward, without any give. It means your body must give instead. “Do you see?” he asks, leaning his body back and keeping his leg tight against you. “I will take my time getting my wish. That is how I will savor it. Savor you.” He grinds as he lingers over the first savor.

Above your head, you grip the garden table as hard as you can to keep from reaching for him. Vlad’s patience is something you don’t possess. You want him to hurry up and savor you thoroughly right this minute, and can’t trust yourself not to ruin things by pulling him.

The warmth of his hand settles near yours. “I’ve thought about how you will look when you touch yourself for me when your belly is full. Can your perfection be improved?”

One of his hands taps yours. It’s a shameless prompt and you are going to shamelessly fulfill it. You release the wrought iron and skim your tingling hands down your front. He doesn’t stop you from lingering over your nipples, unmissable and still tender from his earlier touches. The warmth of his body is still above you, his chest keeping you down on the table. He has left just enough room for your hands.

“I thought you were saying you wanted to watch,” you respectfully chide. You take the moment to pinch yourself, trying to give your body sensation to help refine the needy fire his bite put into your every cell.

“I do,” he says with a sweet smile. He kisses your forehead and then slides down all the silk and skin of you until he kneels on the ground. “Show me the body of the mother of my child, and how it likes to be touched,” he adds. His hands cup the inside of each of your legs and push them open wider. “Now.”

After one last hard pinch, you slip your fingers down your front. Without being asked, you pull up the front hem of your nightdress, mindful of the slippery damp patch he created with all his grinding, and flip it onto your stomach. Before you can do anything about your underwear, he slips the cloth down and away, easy as a maid and strong as a god. Now there is nothing to impede his view.

“Show me where I tease you,” he demands softly. The tip of your middle finger goes directly to the waiting bundle of nerves at the crown of your sex, and the touch makes your leg muscles jump under his hands. You know how to touch yourself (and you are very familiar with how he touches you), but that bite has made you hungry and tender.

“Show me how you tease yourself.” You do, circling your dewy opening, staying just outside to chase the magnificent, decadent almost. Every slip of touch makes your body tense, the magic of his bite still potent. You are immediately close. It’s as though he vaulted you there.

Your eyes are rolling back when he says “Show me where I’ll fuck you to make our baby,” and your head presses back against the table as you follow the curve of your body and slip a finger just inside yourself. You grind the swell of your palm against your most frantic sensitivity and he gently kissed your thigh and sighs “Yes,” onto your work. You’ve heard him sigh over paintings and fine sculpture the exact same way.

That is all he does for a while, watch you and make thoughtful, appreciative sounds. Once he hooks your fingers with his to pull you away and make your touch more shallow. “That’s mine,” he corrects, as gently and calmly as he might guide a horse. All it does is get you closer, close enough to relax into what you are doing and clutch at the certainty of it in your mind. Close enough that your lips are trembling around an unvoiced word when he says “Stop. That will do.”

Your limbs shake and your hands indignantly flex in rebellion as you take them away. He does not usually deny you like this. Your frustration is difficult to endure. Like labor will be, someday.

Amused, if his smile is anything to go on, he stands and slips one hand up the inside of your leg to cup the slick mess of your center. “I want you to get pregnant this time,” he explains. The slight breathiness of his voice is the only sign he is not perfectly calm. “So I want you to come when I fill you up, to ease the way.”

Your eyes are still wide eyed from how he overwhelms you with that gently-spoken depravity when he leans down to kiss your forehead with a saint’s patience. He whispers “And before that, on my tongue.”

You are near tears when he slides down your body once more, then shocked out of them when he rips your nightdress right up the middle without a word. The destruction of the silk is noisy, and you are stunned into silence as the softness of the frayed edges fan down your sides. It tickles. He doesn’t apologize and you know he’s not sorry. He does say, “We’ll need bigger gowns, hmm?” with a note of predatory delight.

Vlad touches you with his palms, spreading you open to the night air. He must be able to see how being exposed like this makes you twitch inside, and you feel a terribly fierce burn in your cheeks despite your need. His thumbs stroke your wetness and all his touch says this place is mine.

You clench again, your sex and your hands at your sides, around nothing. You wish he felt some need to hurry. You’re beyond worked up and getting desperate.

“Frustrated little mother,” he says warmly. “Adorable.” Finally, gently, he works a finger inside. You feel the way your body has made the way so easy for him, plumped up but soft inside— you have all the give of a budding rose. It can’t possibly be much work at all to press into you.

“This is where it will happen,” he whispers. You focus on breathing and keeping your drool in your mouth and, of course, on the magnificent feeling of him stroking your walls. It’s like he’s painting with his finger, trying to get pigment in your crevices, and when he curves a long touch down one side of your walls your hips shift up toward him, desperate to give him a more accessible canvas. You moan without restraint at the first wet slip of his tongue, and your hands shoot down to bury themselves in his hair again. You would never dare to press him, you just… need him to know that you want him there. He has no caution of applying his own pressure, and he does, immediately: a warm press of his tongue, the bright touch of him wide and directly under the nubbin it feels like he has made a needle of sensitivity. You are his clay and stone and Galatea, his to shape to suit his wishes. He rubs his cheek against your thigh without touching where you need him.

As he pulls his finger out, slow as a sarabande, he says, “I won’t be able to talk now. Why don’t you spend some time begging?”

He gives you no time to consider otherwise; it feels like his entire mouth is on you immediately, his heat demanding your submission as he licks a forceful line up your seam and then his focus is where you have needed him all along.

“Pleeeeease,” you have no trouble saying into the night air. He moves his tongue too well for you to be sure, but you think you feel him smile. He does like to get his way.

You beg him for his tongue and then, beyond shame and in the grip of his interest, you beg him for his children. “Vlad, I want— hmmmmmn, please— I want you to do it, I want you to fill me up, want it to take, want a baby,” and you have no time to feel embarrassed by your babbling before his snarl of pleasure shakes you to your core. He has never made this sound before, so unrefined and sharp and passionate. And since he is pressed so close, it has nowhere to go but up into your body so it can shake your bones and ready your womb. The feeling makes you beg him all over again.

He pulls himself away— and when he does he is again elegantly, slow, effortless, beautiful, maddeningly tranquil despite the snarl— to say “I told you: on my tongue first.” It’s the gentlest form of reproach, a thorn through a stack of glossy green leaves thick enough to cushion you from any threat.

And you had forgotten! Though he seems determined not to let you forget it again when he puts the flat of his tongue back against your body. It feels like being massaged by a petal, by a wide, healthy succulent. You see a hundred leaves uncurling and a thousand flowers bursting from bud to bloom and you can’t hold on any more—

All you can do is send a throaty call up to the moon, to let her know what Vlad is doing to you. And then you pant, your jaw working as though you’ve released something from your mouth instead of your soul.

“May that,” he says, and then smears his face against the inside of your thigh, “be the last time you taste that way.”

As ever, the calm in his teasing makes your insides twist with pleasure. It’s as though your body remembers how it feels to be deeply filled by him and is trying to remind you by making all the places he can touch yearn for him at once. As if you weren’t already doing so with your entire being.

When he stands, he flicks open his belt with his usual effortlessness, and it is only the directness of the effort that keeps you from yanking at his clothing. Instead, you watch your body breathe as you look down your belly to see him release his flawless cock into the night air. As he pumps himself you remember that curious sense of succulence when he made you come. You’ve had him in your hands, too, and you know this will be even better. The way he fills you always stutters your breathing... it makes you feel so whole, so tenderly cradled inside and out. And this time he’ll be fucking you with that exquisite purpose of his. He is watching you now, his eyes narrowed in his way of showing pleasure without smiling. He looks soft and adoring. How will he hold your children? You want to see it.

Over his shoulder, you see one of the castle windows go warm with the light of a fresh candle. It is Faust’s room, if you’re not mistaken. You look back at Vlad and gesture toward the window with your eyes. He actually smiles, then, and does not turn away from you in the slightest.

“He is a doctor,” he says simply, finishing with his trousers. “Of a sort. Let him watch, I will not be stopped. And you are not allowed to think of other men tonight.” It would be frosty at best coming from any other person, but from Vlad the words are only quiet, unshakeable confidence. He talks like a king.

You shudder so hard your back teeth chatter, more from recognition of his power than from the idea of exposure. There is no way this would be the first time the other castle residents have heard you.

“I hope you are ready,” Vlad says, waiting for your attention with a gentle edge in his voice— something like the side of a well-used bookcase, not a knife. As he leans over you there is a comfortable familiarity in his closeness. There is also certainty to it; you can tell he has no intention of leaving your body again. His hardness is heavy against you, wonderfully solid and thick. The feel of it makes you whimper as he slowly brings his belly down to yours. His shirt is so, so soft against your skin.

He begins to grind again, but this time the contact is richer, smoother. And this time there is nothing between you.

“When I make love to you when you are carrying, we will have to be careful,” he says quietly. “But you are not carrying yet, so tonight all my care will go toward fucking a child into you. Understand?”

The hush of his voice makes your mouth go dry. “Please,” you whisper. You shift your hips to rub yourself against him, eager. His thickness makes the lips of your sex spread. Some other day you want to make yourself come simply by rocking against him, feeling how you make him slippery. But now you want him to make you a mother.

He shushes you affectionately and you cannot help but think of how he’ll do the same to your children. This new life is in your head already. You don’t want it to get out of your head, you want it to become real. You can’t stop thinking about it until it does.

He keeps his face just enough away from yours that you can look into his eyes without getting dizzy. You know better than to look away. He whispers, “I want to know what sound you will make when it happens.” He shifts his stance so he can stroke you with the head of his cock, and he thumbs it down against you without pushing inside. “Soft songs?” he muses, stroking down so he presses your clit with a gentleman’s grace. “An aria?” He makes a series of staccato taps to your weakness, like an aria turned to touch. “Or perhaps,” he suggests, still so very calm despite the way he is pressing his cock against your opening, “an earthier sound altogether. You know I love it when you moan for me.”

You moan then because you cannot live another moment without doing so.

“Like that,” he says indulgently, and takes his hand away, and begins to push inside. “Perhaps it will be like that.”

As he slowly slides in, you moan again, so long you nearly lose your breath, so loud there is no way the doctor in the castle can’t hear you. Vlad fits in you like a key, making your sex part for every centimeter until he is pressed to you. Home.

“Deep in here,” he says. With his face so close you notice the way he is speaking through his teeth. “Deep,” he repeats, and presses until your body cannot give any more against the table. He has made you strong enough to take this.

He does not pull out as far as he usually does. He keeps his body close to yours and stays well buried in your heat. Very gently, he orders “Take it,” as he presses you down as far as he can. There is tranquility in him, an endless well of stability and certainty. If he is this confident in his desire, you only need to go along with it. He will keep you safe. And he will keep your children safe. “That is your only purpose tonight,” he whispers. “To accept the first of my children. You can let me do everything else, it is my pleasure to have you like this.”

You don’t really have the ability to do much else, with him filling and pinning you so completely. Thankfully he’s made his very appealing case and you are willing, you are so willing.

