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General NSFW Headcanons: Ikemen Vampire Edition

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  •  Never try to disturb Napoleon’s slumber unless you’re prepared for the consequences

“God, Napoleon, please wake up and have breakfa-” You’re in the middle of pleading your case, your other endless chores at the back of your mind when a hand is reaching out from beneath the dark thick cocoon of warm blankets to seize your wrist in a vice-like grip.

You’re screeching even as you’re dragged into his waiting arms, flipped over until you’re lying underneath him. Your hands are reaching to slap themselves against your mouth but he’s faster, reaching to pinion your arms underneath his, before laying a flurry of deep wet kisses across your mouth.

When he finally lets you up for breath, gasping and quivering in his embrace, you’re turning your fiercest glare his way. “Hey! You weren’t asleep at all.”

A beautiful grin, dangerous enough to have your heart somersaulting at the sight, spreads across his face. 

“I am awake now, yes and will be taking breakfast in bed, tesoro.” He whispers playfully, even as he’s ducking his head to take your mouth in a searing kiss, hands reaching to pull your shirt up and above your head, discarding it somewhere amongst his messy sheets, to work on messing you up instead.

  •  Sex with Napoleon is happy, hot and mischievous.

You’re moving to plant kisses across his shoulders, his neck, even as he shakes in your embrace. “Snrk… tickles.”

You’re offended. Here you are, trying to act sexy and this dummy is laughing because it feels ticklish?

You’re moving to thrust your hips onto his cock, successfully earning yourself a shuddering moan.

“Mm… you are without mercy.” He’s lifting himself off the bed to stare into your eyes, cupping your cheeks in between warm hands, his gaze even softer. “Won’t you forgive me for my rudeness?” A peck to the cheek. Your nose. Your lips.

One test propel of his hips has you gasping as he smiles at you victoriously. “Come, nunuche, let us dance.”

He’s flipping you over in bed amidst shrieks but a swerve of his hips has him buried to the hilt within your warmth, silencing your token protests, dissolving them into sensual mewls instead.

  • Napoleon’s desire to sink his fangs into your soft pliant flesh is increased ten-fold when things start getting hot and heavy.

“Mm…your scent is driving me to madness” Sharp fangs, deadly, waiting to pierce, are tracing the taut pull of your neck against his mouth, hot plumes of breath branding against your quivering flesh as he moves to sink himself within you, wrenching a well-earned moan from your lips.

His fingers stroke the wetness in between your legs, coaxing it onto his fingers as you writhe and grind against his clothed arousal. Your legs are spasming around his hips as you come with a cry from just that one bite.

Napoleon moves to pull himself off of you, tongue slipping out to lick at the red that still streaks his lips and the sight somehow is so incredibly hot, you’re mesmerised, parched as you stare back at him.

“We’re not done yet, come to me. Let me coax your pleasure now.”

  •  The Conqueror’s favourite position: his lady astride him as she rides his cock to her pleasure.

His fingers sink unforgivingly into the swell of your hips, teeth in a crushing grit as he moves to guide your ride above him. You’re a glorious vision: ass pressing into his palms, his cock entering and leaving the tight wet haven of your body however you please it to, your combined arousal dripping down and mixing at the fine dusting of hair at his pubic region. Your breasts, raw from his earlier ravenous bites, a mirror of his own body, scoured with passionate red.

His hands spasmodic in their grip, he’s groaning out his release into you, hot white spurts, until you fall to collapse against his chest.

  • Fencing practice has more than once cough turned unprofessional

“Napoleon, En Garde!” You’re thrusting the foil his way, determined to disarm him this time.

But Napoleon is quicker, ducking out of the way, foil whipping towards you instead, with preternatural agility and you’re shutting your eyes on reflex, moving to block, before your weapon is plucked out of your hand, strong fingers curling around your forearm instead, pulling you to the ground underneath, until you’re staring up the dull end of Napoleon’s foil, an amused smile on his face, just on the verge of breaking into a laugh. “That is not how you deflect, nunuche.”

You scowl at him, good-humouredly, before he’s squatting down by your side to shove his index between your furrowed brow.

You’re swatting his hand away, pulling yourself up, using his shirt as leverage to plant a kiss on his lips, in revenge.

“Mm.”

You feel his grip go slack before you’re reaching for his foil, cunning as a fox, smacking it right out of his flaccid grip.

“Hah. Take that!”

“Snrk… that is not how you… haha… disarm your opponent, nunuche.” He’s shaking his head at you, mirth in his jade eyes.

“And neither do we throw our fencing partners to the ground, ‘Monsieur Napoleone’,” you retort huffily, earning full blown laughter in response.

The sound of his chortling is so infectious, you’re joining him soon after, until tears are rolling down your cheeks at his antics. He’s such a dummy.

You open your mouth to tell him so before you feel the warmth of his tongue, sliding past your lips, making you let out a startled moan. You’re gripping his arms, his shoulders as your kisses turn heated, his hands petting you suggestively over clothes, before he’s withdrawing away on hot breaths.

“Truly, I am no match for you, chouchoute.” He murmurs before he’s sweeping you up into his arms to finish what you two started. In his chambers

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Chapter Text

William Shakespeare

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  • Shakespeare is an eccentric, a yandere; an inscrutable gentleman. Even you do not fully understand what it is that hides behind the man’s disarming smiles but you’re intrigued. (And you know what they say about curiosity killing the cat.)

“A-Ah… S-Shakespeare… please,” Voice all quiver, body all agitation, you try to twist around in his grasp but he’s inescapable, his presence all encompassing.

He has you both snuggled away into a secluded corner of the mansion’s vast library. The hard wooden juts of the shelves dig unforgivingly into your back but your mind’s a fog.

“‘O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art’,” silver seeped in the lowest of lustrous tones, brushes across your throat; lips feathery light as they sear a path against your neck.

Licking dry lips to return moisture lost, you attempt to re-enact the famous balcony scene from ‘Romeo and Juliet’, pulling at whatever helpful threads from memory.

“‘If they do see thee, they will murder thee.’” You speak the dialogue, a strangely apt warning for what would happen if the other residents of the mansion happened upon you two, in this position.

Shakespeare was hardly a welcome presence here. You had been cautioned by far too many.

And yet –

‘My life were better ended by their hate

Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.’

Your eyebrows pinched at the words, at the solemnity of his expression as he uttered his confession to you, unnerving odd eyes staring right into yours as if he were trying to fathom your own feelings through sight alone. However, the clouds parted, his face cleared far too fast for you to make sense of him, a pleasant smile taking him once again.

“I am far too glad you deem my oeuvres worthy of your attention,” he commented, pulling away from you at last. You felt strangely bereft, missing the warm of his body on yours.

You perceived a heat on your cheeks as soon as you had that thought. “Please, I cannot bear thee looking so sad. I promise we shall meet again soon.” His voice was gentle, soothing and yet you thought you glimpsed the dark of promises unsworn deep within his gaze.

You smiled. “I look forward to it.”

Perhaps, you were a fly caught in the spider’s web after all.

  • Fond of chains and manacles around you

Shakespeare likes to have your wrists encircled within his grasp, pinning them to the wall as he enters your bent form from behind. Your body a half-undressed canvas, flowing fabric around your feet, your collar long loosened and parted to reveal the enticing curves of your bosom: all of it has him breathless and hard and wanting.

He wants to make this fair maiden his for all eternity

And when you lift your skirts up and above to flash glistening skin, looking at him, mouth parted, the rouge of your lips smudged, eyes a deliberate haze seducing him to fall to his own tragedy –

He’s reaching for your hands, taking them in his grasp – slowly tightening – as he moves to clasp them above your body. Fingers digging, unmerciful, into the delicate flesh of your wrists, skin so thin, almost gossamer, taking the shape of his grip like words to parchment, as he assaults your senses with his own lust. Wanting you to drown in him, the way he feels asphyxiated by his love for you he almost hates the way you have him, mind and body, so enraptured.

  •  As for how you two usually end up in such comprising positions:

Shakespeare loves teaching you how to dance to olden music long forgotten. He came up with that suggestion when he once noted your endearing habit of tapping your heels, a personal pantomime flowing from your lips; in silent accompaniment to a musical play he had had the pleasure of attending you at.

He was gratified when he put forth himself to your services and you enthusiastically agreed.