He makes slow strokes, short ones that keep him deep inside you, and watches your face so carefully you feel like he has pinned you there, too. “I do not want to get too far from your womb,” he admits, with a small chuckle. “Silly of me.”

The sound of your breath and of each gentle but decisive slap of his body against yours rules the air for a few minutes.

“What is your purpose?” he asks.

You begin to answer but he snaps his hips back and then back to you, so your response becomes a wail of nonsense. He repeats the process of asking his question, waiting, and then destroying your answer several times, until you fell as though he has lovingly battered open the way to your womb. You are trembling and the summery pollen-copper scent of your blood is in the air from where you have gripped the wrought iron too tightly.

“To accept your children!” you manage to wail.

“That’s right, love,” he praises, “Though just the first for now. We will have more another time.” He is pressing the head of his cock against the tiny notch of your body where you can tell he plans to aim his release. It… twinges, it doesn’t hurt. But you feel it.

“You will feel all of it,” he whispers. “And your body will take it. Put your arms around me and relax, remember that this is my pleasure.”

You can’t move your body up to him, but you throw your arms around him so forcefully he laughs again and rubs the tip of his nose against yours, just as he rubs the tip of him against that spot again.

“One day perhaps I’ll push through and be more direct,” he says sweetly. It’s a violent thought but he has never hurt you. He’s made you strong enough for anything. You know he would make you enjoy it. “It will be easier in time.”

You just cling and feel and crave him as he goes back to slowly fucking you, massaging both your bodies with his careful thrusts. One thrust is slightly higher and it catches your top wall and bends one of your legs like a reflex. He slows, laughs, and reaches down to bend the other, too. He trails his hand down to your naked foot and caresses the arch like you are his Cendrillon. You squeeze around him in gratitude.

Unexpectedly, he gasps. “Do that again,” he demands. “It opened you.”

You squeeze again. You can’t feel it opening anything, only tightening, but he drops his head to your shoulder and groans quietly. And picks up speed. The way he drags out and forces all the way back into you is heaven. You do it once more.

“I want to be inside you every way I can,” he rasps in your ear. “Let me.”

You nod again, bounced by the way he’s fucking you. He slides an arm around your hip with no thought for the iron beneath your body and teases the heat of your rim before pressing his fingertip inside. Immediately he uses it to press toward his cock, just on the other side of something thin and vulnerable inside you, and when you are gasping he bites you in earnest. Sharp. Deep.

The pleasure shimmers behind your eyelids for one silent second and then it births a galaxy of brightness, explosive and hot and wet. His movement in you, finger and fangs and cock, strokes your every muscle, suspending you in a bliss more intense than anything he has yet given you. You feel yourself shake and gush over him and you hear every thick, low note of his satisfied hum. So low in his throat it might as well be a growl.

“Take. it.” he hisses, flesh of your neck still held between his teeth. You sob out agreement but he keeps talking. “I am going to soak your insides until there is no way you won’t be carrying my child. When the sun rises, you will be seeded, do you understand?”

You nod, tight and quick. He is strong inside you, and of course his force doesn’t hurt you at all, but it is not something that can be denied. Not the force of his body or his voice.

He releases your neck to say “Grow, my little garden,” like a spell laid into your ear, and then he begins to spill-- shoot-- soak you, just as he promised. He is pressed up against that space in you, so tightly fitted that you swear you can feel every pulse of his cum, gently warm as always. What does not manage to go deeper into you instead seeps out around that point of connection.

What does go deeper into you feels like destiny. All the lines of a story woven together into something beautiful. It’s so warm and so good that you groan and tiredly attempt to tighten your arms around him.

“Please stay,” you mumble, exhaustion winning its war against you. You don’t want to let go of him or this beautiful, important moment, but the warmth makes you sluggish and the bite and your release don’t do your wakefulness any favors.

He kisses each of your closed eyelids. “You feel it,” he says. Not a question. “Good girl.” He does stay in you, but pulls his hand away from your backside, shushing you when you fidget and whine. Lightly, he licks at the fresh wound on your neck. It will be gone by morning, but it will take the hours of the night to heal.

You don’t mind. You like it when he bites you.

“All filled up and swollen,” he murmurs. He kisses your jaw. “And soon your belly, too. Will you tell our child fairy tales?”

You don’t think you manage to answer before you fall under the dark of your eyelids. You wake in his arms as he is carrying you back to the castle, up the moonlit garden path.

“Be gentle on your mother,” he says, “Little happily ever after.”

#ikevamp vlad #ikevam vlad #ikevamp fanfiction #ikevam fanfiction #ikevamp fanfic #ikevam fanfic #stardust-dreamer13 #pseu slings #WHEW this one took awhile but it is finally done!

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pseudofaux · 3 years

Note

Can I request a drabble of the day that comte’s mc is in labor and him seeing meeting his child?

(*ฅ́˘ฅ̀*)

YES! In honor of his route dropping THIS MONTH (AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!), here’s this made-me-clutch-my-chest scenario. 🥰 Thank you so much for requesting it, I hope you see this and enjoy!

(Requests are closed, I am completing overdues. A masterlist will go up when they are all done. Thank you for reading!)

He only gets to cinq before she squeezes again, barely having released her last grip. There is sweat between their hands, which makes the clasp harder to maintain, but he will not let her go. Ever.

A powerful man who has been calm in war, intrigue, and centuries of human failings sweats--stews--in his own uselessness, just as thoroughly as a powerless one might. More, he thinks, he is sweating more, because a powerless man would surely avoid being so fixated on every sound she makes, every tension in her brow, if only to save his own mind. An idiot would not be so blessed (he hopes) as to witness her shudders and the way her body calms when she is between the peaks of her struggling.

The smallest incidental thought of another man seeing this makes him crush the papers he has forgotten were in his hand. His thumb goes right through them.

Le Come de Saint-Germain does not care at all about papers. He cares a great deal-- he cares only-- for his wife and their child.

The midwife has him hold his wife’s hand and count when she begins to squeeze, so they can all have a sense of how long each agony runs. At the end of every single one, she blesses him with a smile or gives him a little laugh, seemingly embarrassed by all the fuss she makes. He tells her to be louder if she needs to.

There’s something in the back of his mind about how men always want women to make noise, just to let them know how they are doing. It drifts away, forever forgotten, when she begins to squeeze again. She is so normal between the struggles, but they are coming faster now.

The midwife, who has made it clear through every word and deed that she is there exclusively to support the birthing mother, gives him a small grin. He tucks it into his soul like a golden coin.

A few times, she looks as though she may faint. He keeps holding her hand and murmuring that she is doing so well. He wishes he knew well enough to have the midwife’s bustling certainty. But no one seems alarmed except him. He doesn’t want anyone else in the room, and would never leave her, but he wishes he was with Leonardo, or even with... an older friend.

She squeezes his hand once more, so tightly that if he were papers her thumb would have gone clean through him.

He only gets to cinq before she squeezes again, barely having released her last grip. There is sweat between their hands, which makes the clasp harder to maintain, but he will not let her go. Ever.

She is crying out, he is speaking frantic French to her and trying to listen to whatever the midwife is telling them, and then there is a new cry.

His world falls out from under him. He does not let go of her hand, but he jumps to his feet and sees a flash of tiny leg, a round little tummy.

“Sit down,” the midwife tells him.

He obeys. But he stares. And he whispers, “Chérie, you have done magnificently.”

She squeezes his hand once more. It is more gentle, their usual touch of love and reassurance. He keeps his eyes on the bustling midwife as he kisses the forehead of the mother of his child.

The midwife puts their baby on his wife’s chest, and their hands both joined and free go to the small, perfect back; the little head (with hair! such hair!); the bottom and the impossibly small feet tucked so near.

The baby cries again, and it is an entirely new sound, but it reminds him faintly of the bleating of newborn lambs. A sound of need. Find me. Help me. Where are you? His world falls out from under him again. He does not mind. He leans in very close.

“Here, right here,” he says, tracing the mystery of an eyebrow.

The midwife helps sort out the first moments.

His baby nurses, and looks at him with dark, wise eyes that seem bothered by the brightness of the jubilant afternoon sun. So le Comte de Saint-Germain, unwilling to leave even to close the drapes (or to deny the world its rightful celebration) holds a hand over that precious face to protect it.

Their baby is brown-pink-gold, a living kaleidoscope that is different from every angle, flush with magnificent secrets to discover. Like eyelashes. Like the softness, the perfect pressability of those full cheeks. While the weary mother sleeps (and the baby, too), he cannot seem to stop touching the face that pulls at him like a sun.

A living miracle. A placid face after so much fuss at birth. A beautiful little being.

Is there anything that pivots a person in their own recognition of time like holding a baby? Le Comte de Saint-Germain does not think so. He is happy to be an hour hand. He rejoices in being wound as a watch might be. Carefully, slowly, he turns as he holds his child.

He checks over his shoulder to make sure they are alone before he croons, “Welcome, little treasure. You are so loved. You were made in love. I will destroy the world before I let it hurt you.”

“Don’t be silly,” his wife says. He is too overjoyed to be bashful about having been caught. Is it not right for a father to whisper protection to his baby? Is it not right to worship that baby, and the woman who birthed it?

“Bring me our baby,” she says, and coaxes him to the bed with her arms. He sits on the edge and hands her the swaddled bundle. He can’t bring himself to move away, and she does not leave him to suffer.

“Come sit with me. With us,” she says. He gladly raises the blankets to tuck his body beside hers and slip his arm around her shoulders.

He is aware, as time passes, that these moments will never leave him.

“I love you both,” he says, excited to finally say it aloud. It fills him with a marvelous sense of purpose. He feels his new world forming below his family, replacing everything that fell away before.

#ikevamp comte #ikevam comte #ikevamp fanfiction #ikevam fanfiction #ikevamp fanfic #ikevam fanfic #babies ever after #pseu slings

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pseudofaux · 3 years

Note

Yay, requests are open! May I request a Comte drabble with riding his thigh and him giving lots of praise? Thanks!

YOU 100% MAY. 🥰 This sounds extremely dreamy. I hope you see this and enjoy!

(Requests are closed, but I have a lot to post in July! Feel free to follow along or just read whichever ones you’d like. A masterlist will be posted when they are all done.)

The thing is, it’s not only dresses that he buys you. You have jewels, and shoes, and combs and pins, and more silken underthings than you could count (or likely ever wear).

And of course you have a full riding habit: a fitted coat of gray, accented with black braid and a few silver buttons, and lined with buttery crimson silk. He would never have gotten it for you without the smart top hat and the skirt that complete the ensemble.

You’re not wearing the trousers, though. He took them off after he removed your riding boots, and when he was done he gently pulled down your panties right there in the stable and kissed them into your mouth.

“So beautiful for me,” Comte murmurs. His eyes are summer-gold, and there is a hot haze of sultriness in the way he looks at you. “Chin up, lovely girl, let me see you.”

You do as he asks, and also dare to put your hands on the back of the chair in the stables and grind down against the swell of his thigh. He is more perfectly strong than any creature or man you have ever ridden. And the warmth of his hands cherishing your waist is more far comforting.