The sound of his low sonorous laugh followed at the clack of your heels against polished granulite. “You’re doing so well, my dear.”

“Are you sure? I don’t feel very good about this.” You frowned at your feet as the pair of you swayed, slightly out of sync to the music.

Another light chuckle. It soothed your nerves to hear him so relaxed and patient with your amateur self.

“Of course. Does my lady not believe me when I say so?” A complicated pirouette and then he’s pulling you along, arms first, as you glide across the floor together, his form that of a majestic demon.

“And even if thee flounder,” he sent you around in a free twirl, almost making you dizzy before you slipped and stumbled – right into his waiting arms.

Lifting your head only to find his eyes already trained on you, something unfathomable and bright within their depths.

“Shakespeare–”

He’s taking your mouth in a slow stimulating kiss, pulling your bodies flush against each other, hands fluttering against the surge of your hips. When you feel the grind of him against your body, you’re already falling, moaning into his mouth as you let the lateness of eve pull you into further amorous pleasures.

  •  Loves it when you wear chokers cough to complement whatever outfit you’re dressed in. He has expressed his interest in the unusual necklet one too many a time.

Gentle hands slide across your naked skin, soothing and probing in motion, but they do nothing besides stoking the fires of your arousal.

His eyes seem to hold an almost fey glow as he delicately touches the ornament adorning your neck. You’re whimpering at the sight of his hunger.

Fingers slide underneath the material to tug at it – and in order – your neck.

Impenetrable gaze meets yours before he’s bending down to lave around the taut chain, making you gasp at the feeling of his cool wet tongue.

“Did you know… in worlds long lost to time, the necklace gracing your neck used to be a sign of slavery, subservience… to a master.” 

Eyes upturned. Beauty ephemeral. The slip of a vulpine smile.

“Do you wish to pledge your undying loyalty, to be bound, just as I wish to be the only one shackled to your name, my love?” His fangs are grazing against your neckline, searching, waiting.

You eagerly breathe your consent heavenward.

A yearning sound, the piercing of skin is all you know in your little world before pleasure takes and destroys you for any man besides him.

Trigger Warnings: Blood (play), 

  • Think your neck is the only place a vampire can bite into, to make you dissolve into frustrated pools of desire and lust? Let Shakespeare correct your misconceptions, fair maiden, give you a glimpse of the true pleasure to be derived from fangs piercing skin.

He’s propelling his hips into you; his movements fluid, a sort of slow torture. You lost possession of your voice a long time back and yet the man above still eyes you in mild dissatisfaction.

Bringing your hand up to a smile smooth as satin, his lips lay a graceful kiss to the back of your hand, grazing just against your knuckles. The gesture is gentlemanly, so jarring against the onslaught of his body on yours. The smile of a man who seeks to court the woman of his dreams, even as his hands slip beneath her skirts to do things unspeakable, shameful.

He’s turning your hand around, gentle in his grasp, to lay a kiss against the softness of your palm, lips gliding towards translucent skin overlying bluish, fragile vessels.

“Would thee allow this humble soul a taste of thy sweet nectar? Alas, it taunts me, saccharine and pure, just out of reach.”

You think you feel yourself nodding, the anticipation of pleasure drying the moisture from your throat.

An awful sound, of skin breaking, his mouth settling above to take what is his but you forget the pain, in exchange for the pleasure he gives you.

You’re throwing your head back, open mouth clawing the breath back into your lungs to scream, writhing in his grasp like the sorry prey you are and don’t mind being.

Blood. Your blood. Flowing down like vessels sprung forth from your skin but Shakespeare would not tolerate the waste.

Fingers are swiping the blood off the skin of your forearm, index and middle reaching to smear your parted mouth red in a macabre show of rouge against lips.

He’s looking down at you, wild fey that he is. The look in his eyes surreal, just as his very existence, he’s swooping down to prey upon your lips, lapping at their plush softness for every single remaining drop. His grip on your injured wrist remains, hard, staunching the flow of further blood.

  • You have so graciously agreed to be his, for all of your life, but he wishes for validation of your love, even from your lips at times a lot of times

Your breath is but a frosty memory, spun white onto the glass against your cheeks, your fingers, before it disappears just as silently, only to be replaced anew, with the urgency of his thrusts against you.

His pants are as wild as yours now, a tiny part of you afraid of being spotted by any passers-by outside as you two fuck against his window, your exposed self a bawdy show for any and all to see.

“Do not fret, my dear.” He calls to you as if he can read your thoughts and perhaps he can. “Do I fail to keep your mind occupied? The thought is daggers to my heart. You are in mine, every beat, every word. It would sadden me to know you feel differently.”

You’re shaking your head with the rocking of your body. “N-No, I-I… Shakespeare, you’re in all my thoughts too, I don’t know what to do with myself. A-Ah… I love you so much… mn…”

A small kiss, a happy kiss. Against the back of your neck. A hand coming around to splay itself across your left breast, pressing in hard. “Ah, thine own heart does indeed burn for me.”

“And thy breaths –“ He’s moving a hand to wrap around the column of your neck to feel your stuttering whimpers, the sound and taste of them, driving him to his finish.

  • Lives for the more theatric of displays during sex. The man’s known as the world’s greatest playwright, what else did you expect?

Mirrors all over his mansion, double the amount of which are housed within his chambers. He likes to light scented candles and put on some of your shared favorite musical records to get you two in the mood. More than watching himself within his endless mirrors, he got them put up to watch you. Your expressions as you’re left exposed and vulnerable to his tender mercies.

He’s spreading your legs, your body set upright in front of the biggest looking-glass in his room, him behind you, you on your knees. He’s pulling at the blood red ribbon around your eyes, robbing you of sight, enough to pull your head back onto his shoulder, leaving your neck exposed for a taste. He’s breathing in your scent, nuzzling into the crescent of your neck, eyes upturned to stare at your shared reflection as his hand reaches down to spread your folds for him to see.

Gleeful, hungry eyes are drinking in the sight of your nectar overflowing abundantly from in between your legs, as he moves to position his hard cock against your entrance. Your insides taking him in just as easy, he moves to mask his groans by sinking his fangs into your soft flesh.

Leonardo Da Vinci

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  • All Leonardo wants in life is his cigarillos and a naked cara mia in his lap to keep him warm and cosy.
  •  In accordance with his habit of falling asleep anywhere and at any place within the mansion’s premises, the first view from the floor Leonardo has of you, is undoubtedly your butt which he thinks is the finest in all of Paris.

He once had, what he now likes to call, the “screeching glass incident", befall him because he dared to speak up in praise of your excellent bottom.

You bet the man still likes to huff and sulk about it just to see your cute flustered face as you recall what you did.

Coming down to have a glass of water past midnight, in a house full of weirdos vampires wasn’t perhaps the most stellar idea you had ever had. You realized it as soon as you moved to put your now empty glass in the sink, only to stumble over something… lying on the floor. A thud and then a groan followed, before a hand was reaching out of the darkness to steady your leg… “…Cara…” a touch at your bottom was what finally stimulated your voice box, your hand – still holding the glass – coming down to hit your perverted perpetrator over the head.

The glass broke with a resounding crash, a wounded “OW!” right on its heels before the room was flooded with light, a hard headed Leonardo curled up on the floor, clutching his head. 

Suffice to say the man learned not to try steadying you in dark scary places without prior warning.

  • Sex with Leonardo is a ride all on its own, much like the man himself.

He’s languorously lapping a path up your slit, strong arms encasing your shaking thighs, building you up only to drop butterfly kisses around the area once you’re close, watching sundry emotions dance across your face in response to his teasing.

Hah…” A light suck to the clit before he’s moving away amidst demurring and cries of protest. “You’re a beautiful mess, cara mia.”

But once he’s done edging your exhausted body, he’s dragging you close by the hips, fervently thrusting inside in one swift move. You’re throwing your head back - overwhelming ecstasy the only thing that matters - to scream out his name.

He’s rough and harsh and intense once he’s inside you. He knows exactly how his campagna likes it and he loves it just the same.

“Haha… the way you’re moving your hips… it’s hot the way you’re chasing your release, using my body however you please. Seeing you try so hard makes me want to keep up.” He says as he swings your body up into his arms.

  • Leonardo is a tall and broad man: he’s huge. And damn strong.