“I can smell your sweat,” he tells you, and his voice has a lazy slur in it, a familiar intimacy less intentional than a murmur, so you believe him and trust that he’s paying you a compliment. “And your lust,” he adds, flexing his leg so the muscle is more rigid underneath you, against you. “Following behind you in the fields was heavenly with you teasing me, chérie.”

There is nothing in the world like the way he can manhandle you— always so gentle but never shy. He uses his grip around your middle to move you until the mushiness of your sex has soaked his pant leg, only partly due to the friction he’s giving you. It’s mostly due to his words.

Lovely, lovely. Done up so nicely in your riding clothes, my dear, you make me want to parade through the city and then have you in the middle of the Isle of Swans so your pretty cries can be heard along the river. I wouldn’t gag you like this, I’d keep you open and make you loud. Your voice is so beautiful. Cry out for me now through all your pretty silk.

Mmm, good girl.

And all the while he lets you rut against him and keeps his leg strong for you. At some point he slips a palm to the middle of your back and tilts you slightly forward— enough that your clit gets fuller, more complete contact, and you whine for him behind the wadded, spit-soaked silk in your mouth.

“I thought you’d like that better,” Comte says warmly, and pats the space on your back. He makes a line of soothing touches until his palm is on the curve of your naked backside and he grabs a handful.

“Drove me to distraction and made me jealous of my own horse.” He says it like he’s complimenting your dancing.

“The curve from your back to your shoulders is like an instrument.” The pride in his voice is unmistakable. “I want to put the marks of a cello carving on your hips and play you, would you like that?”

He gives you a swat, just a gentle spank because he knows you like it, and he wants to always give you what you want.

“We’ll have to walk back to the house in saddle blankets,” he says softly. “Or maybe I’ll just get you beneath me in the hay and keep you there all night. Shall you keep your jacket on, or are you going to let me strip you bare?”

You whimper again, picturing it, and his other hand comes down to your rump as well. He’s handsy, your Comte, and you can feel how hard he is against the outside of your leg. His trousers may be dirty from what he’s asked of you, but he’ll ruin them completely if he tears the fabric. You release your grip on the back of the chair and trail a hand down his front. He’s sweaty, too, and you feel grateful to see him this way, beautiful and aroused and in love with you.

You slide your fingers down just like he did until they touch the smoothness of a button. Fabric strains up to meet your palm and you can’t help brushing against it. He’s so supple and strong beneath the linen!

“Naughty,” he hisses. “Beautiful but naughty. Take care you don’t make me put you on the hay right now.”

You don’t think that would be so bad, but he’s squeezing you with both hands now, grinding you tight against his thigh like he won’t let you leave. That’s what you whine for, not his threat. You feel like overripe fruit where he’s making your body move against his, like you are swelling to burst in a mess of juice and sweetness, the bounty of summer concentrated above your sex.

“Lusty,” he chides, but he chides you in that voice that means he’s really chiding himself for being so near the end of his control. “Next time I’ll bring down one of the whips and give you a real spanking. You take them so well. Now focus on yourself and give me that groan I live for so I can put you in your proper seat.”

After a few moments— not very many at all— he does, and you groan for him all over again as he slides your limp, sensitized body down onto him. He’s so greedy for the sound he holds you down on his cock while he hooks the panties out of your mouth and tosses them away.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, as he grinds up high enough into you that you gasp. “So beautiful for me.”

#ikevamp comte #ikevam comte #ikevamp fanfiction #ikevam fanfiction #ikevamp fanfic #ikevam fanfic #pseu slings #ridin’ dirty

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pseudofaux · 3 years

Note

Hello!! Can I have a drabble featuring a MC withering away due to a disease. It eats at her and she has little to no energy nearing the end. And she does in the arms of her beloved. May I have it with Mitsuhide/Nobunaga please?

😭 Yes. Please… enjoy? 😭♥️

I don’t think of myself as big on angst but this was actually a pleasure to write, as sad as it is. So thank you for the request and the quick follow up! 🙇🏻‍♀️ The cut below is 95% for length and sadness but there is a little bit of a tenderly spicy memory under it, fyi. Tense floats around here on purpose because the poor man is HURTING.

(Requests are closed, readers, but there are a lot still to be written and posted in July! Feel free to follow along to see them all, or just read whichever ones you’d like. A masterlist will be posted when they are complete.)

He has long loved her trembles. Her body has been expressive since their first meeting, always finding some silly reason to shudder. Fury. Food. Fun. Him.

He dared to admit only to himself that he was disappointed when she grew a little more resistant to him over time. Never very resistant. His mouse is a sensitive soul in a sensitive shell. And they both enjoy it when he teases her. There have been so many ways to tease her.

Nothing can convince Mitsuhide that she is not heaven-made. It was while he touched her that true feeling first came back to some of his fingertips. The ability to discern real sensation instead of only pressure. And of all things he could have touched, it was the miracle of the skin of her throat. He convinced her to let him spend an entire night loving it with his mouth and those newly reborn fingers, just so he could compare their sensitivity. The way she trembled then, all tight and vulnerable but open for him… he will never forget it.

Mitsuhide curses himself for ever being amused at those first fierce trembles in the early days of autumn. He could tell they were different, just not how. And the two of them had been so safe—as safe as he could make them— and so happy. Her laughter painted their every day. She even made him laugh. She did it the first time he tickled her and turned those odd trembles to full-body wriggles as she tried to escape. He never went fully off guard, but he told himself (as a fool tells himself) that they were safe.

They were not. She was sick, and she didn’t get better. And then there were no trembles, for awhile. Selfish demon that he is, he relished the ones that came back, even though he knew they meant doom.

Doesn’t everything mean doom? Mitsuhide has thought this a dozen times, sitting or laying beside her. Even underneath her, a few times, desperate to put her cheek to his chest. The question sounds like the logic of a man who has given up. It sounds like him before he met her.

Now he’s met her, and loved her. Woken up to her warmth. Felt the places she is softest when she sleeps. Known the flowers and patterns and scents she likes. Come to enjoy the flavorless but deep pleasure of sharing the desserts she loves most.

And now she is dying, because he dared to love her and he lived a very terrible life before she was part of his. Maybe because he’s done a few terrible things since he loved her. A part of his mind is trying to come down like a shield around his soul, but his heart shoulders giant stones into its path so it cannot land and close him off. He loves her. He’s not going to stop loving her when she’s gone. He’s not going to stop loving her until the day he stops living.

The wanness of her smile will haunt him more than anything he has ever done. More than the bruises he treated early in their time together. Is there a part of her he can capture and tie up so she cannot leave him?

There is not. A mouse is evasive, and one of her whisker-tricks is that she has always known when to fight and when to surrender. He’s been right there beside her to see all her fighting. He is right there beside her to see when her body begins to truly give up.

They are alone, so though he is more angry at all of this than sad, he lets her see a kitsune’s tears. Maybe she can barter them for comfort in her next life. He’s got her laying his lap since she can barely move, and she’s just staring at him intensely, eyes tired but alive. He knows she is trying to look at nothing but his face. If she were well she would be smiling, and her hands would be on his cheeks.

But she is not well. She can barely talk, and he knows she is exhausted. Whatever this is, it has eaten away at her, like a bigger and more vicious mouse. It has stolen her light away grain by grain.

She uses some of her precious energy to whisper words that come out of her like the last leaves of the year, drifting down. I love you. Hold me.

Mitsuhide slides her up in his lap so she can lean against him and he can hold her better. He tells her that he loves her, and to close her eyes and rest. As gently as he can, he eases the side of her face onto his shoulder and her hands onto his robe, to the places she might clutch if she were strong enough. He kisses her forehead, runs his nose along one of her fine eyebrows, and repeats that he loves her. He’s clearly losing control.

So he touches the tender skin on the side of her throat, and murmurs to her all his memories of the night when he touched that place and could suddenly feel her. He feels her relax against him, so like the way she used to snuggle. Trusting, comfortable. Peaceful. He keeps talking. More memories. At one point there is a little cough he’s sure is laughter. He doesn’t move his hand. He wishes she were well enough for him to hold her throat and tilt her head for a kiss that would make her sway. But she is not. He leaves his fingers where they are.

And because he has feeling in those fingers, he feels when her life flutters out and his world ends. He soaks her hair with a hushed flood of silver kitsune tears and wishes he could die rather than endure this. She never learned how to haggle. Who will protect her? How will he find her in the next life? How long will it take?

He realizes he’s trembling.

He hates it.

#ikesen mitsuhide #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide #ikesen fanfiction #ikesen fanfic #annnnngst 😭#ikemen sengoku fanfiction #pseu slings

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pseudofaux · 3 years

Note

Oh boy. You’re writing for JJK? *cracks knuckles*. WELL! I would like to humbly request a dribble drabble of Sukuna aka Demon Daddy. I have a corruption kink need. Reader keeps pushing Itadori’s buttons to get Sukuna to come out. Sukuna can be nasty to me, it’s fine. Call me names. Idc, I would do so many things to get into his domain expansion and I’m not embarrassed to say so. Or maybe I am? Gambere gambere, Pseu.

YESSSSSSS!!!!!!!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! Thank you for this.

Definitely some nastiness and not-nice name calling ahead, readers. This got, uh, A LITTLE OUTTA HAND, and is fucky in some dark ways. Under the cut is a story that includes corruption kink, degradation, DVP (bless you, demonic peens), impreg kink (her), knotting (...!), and generally is violent (sought after, but undeniably violent), hey-I’m-pretty-sure-she’s-corrupted-too sex. There is no actual gore, but this is not a soft story. I tried to tightrope walk Sukuna being threatening and mean without actually biting her in half like he so easily could. Because this request asked for reader to be messing with Itadori to bring Sukuna out, that’s here, too, and she has a couple indirect but creepy thoughts about it. If any of that is not something you want to read, this is not for you, and that is a-okay. In that case, please protect yourself and do not read it. For everyone else, especially my fellow Sukuna lovers/worshippers... please buckle up for this 6k long dribble drabble.

Special thanks to @pickle-scribbles and her super brain for helping me shape this when I got stuck, and to my fellow sprinters in the Beni group for helping me get it done. THANK YOU!

(Requests are closed, readers, but there are a lot still to be filled in June! Feel free to follow along or just check in and enjoy as many as you like. A masterlist will go up when they are all completed.)

It was the bite that did it. You had teased, pinched, and tickled an increasingly nervous Itadori, but decided to skip any sort of kissing. You didn’t want to kiss him. So it was the (very gentle!) bite of the juncture of his neck and shoulder that brought Sukuna out, finally. You could feel the way the muscles bulged upwards into your bite, making your smile widen from the force of the change from vessel to curse-king. The room went dim before your eyes closed, and you could tell the exact moment when he smelled different, like the ugly, powerful afterscent of peppercorns vaporized by lightning. It was heaven to take in that first deep breath of him through your nostrils as you kissed the muscle below your mouth, already longing to be completely full of him.

“What,” Sukuna says flatly, a hand fisting the hair at the back of your head to pull you away like a kitten, “Do you think you are doing?”

“Bringing you out,” you admit easily. “I missed you.”

He holds you up effortlessly, chin on one hand and the others crossed lazily in his lap at the end of those powerful curse-marked arms. “I didn’t miss you,” he tells you, cruel and bored. “And you don’t have the power to bring me out.”

“Then I’m just happy to see you,” you confess. You are. You were getting awfully tired of Itadori.

“Don’t torment the kid again. He belongs to me and... houses me, for now. He’s not for your dirty hands to touch. Neither am I.”

You reach for him anyway, a sunflower drawn to the destructive fire of its star. He shakes you like a sock and glares, and both are hard enough that they should jar you into sense, but you don’t seem to have any left.

“Hey Itadori,” you whispered. “How’s it going?”

“Uh, good!” Yuuji was always cheerful, always sweet. Always a little squirmy around you. You couldn’t blame him; if anyone looked at you the way you looked at him, you’d get the mace out of your purse. But he didn’t care mace, and he was unfailingly polite. Bless his heart.

You didn’t want to hurt him. You had no real feeling or inclination toward Itadori whatsoever. But you badly wanted what lived inside him, growing more powerful every time he gulped down another finger or got too close to something he shouldn’t. You wanted all the eyes, the extra arms, the beautiful curse marks that made your tongue cold when you licked them.

That was what you wanted, not to hurt Itadori. He was a sweet, polite young man. But you would do worse than hurt him to get what you did want. Which was-- desperately-- to get to Sukuna, who was never sweet or polite, and who was always ageless in a way that placed him far enough beyond your ken that you knew he could sexually ruin you with a glance and a word.

Voice cold enough that you are warned and low enough that you are warmed, Sukuna asks, “Do you think a magicless whore like you has any say over me?” The sound of it makes you even more stupid with lust, so stupid all the emergency self-preservation in your brain just dries up and floats off, thin as grapeskin in a breeze.

You do, actually, have some sorcery, but it’s so insignificant compared to his that you say nothing.

He clucks his tongue. “Quiet now? Where’s the fiesty bitch who wanted me out so bad, huh?” One of his hands takes you by your jaw. The touch in unkind and you press right back into it, wanting every hurt he gives, because hurts are points of contact. “Put that mouth to good use or I’ll cut you in half and put you on a pile somewhere,” he rumbles. And then he drops you.

The water of his domain is like tar. You land on your knees where you belong, so it’s not so bad.

“Beg first,” he softly demands. “Or I’ll make it thirds, and it will be slow.”

Your tongue stumbles over assent and gratitude as you rise from your messy landing and reach for his lap. His hands bat you away, but it seems half-hearted (it would be if he had a heart) and you are used to him toying with you. So you try again. But he does it again. You try once more and he slaps your hand away, more insistently.

“I said BEG,” he booms, and the power of his echo rattles a skull and a few small bones off the roof of the shrine.

“Please,” you say immediately. Your voice is very small.

“Please what, slut?”

“Please-- let me,” you beg, reaching for him again. He slaps you away so hard it hurts your wrist. He’s playing keepaway with his body, and that hurts your heart even worse.

He shows you a grin that is not really a smile. The points of all his front teeth are so clean and so terribly, terribly sharp. There is nothing about this being that is not made to cut. “Let you...?”

Oh. Oh, you really are as stupid as he says you are. “Please let me use my mouth.”

He narrows several eyes. “To do what. Last chance,” he warns.

“Please let me suck you!” you sob, scrabbling to reach his knees while his hand on your shoulder keeps you right where you are in the chilly muck. The water here does not wash. It fouls things, makes them need cleansing. And you are in it up to the thighs you wish were wrapped around him instead. It’s thick and cold. You don’t want to think about what’s in there with you, you just want to get to him.

Sukuna releases your shoulder and waves the hand at your face. “Try and see,” he says, exactly like a schoolyard bully but so much more dangerous. There’s a chance he’ll cut your tongue-- or maybe your head-- in half just for fun. He sits himself back against a pillar made of leg bones and puts a pair of his hands behind his head like a beachgoer. Other hands point crudely at his groin. “Make it count or you’ll be dead before you can bruise.”

So you lunge as far forward as you can and lift away the loose kimono, kissing his thighs and trying not to drool on them. It’s difficult because they are the finest pair you’ve ever seen: thick, with deceptively soft curves of muscle. Those beautiful curse marks loop around him and you lick the front of one appreciatively, lingering over the frost of it as long as you dare. His skin burns on either side of the mark like a fierce, unending explosion. It makes each line feel like a brand under you tongue.

You want to worship them more, but only a handful of his threats are ever idle, so you go to his glory, touch it with gentle reverence, and put your tongue on the dick that has been haunting all your dreams for a week. He sighs in exaggerated boredom as you do your best to coat him in saliva-- you’ll want it there before long.

When you open wide to take him in, relief makes you smile. But as you move your lips down, there is pain in your face, that sweet kind of pull that is your body screaming that you are forcing your jaw and your your cheeks too far apart. But you don’t think you can get too far apart, and more importantly you want that cock in your mouth, so you keep going like the scream means nothing. Even when you think you feel individual sinews go threadbare, you stretch. You settle your hands gratefully on his hips and use them to ground yourself so you can take him down your throat as far as he will go.

And when you do, massive hands at the back of your head pull you down even farther. You’re already choking, and this little bit more makes you gurgle. Makes your body wriggle.

“All you’re good for,” he sighs, “And you’re not even good. Open.”

You try. You think you are open, it’s not a matter of you being closed, just that there is only so far into you he can go like this. But you wouldn’t say that even if the air for words could make it into your windpipe. Instead, you relish the coarse, beautiful hairs you can feel being shoved up your nostrils, the ones that make you want to sneeze. The ones your oxygen-deprived brain wants to snort like drugs right off his belly all the way down to the dick in your mouth. But there’s no place for air to move from your nose to your throat. He has blocked you from air itself.

“Swallow, then,” he growls. He’s not giving you cum, he wants the ripple of your throat moving around him. “Or I’ll squeeze that neck to nothing.”

You don’t have the control you would if your throat were not so full. But you try, and he sighs in a way you think is not entirely disgusted with you. He doesn’t crush your neck, at any rate (not from the outside in, at least). He does squeeze your skull with his fingertips wide around your head and push your face off him by the force of his thumbs above your eyebrows. You can feel when his cockhead slides from your throat because the crown of it flares out in the back of your mouth, no longer compressed.

He does it a few more times. Sukuna is lazy about it, and when you dare to look up at his face he is staring into some middle distance until one eye catches you. His face splits into a half dozen grins, a ghoul with too many teeth. He shoves you down again after that and doesn’t look at you any more. You get a none too gentle slap on the back of your head. He could easily slap you so hard your teeth went flying, so you are grateful as you gag.

“That’s enough,” he says after a few moments. He pushes you back by the shoulder. As you try to wipe your drool from his balls and keep your coughs quiet, he hums thoughtfully and looks into that middle distance again.

“D’ya wanna sit down?” Itadori chirped as you paced around him and the little table. “You can have the chair.”

You giggled at him and shook your head. “Not the chair,” you purred as you slipped your hands over his shoulders to rub them while you leaned down behind him to whisper in his hear. “Don’t want the chair. I want Sukuna.”

And then your hands slid further down to his ribs and tickled him, and you pressed your nails between his bones when he hooted uncomfortably. Sweet idiot probably thought you were making a bad joke. But not even that had brought Sukuna out. Not so much as an extra smirk, that you could see.

“Surprised?” you whispered sweetly. “Gotta be more on your guard, Itadooooori~”

Sukuna drawls “Surprised?” and you are, but you are also, idiotically, delighted. Before your eyes, he’s grown another cock, jutting out from that crown of hair that was in your nose not a moment ago. A twin to the first, just a rosy, thick, and mouthwatering. It came into being with an odd shhhhisss of gray, sulfur-smelling steam, and though he has neglected to give himself a second pair of balls, you have no doubt the new dick is capable of spewing more gooey, deeply damned cum than your body can hold.

“Get up,” he says, as though he isn’t tugging you by the arm. You can only go where he allows in this space, it’s part of the domain’s power. Your clothes cling to you until another of his hands rip them off. The back seams, especially the neckine of your blouse, dig in deep before they tear and run forward across your skin for him to toss into the fathomless black of the shrine.

You wonder if you’ll ever know the inside of it. You don’t have the shame to keep you from peeking as you stand there in the murky sludge. Without your clothes you realize it is oddly humid and cool at the same time here, like a stormy day’s dusk. Your breasts feel heavy in it.

He doesn’t do anything to them. His nails scrape your belly instead, and his thumb lodges itself right between your pussy lips, the useless armor of your underwear serving only to show what he’s going to tear next. Maybe. You spare a thought to not wearing any from now on so that whenever he next takes pity on you, he’ll see that you are always available and knows-- surely he already knows-- how willing you are. Maybe you can burn them all in some kind of offering to him. You wonder if there’s a phase of the moon he likes best, you could make your fire under it.

“This isn’t from the water,” he drawls. “And you’re too stupid to piss yourself in fear, huh?” His thumb curls back and forth against your clit like the rocker on a toy horse, and the point of his nail drags against the gusset of your panties. He could shred the fabric (and you) in an instant if he chose. You are so empty inside you nearly wish he would. You crave your own blood.

Sukuna rolls his eyes and mutters about how you only want one thing, and then, more carefully than you ever imagined, he uses that sharp nail to scratch a slit into the two layers of fabric. A big enough cut that you feel the obsidian smoothness of his thumbnail when it touches you where you are most weak, most stupid, most needy. You nearly drool again, and you do feel a small flow of saliva against the front of your mouth like a wave on the shore of a lake. When you swallow it back, it sounds like a gulp.

Of course that makes him laugh. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he whispers, and shifts so when he presses the sharpness of the nail, it dents your wet lips. Your stupid brain thinks if he goes deeper and makes you bleed, he can use the smear of fluid to help him fuck you. There is no sense left in you to worry about being hurt.

But Sukuna doesn’t hurt you. Not like that, anyway. He does press, and he does move the tip of the nail down, like he is making a point about being in control. But he does not split your skin. When you whimper, he lets up on the pressure to grab your ruined panties and rip those from you, too, pulling a burn low on your back to match the one your shirt collar left behind your neck.

He sniffs gingerly at the ripped cloth in his hand and makes a face. “Nasty,” he says, tossing the fabric up and incinerating it in the air. “I have to breathe through my mouth with you. But you’re wet enough to use.” He doesn’t rise from his seat, but a few of his hands gather you by your waist and he uses the grip to raise you and aim your pussy at his body without bringing you close enough for contact. Sludge drips from your toes into the water and your hands dangle uselessly.

“Please.” The request is gurgled even though your airway is clear now. Your head bounces back from your neck like a yoyo as his arms jostle you into place. You don’t feel in any real danger of breaking-- to a sane person, this would be alarming, because you are not at all supported above your waist. The muscles of your back and neck stretch to let you look down your body so you can watch and wait for the moment when he breaches you, finally, and takes what you are offering.

He smiles. “Please what?” All the eyes on his face are little crescents and it’s beautiful, he’s beautiful. He doesn’t look like a curse or a king, to you Sukuna looks like a god. Even when he snaps his sharp teeth at your silence, his bite in everything you have ever wanted served to you with mint and honey instead of sulfur and stormwater filled with mosquito larvae.