Be prepared to be tossed around: onto the bed, onto the carpet, to fuck over his trash pile of a room, get frisky on top of his books. Folded like a lawn chair, he’s pounding into you hard while you’re left helplessly groaning out your pleasure into his mouth, hot on yours.

“Got me tight, cara mia?” The question is a husk, a deeper, more gravelly intonation of his usual pleasant voice and it send shivers down your spine. Leonardo moves to adjust the strength of your legs around his hips, pushing into your wetness, the impact sending you back against the wall. He continues to skewer your body onto his cock over and over.

  Vlad

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  • You’ve hardly seen the pleasant smile on his face falter, his speech a thing spun of low silken tones. He’s gentle in his demands of you, be it politely asking you to run a few errands out in town, helping him look after his gardens while he’s out on business or… be it asking you how you’d like him to have you collared – would you prefer to be on your knees, on his bed or -

Vlad doesn’t like being unnecessarily violent with you, although he is quite demanding in bed. He finds your tears of frustration rather lovely.

  • The one time you have seen the look on his face change, mangled into something almost unpleasant – the smile on his face taking on an unctuous quality, is when –

“Comte bought you these flowers, you say?” The question is uttered in a tone so insouciant, you know something is off about it a minute before you feel the rush of the wind in your ears, the motion of his pull so swift, you’re underneath him in seconds. Vlad moves to drag his lips against your hair, kissing at the locks, breathing in the scent of the roses adorning them like a poisonous crown. “…A floret of my favorites, nonetheless. Hah… truly, you mock me, dear Comte.”

“Lord Vlad?” You question him, eyes wide in bewilderment. What brought this on? Weren’t Comte and Vlad old friends?

“It’s nothing much, draga mea. Only, would you allow me to find solace in your body? I find myself rather fatigued this evening.”

“Of course,” you answer still somewhat agog, even as you’re moving to place your hands across his back. He’s swifter, pinning your wrists above your head in a fast hold, ruby eyes straining to contain something dark and wanton. You swallow thickly against the aggression of your arousal his amorous gaze inspires in you.

You open your mouth to utter his name but he’s leaning in to swallow your pleas into his mouth, fangs brushing against your tongue with the roughness of his kiss. He’s moving to straddle you, free hand hiking up your skirts, tearing at them to get to you.

He’s murmuring inaudibly against your skin but you’re far too gone at this point to question him about it. “Mine, mine, mine… never again…”

 .

Chapter Text

Arthur Conan Doyle

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  • Being the creative mind behind the infamous detective Sherlock Holmes, Arthur is, understandably, somewhat of a sleuth himself. He takes note of and picks up all clues and intimations provided to him, makes use of his skilled prowess and impressive brain power at solving mysteries to puzzle out any and all conundrums that come his way, including you.

Arthur has been taken with you from the very start. You’re a quandary he’s willing and eager to explore all over. His virtuosity of the art of perception comes out keener in bed. He’s watching every movement, every flicker – the litany of emotions blossoming across your face in rapid succession – and you bet he’s taking mental notes.

Your brows slant downward as if in a frown when you’re aroused, as if you’re trying to concentrate through the haze of pleasure he’s assaulting your body with. When Arthur’s fingers dip into you, hit you in that one right spot, oh the glorious way you moan has him shuddering just at the sight of it. The way your body seems to chase after his fingers, the way it seems to want to mould itself to his digits…

Your hands are reaching for your parted mouth, fisting themselves to secure your muffled screams, trap them within your throat, even as moans spill out, regardless of your best efforts.

Your usual perfectly disposed hair (he knows how you like to keep yourself in order and he loves that about you), a scattered crown of tangled locks splayed onto pastel sheets, the blush high on your cheeks as you trap him with your come-hither looks and by Jove, if he isn’t coming undone at just the sight, groaning out your name, even as he’s pushing your legs apart to plunge himself deep inside of you.

“Truly, you’re one fascinating study, my dear.”

  • Speaking of not so surreptitious surveys of your partner’s body, you know, for a fact, that Arthur is sensitive to licks at the back of his fangs, right where tooth meets gum. Slide your tongue against those canines, which almost always slip out when your favorite detective is aroused. He’s letting out small low groans into your mouth, a full body shudder taking him at times, before he’s kissing you harder to try and distract you away from his weakness.