“Please use me, please fuck me,” you beg. You want to ask loudly, respectfully, but the words come out as whispers. Your head feels cottony from the tension of your position.

He wrinkles his nose at you and you mourn the gleeful crescents. “Not for you,“ he warns. “I’m just bored.”

“That’s fine,” you croak gratefully, letting your head loll back in relief and sagging in his hold. You can feel the curve of the back of your head against the flesh of the back of your neck and wonder what the angle of your body looks like to allow that. “It’s an honor,” you add. Your tongue nearly falls back and chokes you. The angle must be bad.

Sukuna laughs without smiling and teases you with both cockheads. They slip through your untouched wetness thick and strong until he goes a little higher and the touch to your clit squeezes a squeak out of you. You sound like a rodent even to yourself.

He is so close and still not in you. He is a curse, he’s a hundred curses and a thousand nasty words and a million teases. You want him in a billion ways. He nudges you again and the moan that comes out of you is much lower than the squeak. It’s ghastly and impolite. He strokes one of your thighs for some reason.

You’re waiting for him to hurt you with that hand when he slips one cock in instead, and as you’re gasping he lifts your hips. Quickly, you realize he is using your body to catch the other head when he pops it inside. There’s no hesitation and of course there’s no cheerleading, he does as he pleases and you take it. When he brings you halfway down both lengths you already have drool on your cheeks, heading back to your ears, and you are making stupid guh... ah... sounds. You’re nothing but a sleeve, full at last, and you feel like an honored sacrifice. The relief makes you delirious, blissed out as he moves you. It is only the tight, cold burn of him forcing you wide open at the entrance to your pussy that makes you hiss from pain. But it is a pain you like and if he pulls out you think you’ll cry.

You should know you’ll cry anyway. He pulls you so smoothly over all the strong bumps and veins on him, and you feel every single one. If he does, they don’t give him any pause. An ugly sound flies out of you like songbirds and sunshine would move to flee the morbidity of this place. Sukuna may be a god in your addled mind, but your second moan is not a holy thing. It is not at all unhappy, either. His thickness births universes behind your eyelids.

“Thank me,” he says. You aren’t used to hearing him sound anything but lazy or cruel, but his instruction there sounded... tense.

You try, of course, but you choke, and the coughs from your belly to try to clear your airway mostly make your body grip him instead of helping you breathe. He groans and you feel like you’re being blessed even as you fight your own spit out of your throat. “Thank me,” he repeats, and squeezes your middle. The pads of his thumbs are so wide they feel like hands, like his hold is somehow backwards. You find yourself less confused when the points of his nails press into your belly and back and you warble out a shriek.

“I can just kill you if you don’t listen. It would be more fun,” Sukuna rumbles. “Your insides might be sexier than your outsides.”

You have no way of knowing, and still no way of talking, either. He keeps going as his pointed grip pulls you away, wrong, the wrong way, the slide making an awful shuccccck as your sex clings to its own destruction and you try to make the word no! at least five times before you just give up.

“Maybe that’s a better plan,” he murmurs. His voice has gone tight again, and you haven’t stopped coughing so you spare a dizzy hope that it is your body making him this way. “Maybe I’ll pierce you from the inside out and see what noise you make then.”

You keep choking, but you manage to get out an appreciative sound. Hot tears from the coughing and the pain of the sharp points of his nails stream down your temples, into your hair. You can tell those points are the scarcest pressure from splitting your skin, but they don’t. They press deep without cutting, like grass or rice under your knees during a childhood punishment. Your skin rebels only by focusing on the pain, because it can do nothing to fight it off. The feeling is like tingles, and every tingle has a knife.

“Jut be grateful and shut up then,” Sukuna grunts. “You don’t have to be in once piece for this.”

And then he sets about ripping your soul into halves and subdividing you every capacity for thought. His method of pulling and pushing you is unpredictable, but the filling is everything you wanted. He moves you and it scrapes your insides, not in a way that makes you bleed, not in a way that hurts you. Simply in a way that reflects that you bodies are not made for this and he’s inside you anyway, beyond the limitations your body cannot relax as easily as your brain let go of every safety measure. Your limits don’t matter. Maybe he’ll grow a finger on the tip of one cock and use it to tug your cervix out of the way.

You know that would hurt, but you just make a soft, dreamy noise.

He’s too big like this, and it still stings your overstretched entrance. One dick is formidable. Two should not even be possible, but there he is, the front of his hips flush with yours, that vivid pink hair (somehow as lovely as spring’s first, umblemished flower, despite the way you know it smells like man and dirt and sex) tangling with your own like a vine hellbent on choking out another. His balls are pressed against your ass, heavy and hot. He’s just so very big. That’s fine inside, but your skin feels so fragile where he goes in. The bulge of the twin root is straining you wider than birth, you imagine.

Oh god. If you were so lucky as to birth his child one day...

Bliss escapes you in shrill scream as he grinds you down on him, and he laughs, so beautiful you do it again. So does he.

“Let it hurt,” he whispers, using his grip to squeeze you again. He’s not fucking you, he is using your body to fuck himself, and he’s lazy about it, keeping that sting sharp and constant. But the feeling of him stretching your insides, battering you with size alone and then pulling you away to let your pathetic walls collapse back on themselves, then stretching you again is all so incredible it doesn’t matter. “I want this to be fucking you up, silly cunt,” he adds. The murmur sounds sweet despite the words. “A gaping hole is the only thing you want from me that I’ll ever give you.”

If you had any control over your body you’d have come from that gravelly insult alone. You don’t. He seems set on using you like a sleeve, something with no other purpose than to relieve his boredom.

How you wish that could be your life, to sheathe however many cocks he feels like having at a time and letting them split you wider than your body is meant to go. Your tears now are from satisfaction, and the fastest ones manage to slide down the sides of your face while the others are bounced off into the air while he moves you, less lazy now. Maybe he’s working on that gaping hole. The sting feels like lemon juice dripped into a cut so deep it can puddle on a bone. It radiates out into every nerve in the sticky skin that’s tight around him, and it doesn’t stop hurting. It does become warm.

Take his baby, you will your body with alarming clarity. As soon as he puts that scalding cum in you, use it to make a baby, even if it cauterizes you.

Sukuna pulls you flush again, then slides his second hands down to your ankles and tugs you down a little bit more. The tug pops your knees, and the additional depth he’s buried in you shoves the air out of your belly with such finality you swear some of it escapes around your eyeballs.

“This is mine,” he says. His laugh is as dark as the bottom edge of a grave.

You want to come from that, too, but pulled down as you are you are so full you cannot even clench, cannot even tense your muscles. Sukuna may have knocked something important out of its place in your spine. He has certainly stretched you beyond your own use. Even if you live and he sends you back out of the domain, what good will you be?

You can get out alive if you make me a promise, he murmurs in your head. His voice is so silk it feels like it is actually touching you, stroking the inside of your skull with twenty thick, delicate touches that know how to make you do anything they want. It kisses the underside of each eyelid with a forked tongue. He slows to a long, thick slide out of you, long enough that one cock pops out. It slips against your clit in a slow-motion slap. Maybe you’ll even be knocked up after all. A little curse to crawl out of your belly. Some kind of heat making you stupid for that?

Maybe he’s right.

Nah, he chuckles. You’re stupid all the time, aren’t you.

You definitely are where he’s concerned. How your body managed what he did to you, you don’t understand. How can you not be bleeding from it, how does it not hurt more? His cocks together are bigger than a man’s forearm. Maybe ther’s something keeping you safe in this place. Maybe Sukuna himself did something to keep you from tearing.

“Not a chance, slut, you’re just loose.” He laughs so cruelly you know he could never have kissed the inside of your eyelids. You keep right on loving him. “Couple screws loose, too. No wonder Itadori puts up with you. Even he pities you.”

The meaner he is, the more you adore him. He’s making you feel so good. Even though only one is inside, he’s fucking you with both cocks: one slaps against your clit each time the other bottoms out, as far inside as your body will let him go without punching a new hole in you. Even around only one of them, he keeps the lips of your sex stretched wide. Just beyond that stretch, you have a little control again. So you use it to make your dumb cunt milk him like you have any say over when he comes, and your stupid back helps your idiot hands fly up and clasp together around the back of his neck like you have any power over whether he embraces you. In your bones and your belly you crave him like an addict, the way nature makes invisible particles to seek out others that constantly repel them. Your need for him is molecular, undeniable.

“God, please come in me,” you beg.

The king of curses roars a derisive laugh and when you wince he manifests as black, grinning flames behind your tightly-shut eyes. “Am I your god?” he mocks between laughs. He pulls you down harder than before and grinds himself against your clit like he can juice it, and lets your long, long wail cut through the silence of his domain, usually such a silent place. “You’re no more than a hole, no one cares about your womb or what you want.”

You would not dare mention the baby, but you sob with relief when Sukuna begins to move his hips now, pushing in deeply each time he pulls you back down. It is like you are being pummeled inside and out, and your body aids the process by making meager but enthusiastic cream around him. How much of it is yours? How much might be his? Because he is so strong, you can feel the flare of his cockhead every time it pushes deep and every second it spends drawing back, pushing outward within your body like some kind of wicked umbrella. You become aware of his grunting and a rhythmic swelling and reducing inside you, a... pulsing. The thought his entire cock might be expanding makes you shout with joy, bearing down on him with all your walls as your body tenses and his does, too. You clutch at him with everything you are.

There is a definite expansion then-- two, actually. He becomes harder and thicker, bloated inside your body, and your arms fly away from him as your back bows and your lower belly domes outward from the hot streams of cum he is pouring into you in quick, inhuman gushes. You can feel a new stretch of your insides begin as your body jerks backwards, ecstatic. Your stomach continues to go up from the bend of the rest of you.

For a moment Sukuna is unmoving, pushed in so deep you feel more of him than you can understand. That sense of swelling obliterates your knowledge of your own physicality. It is like eating too much; your body should have stopped you but it didn’t, and now it hurts. It also means every involuntary squeeze of your muscles trying to change something about the situation feels incredible.

Then the moment passes and he pulls back. Or tries to. He doesn’t get far, he’s lodged in you and his pull makes you moan from how fucking good it is, how satisfied you are with all his cum packed wet and tight and deep, just beyond the seal of his thickness. The unrelenting fullness of it, the rightness of it, and the surprise of that swelling. As your body flexes around everything like an embrace, you see things behind your eyes and you don’t know if they are put there by Sukuna or not: a hornet emerging from a massive nest in bright, hot sun and screaming off into the air; Saturn turning silent and slow and cold; five grubs in a burrow in the earth, noisily destroying roots.

He tugs back again with a low “Fuck,” and then you moan because it doesn’t feel good, not even with his voice. He really did swell inside you somehow, and he’s too big to come out like that. It hurts when he tries and you can’t help whining at the way he’s putting pressure on space that is bruising from the attempt.

“Shut up,” he mutters, and you get the pinpoints of his nails around your full middle. You manage to whimper instead of weep when he tries again, nearly ripping himself out of you from the feel of it. But not quite. You like the way his balls slap you, but it’s not enough comfort-- this is not like the way it didn’t hurt when it was supposed to, this is hurting when it is not supposed to, and even though you remain willing for anything he’ll give you, the hurt is intense. It’s like he’s trying to yank out a branch speared through a tennis ball. Strange enough that he managed to get it into you in the first place.

Sukuna mutters something, ceases his pulling for two blessed seconds, and tries again, this time pulling you up in a terrible copy of the way he moved you before. It is enough force, because even though you don’t want to be, you are ripped off him and there’s a wet plop! and the spatter of his cum falling onto bones and water. You feel a croaky whine behind your teeth, and he slaps one of your breasts.

“I’ll let you sit on the next one if you hush,” he says again, and there’s a terrible sense of sliding between your legs, like he’s got fingers and tongues spreading the lips of your pussy open to find your hole. As though said abraded, overstretched, leaking hole doesn’t make itself obvious enough. You know he left you gaping, just like he said he would. The flow of his cum out of you is too wide.

You wonder about “the next one” until you remember he has two cocks but has only come once. Now that the first swelling is out of you, you’re desperate for another, and his offer to sit on it is golden to you since you are broody as a hen. You hope the next one is another... your brain, your partner in shamelessness until now, doesn’t even want to say the word.

Another knot. You need that, now to fill up the space he has stretched into you. Sukuna’s knot, as many of them as he’ll give you. That’s what you’ve been craving without knowing it, to be full of his cum in your womb and his cock in your pussy, full full full, all the space in you taken up by him. And though you didn’t even think of it until now, a knot to keep him there. You pray he really will let you sit on the next one. You try your best to hush, to squeeze and quiet even the slowing sound of drips onto the skulls below you.

“That’s right,” he says, the way you’d talk to an animal. “Don’t talk. you’re just a hole, and holes don’t have voices,” he reminds you. He grinds close with the unspent dick that’s already sporting a promising bulge near the base. The other, still half-hard, slides against the cleft of your ass. “An ugly little tub drain. Gonna plug you up and soak.”

You’re as frothy as a bubble bath from his cum oozing out of you and the way you’ve agitated it trying to keep it in. You hope when it shot into you it hit the back of your uterus and bounced into each Fallopian tube. That’s now how it’s supposed to work, but neither is Sukuna. You wish some kind of mark had appeared on your belly.

“Stay quiet and don’t interrupt this,” he whispers, and a tongue as wide as his stomach slips out and licks you from clit to navel. “Quiet as death, hmm?”

You nod as fast as you can and clamp your teeth down on both sides of your tongue.

He smacks your slit with the cock you are going to die without. “This one’s bigger!” he declares.

Lucky you.

“Yeah,” he purrs as the cock pushes down onto you, not into you but onto you, like a leg. “Lucky you, you crazy cunt. Don’t fuck up my son or I’ll turn you into a weathervane.”

And then he slides in easily, until he doesn’t. The bulge is frosty against you, just like the curse marks on his flesh, and it feels like an orange already. Sukuna uses a hand at your back to tip you forward until your knees touch the floor slats of the shrine. He grips you above each hip and by both shoulders.

“Quiet or I’ll rip you a third hole and no baby for you,” he says. You nod again and he laughs so low it registers in your blood like the deepest note of a cello. Then he starts to press. You thought he moved you because surely gravity would help you go down over the knot. It does not seem to help you at all.

“Spread your legs,” he says tersely, tugging one open. You slide-- you’re right on it-- oh, god, it’s like a grapefruit and it has no give, it feels wider than what you took earlier and that was already inside, there’s no way--

Sukuna yanks your other leg outward with a tsk and there’s a splash of blood in your mouth from the way you’ve mashed a hole into your tongue with your teeth. The knot is spreading you, opening you up, but it’s still too big. Still outside.

You see those grubs again in your mind’s eye, snuggled like grotesque puppies a few centimenters below the surface. They’re curled into tiny circles that grow bigger, until the dirt walls of their little burrow are force outward in every direction. Bigger, until they pop through the grass into the moonlight, their pale bodies soaking up the glow. Bigger, until waiting night birds grab them with their beaks and the earth seems to swallow you up again.

“Get out of your head,” Sukuna hisses, “Or I’ll put this so far up your body it’ll come out your mouth.”

You swallow the blood coating your teeth and try to order your pussy to relax, or at least give up. He moves his grip inwards from your shoulders to your throat, and laces his meaty fingers together at the back of your neck. His thumbs stroke the front.

“Don’t you want it enough?” he coos, mocking. His eyes are fixed on yours.

You remember you’re supposed to be quiet. I do, you insist into the emptiness of your skull, it just won’t fit. It’s too big. You’re mournful about it but he is unmoved.

If it’s too big, then it’s a good thing you’re so loose, he answers. And then he pushes and doesn’t stop pushing until your lips fold and finally slip around the knot, which gets bigger the moment it settles into the space your hipbones and organs allow.

‘Too big,’ he grunts in your head. Feels like it fits to me.

His smile is the jagged shadow of a rosebush, but as your eyelids come down heavy you think to yourself that his voice was very soothing just then, as lullaby soft as the rumble of a thunderstorm coming to a place where you are so safe you fear not a single cloud. You already love the worst thing in the world. What else can hurt you? The cum he spurts into you isn’t scalding at all, and when its warmth fades to an exhausted, contented, bubbly blackness, you let it take you under, his panting your realest, dearest lullaby.

When you blink back into consciousness, you are slumped over a still out, still seated Itadori. He’s snoring gently, relaxed. Nothing like Sukuna at all. Even in sleep he’s got a sweet, gentle smile. Such a good kid. You want to let him rest, and you want to get out of here and get some rest yourself.

Carefully, you slide a foot to the floor, then the other. Your legs straddle one of his and there’s a concerning stickiness where your crotch rests against his uniformed thigh. Sukuna saw fit to release you from his domain with your clothes back in place, aside from the panties. You wonder if there’s any trace of the ash of them on the floor of the shrine.

You manage to get your balance and move off Itadori’s leg. There’s a terribly wide, glossy spot on his trousers, and you gawk at it for a moment, wondering if there’s a way for you to clean it up. While you think, more cum rushes out of you, spattering against the white tile floors like the first load had spattered against bones.

Sleeping Beauty makes a noise and moves his head in a bleary way, and you decide to just beat it. You mouth a sincere “Sorry, Itadori,” and get the hell out of there, keeping your footfalls light around the tiny puddles you make as you run. Messier than you want to be but less so than you expected, Sukuna’s spend sluices down the insides of your legs, clinging. You press a hand against the front of your skirt and grind it against the ache between your legs, hoping the fabric will soak up any would-be trail that might follow you when you leave the building. And like that, you sneak, sore as hell, from corner to corner, all the way back to your room.

On the way there, you feel a wriggling in your belly that seems... exploratory. It moves like a fish in a new bowl, fluttering and bumping against its confines. Mischievous. It could be your body setting itself back in order after the time in Sukuna’s domain, or revolting from the way you were used. But as you take the last few steps to your door, cum sluggishly oozing out onto the lining of your skirt, you suspect it is something much more lasting and malevolent, something you’ll need to get used to.

You’re so excited you put a hand over your mouth as you sink the floor of your room.

#jjk fanfic #jjk fanfiction #jjk sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryoumen x reader #ryoumen sukuna #jimins-ass-eater #pseu slings

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pseudofaux · 3 years

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Hello! I'd like to request a fluffy drabble with Comte. His mc is overwhelmed/feeling loat and just needs reassurance, cuddles, and kissing. Thank you!

This is extremely cozy and I love it! We can all use some reassurance from time to time! In my spreadsheet my note for this one was “the comfort king WILL rise to this challenge” and I know he would. 🥰 I hope you see this and enjoy, nonny!

(Requests are closed, but there are more to be filled in July! Feel free to follow along or just read whichever ones you would like. A masterlist will go up when all the requests are completed.)

Has anyone ever looked at you with so much warmth and love as le Comte de Saint-Germain has suffused into the way he is gazing at you? He stood when you entered the room, saw your face, and brought you immediately to the fireplace and the little cart of treats Sebastian must have rolled in only moments before. Fragrant steam still escapes the teapot’s elegant throat, so it sits upon the cart like a dragon created by Limoges’ greatest craftsmen.

“Into my lap now, love,” he coaxes. “For a start. I want to get you off your feet.”

Le Comte uses the gentle grip he has on your hands to pull you toward his chair facing the fire. With a vampire’s grace, he sits and sweeps your feet out from under you, and when you begin to fall he catches your back as cleanly as he would if you were in a ballroom. Then he pulls you onto his lap, just as he indicated.

“That makes me feel better,” he says with a smile. “Right where I wanted you. Now let’s get you feeling better, too, chérie.” He fits you against him so the warmth of the fire can comfort your front and you can relax your back onto his body. You feel home and you’ve rarely been more grateful to be there. These days, Paris is making you feel lost.

He offers you tea and caramel macarons. When you refuse, he sighs in that way of his when you deny him a chance to wait on you and whispers, “Close your eyes for me, then, lovely one. Don’t concern yourself with anything but breathing. I have you.”

For the moments it takes your body to relax, he only holds you. He doesn’t even stroke you. He just keeps you close and safe, and gives you time to rely on his body under yours. It’s not until you finally sigh out some of the day’s tension that he pulls you in a little tighter.

Softly, Comte says, “I can tell from your pretty frowns that something has been bothering you lately.” He smooths a hand over your skirt, intimate but settling, not seductive. “Will you do me the honor of letting me take care of it for you, or do you want to work on it yourself?”

You truly don’t know. Right now you just want to know he thinks you are worthwhile, and that’s what you tell him.

“Darling,” he’s quick to say. There’s a small note of reproach in his voice. “There is no one more worthwhile to me in all the world. Let me show you that, at least.”

That makes you smile. You nod, very ready to let him spoil you with words, and you slip your hand under his so he can close the warmth of his fingers over yours. He does, immediately.

“How could I resist someone so lovable? Even when you vex me, you charm me,” he chuckles. He fits his chin over your shoulder and rubs his cheek against yours. “So soft, but not as soft as your heart.”

The noise you make is meant as acknowledgement of what he’s said, but it still him. Then he presses his cheek more firmly against yours until you laugh, trying to appease him.

“Doubting me?” he asks. His voice is scandalized. He smacks a kiss against your cheek, playful in a way you rarely see, and you laugh for real. He does it again, several times, until you are feeling floaty as a bubble and completely adored.

“That’s lovely,” he whispers, nuzzling the rise of your cheek. “Such a lovely spirit. Sometimes I can’t believe my luck that you are here with me.”

Slowly and gently, he turns your hand over and laces his fingers through yours. It makes you feel comfortable. Even more connected to him.

In a more earnest voice, he says “It truly makes me happy just to be near you. Would you make me happy now and stay here for awhile?”

When you agree, he murmurs the sincerest thank you that you have ever heard. You are still in his arms when the teapot has no more steam to give, and though you never had any tea, Comte’s attentions have your heart warm from the inside out by the time he is done.