He positively loves being exposed by you but he’s also a sore loser, so –

  •  Sex has more than once been initiated from harmless draft-readings and/or helping this author out with a new book plot. You’re almost convinced he calls you over to ‘help’, only to have his wicked ways with you.

“Ah Monsieur, I beg you not to do this,” you plead softly, pinned between the settee and Arthur. The ghost of fangs slipping across your neck has you shivering involuntarily in his grasp, tilting your head just a bit even as you struggle to remain in character.

“You were the one who put them up to this, were you not, sweet bird?” His voice is tight, low, in restraint of his feigned anger but the sound still sends a rush of heat to your core.

“Not going to deny it?” Amused intonations; rough hands slide across your body and underneath your shirt to test bare skin and you let that moan, held back long, escape.

Arthur’s face moves to sit against your ear, mouth moving over the delicate skin. “Then, perhaps, sweetheart, I shall try scrounging these answers from your body,” he whispers, fingers skirting in between your legs.

He continues to extract all relevant information for a long sweet time.

  • Arthur is was a well-known skirt-chaser. You the whole damn mansion know that. What is not common information, however, is that Arthur is a soft-hearted man beneath the layers and layers of flirting and debauchery he likes to drape himself in.

Despite coming across as a cool headed, well put together womanizer, Arthur is anything but that. He’s a fucking mess inside and hence, heavily relies on you during the earlier stages of your relationship to get him through his very serious shit. He doesn’t believe he’s worthy and he’s afraid to grasp on too tight, lest you slip away through his fingers like the sands of time did all those human years ago.

So, cuddles. Bring your arms around him from behind as you both lie in bed when you hear those soft hitched noises catching in his throat with still plaguing nightmaresBest for a lonely, broken man. Best to put all of his pieces together, one little shard by little shard at a time. Be patient, he’s a good man.

These emotional sessions often lead to even more emotional love-making/worshiping. He’s turning around in your embrace, hands blindly reaching for your face, lips dropping a desperate flurry of kisses across your mouth, hot and achingly passionate; it hurts your heart but also makes its’ beats flutter around in its cage, alternately.

“I love you, you know,” his voice is raspy, broken; his hands a fire trekking across your aching flesh.

“I love you too, Arthur – mm…”

“… Say it again. Call me by name, tell me you love the man you call Arthur so lovingly it breaks his heart but oh, darling, it also mends it so well.”

Let me break it up here before this turns more sad than spice.

 Le Comte De Saint-Germain

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  • Literal embodiment of: “Gentleman in the streets, scoundrel in the sheets.” Do not be fooled by that congenial smile. Seriously, ask Leonardo about it.
  • That is not to say he’s putting up a genteel front. The current Comte is a good man, who genuinely cares for you and for all his residents. The perfect gentleman, he offers you a hand to help you get off those carriages you’re not used to every single time without fail, walks on the busier side of the road so as to prevent people from bumping into you, lends you his coat will not listen to any protests when he sees you’re cold, patiently listens to and helps you out with any and all of your problems.

Indeed, in true respectable fashion, he’ll wait for you both to exit that extravagant affair you were invited to, before he’s pinning your body, gentle in his grip though he is, you know the look in his eyes is no joke, you’re already trapped and frozen in place, mesmerized against the wall of an out-of-way alley.

“Pardon me for my uncivil conduct; I could simply not ignore your longing looks anymore, ma belle.” His breath is warm, voice an inferno seeking to make you fall deeper into its embrace. He’s nuzzling his nose against your cheek, toying dangerously with your emotions and your heart is beating out of sync, hearing him murmur so close to your ear. You did not think he noticed your pining gaze on him while he was being swarmed by all those high society ladies, vying for his attention, despite him being spoken for.

“It was not my intention to make you sad, won’t you consider forgiving me?”

You’re breathing - gasping really - your forgiveness into his mouth, hot tongues sliding out to meet halfway. He’s moving to crowd you further against the wall, cold stone digging into your back but you don’t care. Nothing matters when the Count’s mouth is on yours, making your thoughts turn to cotton, even as his hands are moving away from their grip on your wrists to ghost across your body in slow stimulating motions.