#ikevamp comte #ikevam comte #ikevamp fanfiction #ikevam fanfiction #ikevamp fanfic #ikevam fanfic #flufffffffffffff this is cotton #pseu slings

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pseudofaux · 2 years

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could i ask for a harr drabble where he's trying to be less shy and more forward with a very teasing! confident! mc?

You can! I’m glad you did! 💜💜 I’m sorry this took so long, I hope you will see it and enjoy.

(Requests are closed, I am completing ones I owe from earlier this year. When they are all done, I’ll post a masterlist. Just 8 left after this one!)

When Alice shows up the next morning, breezy and sweet (she is a spring picnic in person form, he realizes), he’s ready to set aside his plan for the time being, but then she says something so warmly flirtatious that when his mouth falls open, the words tip out before he can stop them.

And for her, and for his desire to give her that rush and bloom of joy, he doesn’t try to stop them. He fights his other major instinct, which is to back away from her. He steps closer instead and does not let the heat in his cheeks melt his resolve.

She exists so easily, anywhere she goes. Her steps are light and her smile is a comfortable thing on her face that looks exactly as it should. The way painters try to capture the suggestion of a grin, that’s how pleasure curves her mouth. If her eyes were not so very gentle he probably couldn’t handle being around her. But what Harr really can’t handle is not being around her, so he wants to... try. To be more like her. He likes her so much, after all. He even likes the teasing, because she makes it clear the teasing is safe. It makes such a rush and blooming in his chest, he wants to give that to her.

He practices when he’s alone. He gives himself a headache rolling his eyes at his attempts.

“Well, if you think something is nice to look at in the house, that’s you, surely?”

Her smile doesn’t go away, but she blinks more rapidly than he has ever seen her-- or anyone-- blink. She doesn’t answer, which he never in a million years would have predicted. Even if she is shocked, not flattered as he intends, he is some odd feeling of emboldened and embarrassed coiled together. He can feel the coil becoming a rope and he can feel that rope beginning to tangle around his legs, but Harr keeps going.

“You should-- should... see yourself,” he says. It comes out halting and firm, stupid, but the way her eyes are wide and now not blinking at all goads him the way Loki probably dreams of being able to.

“Clearly the n-nicest... thing... in this entire forest...”

...And then he loses it. He had something to say, something that had a smooth base underneath all his painfully green attempts to flirt, but it evaporates without leaving any hint behind.

Her eyes are still wide, and she says nothing and does not change her expression. When she begins to tilt her pretty head, as though to gently prompt him, he swears the motion pulls him even closer, like her chin was master and he a marionette. Before he can plan anything at all, his arm thuds against the doorframe above her head.

Alice makes a soft sound he has never heard from her before. Not quite a gasp but not enough sense to be a word, either. It doesn’t help him remember whatever he was he was trying to say to impress her, so he follows the lead of her softness and tries to touch her chin as gently as she seems to... exist.

His hand trembles, but it does touch. And perhaps it is her small movement toward resting in his hand that pulls him in the rest of the way. Whatever it is, his mouth is on hers by the end of it, and he realizes words are not the only way to inspire that sensation of rapid, out of control blooming.

When she laughs into the kiss, Harr is able to smile. But not to stop kissing her.

#pseu slings #ikerev fanfiction #ikerev fanfic #harr silver #ikerev harr #ikemen revolution fanfiction #ikemen revolution fanfic

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pseudofaux · 3 years

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Hello sweetheart! Hope you are doing fine? Just saw you're taking requests, and I'm in love with your work and your passion for our dearest lonely god-tier le Comte... so may I ask for a drabble with Comte and MC? (This is my first ask for fanfic ever, hope doing it right) Some specific notes about (honestly they're hunting my daydreams for weeks now lol):

There exist a very few immortal beings, not vampires, turned immortal by a secret liquid. Comte heard rumors of them, but never met. MC is one of them, turned only a few centuries ago. Maybe they meet at a ball? Maybe he made friendship with her "father" few days before the ball? She is a lovely person, but cuts deep feelings off (reminds a bit of Vincent). For sure she SMELLS different. And also Comte notice a soft, vibrant humming tone coming from her (blood?) everytime he comes close to her. Realizing only he can hear it. She met lesser vampires before, but never talked to a pureblood, especially not THIS handsome, his presence so alluring... tries to avoid touching him, but by accident it happens and to his surprise the soft humming inside her changes into a kind of transmission. He can exactly feel what she feels...

It is up to you if it is going darker, HOPEFULLY spicy. Would love to to see him going wild and BURN to feel and receive all emotions he deserves ♥️

So sorry for this long request! Tried to be so specific as possible! Sorry for my english also! It is okay when it doesn't suit you or it is too long or too complicated! Then just let me know 🙂 take good care of yourself, sending greetings and love ♥️

Thank you for trusting me with your very beautiful idea (and being so patient), sweet daisies! I hope it will be enjoyable for you to read... you shared a really incredible idea and I am not sure I was able to rise to your level of creativity but I hope this is something you can enjoy! Commmmmmmmmmmmte, hnnnnmmmmmmmmg! @daisiesandshakes has written her own full take on this scenario, which you can read here-- I am looking forward to reading it now that I am done with my work on this ask!

(Requests are closed, and the ones I am finally fulfilling are well overdue. But please enjoy what’s posted in the next few days! A masterlist will go up when they are all completed.)

When they were danced, she wore gloves like all the other women in the ballroom. The glorious happening only happened when, weeks into their acquaintance, she took one glove off, wetted as the silk was to temporary ruin by the stem of her wineglass… and then, when she touched him with the skin of her hand, the sweetness of violins that slid in the air near her like a quartet of exotic bees went finally, completely silent.

For weeks he had known it was her, but not how. Known it was something below her skin and been careful not to touch her, despite his curiosity and the sweetness of her scent, orchards in full flower, rain-soaked honey. He was used to denying his desires with the same finality he employed to stamp out every possible idea that someone might desire him.

But in that sudden silence, there thundered a rush of impressions, snatches of whispers and murmurs in her pleasant voice, though her mouth remained politely closed. Worry, fear. Desire, thread-thin and suppressed. These marvelous, curious feelings slipped into him like the ambient susurration of the ballroom was turning itself into a gift.

And though it was not a sound but a sense, an extraordinary warmth of concern and regard bloomed around his bones, with the full force of the sun in summer, as lush and full as her orchard scent. And le Comte de Saint-Germain’s mouth fell open, but he was completely without words.

He snatched for her hand like he was no gentleman.

Purple tinted the edges of his vision, like looking through a painted window. Fear. Worry.

He stared into her eyes as the color shifted to red, vivid and deep. Mortification. Coldness, loneliness.

He felt a sense of embarrassment like his own selfishness had somehow sat upon it. He was not embarrassed himself. This feeling was not his.

Hers? That would be only explanation, however mysterious it was. If the curious music had not gone away, he wouldn’t be so sure, but...

Her caution laid passive, caught under his certainty. She did not pull away, but he felt a sense of worry like someone was simmering it so close to him that the steam got to his nose.

“Come with me,” he finally made himself say, and pulled her toward a pair of balcony doors.

Hope— desire— heat, fear, heat, heat— these things counterbeat against the quickness of his own heart. The power in each was like a hammer to his chest from the inside out. Curiosity, desperation…

Once he yanked the doors open, a sense of cold, and then surprise. Trepidation. Interest. They swirled together like paint under a marbler’s rake, remaining distinct but flowing together. It nearly made him dizzy, but he was determined to get her outside, away from the others, and ask what was going on.

He brought her to a pillar and put her back toward it. He did not press, but he did not release her hand, either. A slender note of indignation played along the curiosity then.

Le Comte swallowed. “Mademoiselle,” he began. A surge of apprehension and hope crashed over her indignation and left only curiosity behind. With one new partner: coyness. It made his nostrils flare. That orchard scent made no sense on an early winter balcony. She was in every way like something that ran only on her own time. An hourglass with diamonds for sand, strong enough to shatter the vessel that would use them. What on earth would she do to him, a poor horologist?

“Mademoiselle,” he said again, softly, and leaned close. He pressed his thumb to the give of her palm. Desire bled out of the pressure like juice from a fully ripe persimmon, a magnitude more fresh than fruit could really be. He was going to lose his mind. “What is going on?”

She did not run her tongue over her lips as a woman of Paris might. She pulled her bottom lip gently into her mouth instead, and kept her tongue hidden. “I am not certain,” she confessed. Hope. Earnestness. Those were said by her skin against his.

A breeze cut across his back, and he stepped closer to her to shield her from it.

“I think I am feeling your emotions,” he whispered. He laughed. “That makes no sense, but there was a sound around you… and when you touched my hand, it was replaced by these cycles of…”

Embarrassment. Embarrassment, embarrassment, embarrassment! Distress!

“None of it is unwelcome,” he rushed to tell her. “It it simply very new. It has never happened to me before.”

“A first for me as well,” she said softly. She looked up at him through her lashes.

“Don’t fear me, please,” he begged. “I don’t mean you any harm. If I could look away from it, I would… but I think I would struggle almost as much as I would trying to looking away from you.”

The tiniest and most elegant tendrils of modest pleasure and new faith uncoiled, invisible but undeniable.

She whispered, “If I don’t fear you... then what do we do?”

He took a deep breath and considered the question. When he let all the air out, there was only one direction he wanted them to take.

“We could test this power,” he suggested. “If you agree, of course.” He would never have been so bold if their situation were not so out of the ordinary.

It’s was a confusing, heady thing, to feel so embraced by her affection and desire. He did not want to toy with her, but he could not trust so quickly. He needed to test this.

She swallowed and agreed. When he swallowed after her answer (like it was a wine they shared, and he liked that thought), he found himself grateful. He wondered if she could feel what was going on in his head, too.

“Don’t let go,” he said quietly, and he relaxed his grasp on her to something more sensual than restrictive. Through the slow slide of his thumb against her palm, and though his entire presence in the world, he could feel her heart beating. The gentle beat had a place amongst the wind and even the muted sound of the music inside the ballroom. It registered in him like the vibration of notes from a cello, buzzing in his leg bones and calling him to move. Deeper than the violin music that had surrounded her earlier.

He slid his other hand up her back until he could feel her shoulder bones, and he leaned in to guide her back into that touch until his body pressed hers against the pillar. His hand would serve to protect her from any chill. “Do I have your permission to...?”

Relief flooded him before her soft sound of assent.

Without the feelings their contact seemed to share, he would never have been so bold as to be so close to her, not body or mouth. Their dances until now hadn’t been entirely chaste but they had been friendly— only friendly. But even before the first curious brush of his lips against hers, the sense of her desire was so certain in his mind he felt as though he could braid it up with his own and hand it off to a milliner to dress some crown for her.

The first touch was a brush in every sense, a movement across, more slide than pressure. A test of his theory of their impossible situation. He could not deny what he found, and the beautiful flutter down of her lashes and the way she tipped her face up to meet him… these little graces, these goodnesses, they made him gasp as much as his discovery of the truth.

His gasp seem to draw her own, and if possible hers drew him in, so the slide became a press, firm enough to pin things down for him to assess, if only the frenzy of feeling gave him enough peace to ever do so. He did not think it would.

It was like seeing the world through layers of pearl-sewn lace. Only the brightness of her feeling could get through so many fabrics laid over one another: thrill, acceptance, hesitance, commitment, joy, swirling around the sun center of desire, fiery and radiant. It bubbled and spun and made him so dizzy his toes curled in his fine shoes in an attempt to dig into the earth.

He could not give up his hold on her hand, but he wanted to cherish the side of her face. It was his pleasure to settle for breathing her in as he kissed her again, openmouthed in a kind of devilry he had never engaged in, never allowed himself. But she and her bright truth he sought like an oak would seek the sun, and its acorn the ground. His own need—he knew it was his own— surged in him and pushed him toward her like a wave.

“This is not… fair…” she whispered between kisses. His tongue kept hers too busy to say more. He felt the strongest compulsion to chase her feelings and hold them by the wrists. Or by the throat. He wanted teeth and hands on her, in her, here on this moonlit balcony and in his bed, in hers, anywhere he could get her.

She did not sound upset, and more importantly he felt no upset, only warmth and more thrill and even arousal, as though her breath and all her pliant nature were not enough proof. But he slowed so he could kiss her more languidly, and finally managed to pull a very short distance back. “What is unfair?” he managed to ask, his breath as much a kiss as his mouth might have been. He had to hope his tone caressed her aa he wanted to.

“You can feel what I am feeling,” she whispered, breathless. “But your feelings are no more plain to me, Comte, than they were. You are a mystery.”

His title on her tongue made him throb, and there he had his answer. The hand behind her shoulders slid down roughly, to the swell of her body and skirt. As he returned to her mouth, he pressed their bodies together so firmly he knew she would feel him through their many layers. Thanks be to god, some part of that opened her mouth on another gasp just as he sought her out again with his tongue, needing whatever of her secrets remained beyond the champagne fizz of delight, surprise, satisfaction.

“I will hide nothing you want to know, cherie.” His promise was muttered but truthful.

He kissed her soundly once more, then perhaps twenty times more after that. And then he drew her away from the pillar, his grasp on her hand never intending to end, and pulled her through the shadowed edges of the ballroom and out to his carriage. Excitement flared inside his heart, thrill-mischief he had not felt the like of since childhood. When she squeezed his hand and hid her soft laughter behind her other hand, he knew his joy had no real match, anyway. It was new, she was new, this connection was completely uncharted and amazing.

“My glove,” she whispered. “It is still on the table in the ballroom.”

He put her against the side of his carriage and put his body against hers once more.

“I will buy you a trunk of gloves to replace it if you agree to leave it and not let go of my hand,” he murmured against her cheek. “I feel no cruelty in you, you must tell me immediately if it exists in hiding.”

Her moan was so quiet he did not think the coachman could have heard it, but he hated the thought anyway and was glad the slick stab of jealousy that rose up in him might remain a mystery to her after all.

“I will not let go of your hand,” she promised. “I do not need the glove.” She squeezed his hand in hers, gentle as every feeling she had revealed and no less real.

He sagged against her. “Bless you,” he managed to say, before he pulled her to the stairs and ushered her up and inside. He followed close behind, as their clasped hands demanded.

#ikevamp comte #ikevam comte #ikevamp fanfiction #ikevam fanfiction #ikevamp fanfic #ikevam fanfic #daisiesandshakes #pseu slings

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pseudofaux · 3 years

Note

Hey Pseu may I request some slow morning sex and cuddles with Faust?

Awwwww, of course you can! Let’s let the good doctor stay in bed awhile… 💙🖤👓

(Requests are closed, I am completing overdue ones now. Please enjoy! A masterlist will be posted when they are all completed.)

He pushes you onto your back with his body, and when he is over you and there is only the dimness and the blanket sliding down his frame you stare up into his eyes and thank God for the flash of lightning that shows you his perfection. The tension of his shoulders far above you is heaven’s masterpiece in alabaster. His eyes can be eerie, but now they look as vital and verdant as the leaves that accompany the first crocus escaping thawing ground.

There is a touch on you that is softer than sunlight, softer even than the distant rumble of thunder that proves there is no sunlight to be seen if you open your eyes. You open them anyway, eager to know, and always eager to see Johann.

It’s been a long time since a day began as overcast as the thunder and dimness make this morning seem. His eyes stand out, their green warm in the room that is dark and cool outside the blankets you share. Your memory of discovering his hidden preference for sumptuous bedding makes you smile before you quietly say good morning.

“It is,” he murmurs, and he allows his touch on your arm to rest a little heavier, make fuller contact. “I like this weather.”

His touch, his voice, his pleasure in the rainclouds shielding the morning from the sun: these things warm you.

“I like this company,” you dare to say. You pull your hand up from beneath the blankets and he does not stop you from touching his face. He’s not wearing his glasses, so your fingers are able to rub the space they usually block above the handsome swell of his cheek.

He laughs and moves his face toward your touch, and your heart breaks with joy for the hundredth time. You are still recognizing the way happy waves of goosebumps are washing down your limbs when he surges toward your mouth and feasts on your gasp. His touch of your arm becomes a grip, and his other arm curls around you from beneath your body so he can further hold you in place.

He still loves to shock you with changes like that. His kisses slow, possibly so he can luxuriate in the way your stiffness melts back into the peace of the bed you woke up in together. Maybe he’ll let you relax and then do something to make you gasp all over again.

“Could be a better morning,” he declares between slow kisses. His voice is low as the thunder, steady as the rain. His body is firm against yours, and by your hip his arousal is firmest of all. You fell into bed by yourself the night before, too tired even to wait for him. In your wildest dreams things did not turn out so sweetly as they are right now.

“Yes,” you say simply, acknowledging, agreeing, acquiescing. You want him to have you. You want to have him.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, grinning.

When you dare to shrug your shoulders as you grin right back, he crashes his naked body down to yours, mouth first. As you put your arms around him, you hope he knows how deeply and surely he has you.

You have each other, really.

His hands cup your face while he kisses you, fierce but slow. Meaningful. All the while he burrows his legs between yours until he can roll his hips against you and you are gasping and trying to break away from his kisses just to breathe better and give yourself a moment to think.

But of course he doesn’t let you. His smile against your mouth is wicked before he takes it away to lick out every trace of the moan he creates when the strength of his arousal nudges directly against the slick lips between your legs.

You hear his whispered shock, but it’s fainter evidence than the way he shudders. His self control is so great at times that his pleasure literally shakes out of his grip on himself. You would never insult him by calling them trembles… but they make you smile against his mouth, whatever they may be.

He doesn’t seem to want to let go of your face, and he takes his time grinding you into the sheets. You feel pinned and you thrill at every place the lines of your bodies touch. He keeps you beneath him and makes unhurried love to your mouth now that he seems to have you where he wants you.

It’s only when you get worked up from how wet and needy he’s made you that you beg with your voice and your hands— one in the soft short hair at the back of his head, one reaching down toward the muscle of his ass (as though you could push him into doing anything at all).

“I will not be rushed,” he declares between kisses. “Accept this for what it is.”

What is it, you wonder. When you manage to ask, he laughs again and takes your bottom lip between his teeth. The press is sharp but without the bright sting of broken flesh. No more than a nip, and a slow one that builds and does not break or relent until he’s ready. He is being so slow and thorough this rainy morning.

“Think about it,” he murmurs as he slips one hand away from your face, down your neck and around the swell of your breast. He doesn’t rush but doesn’t linger as his touch goes between your bodies and he fits himself to your plush, slippery heat.

“Whatever could it be,” he drawls, eyes leaving his work to come back up and stare at you as he pushes inside. You see the ripple of a repressed snarl over his lip as he enters you, and then your eyes close because the way he keeps the slide so slow means you feel every way his body makes its way into yours. It’s not until he squeezes your hand down against the bed that you realize he’s grasped it, his fingers warmly caging yours as he brings your bodies together as fully as he can.

You are breathing noisily, panting slow and shaky from the stretch. There’s no resisting the way your body wants to move underneath his, fucking yourself on his stillness to coax him to pull back, come back into you, you can take it, please…

“Hush,” he says gently. You don’t know if you actually pleaded with him or if your face was just noisy, as he’s described it before. He does pull his hips back then and you immediately go against his command by groaning. The pull is too luscious, the drag of him like a hook that pulls your soul while it ruins your mind with ecstasy. It feels good when he fills you, but it feels amazing when he moves in you.

“Hush,” he says again, but he’s laughing. “I can’t hear myself think, woman.”

You chase his mouth to try to obey and kiss him at the same time, and he gives you another tender nip but allows the kiss. And then he moves with you, with too much intention to be lazy but still slow… it’s rapturous, and you tell him so.

He calls you a blasphemer. His voice makes an endearment of the epithet, and he nuzzles his way down to your throat to give you a nip that is followed by the bright, tingling heat of your flesh breaking as it punctures, two small but significant points of pain as he magics your ecstasy into something beyond description. Your hands can’t be still in his hair as he sucks, and your body can’t keep time with his smooth, controlled thrusts as your pleasure unfolds like a giant map.

Faust doesn’t rush and he doesn’t have to, but he does grunt against you when you clench, barely deliberate in your senseless bliss, and it’s that sound and the hot puff of his breath against his bite that tips you over. You keep your hands behind his head and try to appreciate the softness of his hair while you tremble. You wouldn’t insult him by denying that it is trembling.

He throbs inside you and you make some stupid sound of appreciation as he licks the bite and does it again. He toys with you this way for awhile, nudging you toward another edge to fall off as he fucks you just as slowly and purposefully as he’s be doing all along.

He returns to your mouth and his kiss tastes like new coins dropped into wine. You have plenty of time to enjoy them as he slides his tongue against yours in an intimate caress you never want to end.

You can’t be sure, but just after he tenses and presses you down with his forehead you think he hisses “süße” against your teeth. Then there’s the heavenly warmth, his pleasure coating your insides in a way that gently shoves you off that edge so you can land on a thousand clouds.

For awhile, you simply stay wrapped in your tight embrace of one another. You realize, distantly, that your skin is fusing together at some microscopic level, so well that you know when you finally pull apart your flesh will attempt to stay together. You will cling to one another even when you let go. You have each other so thoroughly it goes beyond intention; it is something more like a force of nature. It cannot be denied, only studied.

Perhaps it can be studied some other morning. For now, you intend to make the best of this one, and you cuddle up close when he settles you on your side and keep your eyes closed when his fingers come to rest on the back of your head. He murmurs a few long words in German. You only understand a few pieces, but they add up to love, in case the idle stroking of his fingers was not adequate proof.

“Go back to sleep,” he demands, voice thick. “I’ve got you.”

(To you, it is proof beyond your need. Proof beyond measure. You put your hand back behind his head and mimic his touch, sleepily curious. You feel the love in his caress and you love him with yours. As you rest, you know again: you have each other, really, and your rainy morning dreams can be nothing but sweet.)

#ikevamp faust #ikevam faust #ikevamp fanfiction #ikevam fanfiction #ikevamp fanfic #ikevam fanfic #pseu slings #oooooh I like how this one felt while writing it. I think it has a couple nice lines! 🥰#lbr his eyes are G O R G E O U S #(next time I am spiritually obligated to write the hell outta those specs tho)

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