You can hardly contain your lust for him, protesting weakly when he finally pulls away to suggest you both make way towards home now.

How can he leave you hanging like this?

  • As mentioned above, the Count was not always the proper man he is now. He used to be a much wilder thing, a part of his unending life he doesn’t wish to speak of much. You refuse to believe Le Comte is anything but good-natured the first time Leonardo brings up the subject with you, albeit jokingly. You think Leonardo’s statements might have some modicum of truth to them, now that you’ve had a few cough romps with Saint. Germain of your own.
  •  Mild breath play in bed. Him on you that is.

 The Count hasn’t drunk from humans in well over a century. You’re his first in a long, long while.* The hedonism he derives from sinking his fangs into your temptingly soft flesh, the burst of blood in his mouth, your arousal mixing in with the scent of your blood, your moans as you arch yourself into him, desperate hands clawing at his back to pull him closer: this man drives you wild.

During such pleasurable instances, he’s sometimes reaching a hand out to trace along your wind pipe, touch light and exploratory, eliciting such erotic sounds from you, it’s as if he’s fingering your pussy instead of just harmless touches to your person.

Fangs within you, he feels you peak, wrapping a hand around your throat, lightly pressing in; the thrum of your carotid, well and loud against his palm. It’s incredibly stimulating for him and he’s harder for you than ever.

  •  Encourages you being vocal in bed.

“Does it feel good? How does it feel when I touch… here.” You’re shaking in his arms, voice suppressed by the overwhelming pleasure, fingers touching you this way and that. His mouth is trailing along the vertical canvas of your body, kissing and nipping at the skin underneath, lovingly, speaking his pleasure against your hot skin. His lips halt at a spot just above your pelvic bone, peppering kisses at the side of your abdomen, open mouth feeling for the pulse that runs deep within, before sinking his fangs into you. You’re throwing your head back to let out a low keening moan, followed closely on heels by a raw guttural chuckle from the man.

“Your cries are music to my ears. Mm… scream for me once more, mon mignon. Just like that…”

  • Have I mentioned how he loves the taste of your blood and your pleasure as you come profusely into his mouth as he eats you out? Yeah.
  •  Le Comte de Saint-Germain, father figure of this mansion full of unruly kids historical figures, loves to be bossed around by you.

“Wanting me to kneel at your feet while you look down at me with such naughty eyes…. Ah… forgive me for speaking out of turn, Mistress.” He’s looking up at you, feigned regret over his handsome features but you catch that glow of mischief in his aureate eyes, sending a hot wave of arousal straight to your groin. He’s the one at your mercy, body bound as it is, and yet –

“Why do you look at me that way?” His lips are curving into a smile as he says so. “Do you wish to scold me for my bad ways, Mistress?”

  Isaac Newton

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  •  One subby precious boy you love to dote and tease on.
  • You’re Isaac’s first proper romantic partner. All his life, nothing except the world’s great mysteries and apples have caught his interest.

It’s not that he actively avoids romantic entanglements or anything; it’s just that he has never really stopped to think of intangible concepts like love. His complex intriguing world of equations and calculations keep him happy and content, not to mention he’s an awkward mess around you.

You send all his mental and bodily functions into chaos just by being near, his brain and dick go haywire, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. You’ve got to be the teacher and guide in this relationship and bring out his true potential.

  • Too shy to ask you for it but Isaac loves the taste of you. The first time you gave him a proper kiss, the man’s mind was blown. He was letting out small low groans into your mouth, tongue eager and sloppy against yours, hands almost spasmodic as they rushed to feel you, your body underneath his fingertips. You are truly an exciting phenomenon for him.

You finally moved away from him, only to find him a flushed disaster.

He loves the taste of you and I do mean taste, folks. Always up for face fucking, your dripping pussy on his mouth. Even better if you rock your hips a bit as his tongue delves into you, his cautious hands curving to the shape of your hips as he holds you down on him. You taste almost as good, or perhaps even better, than his apples!

  • Really into pegging. Not gonna lie, boy was terrified of the idea the very first time you introduced him to this whole new world.

“Wha- you mean to tell me, you   i-inside my… ah… like- like that?!” His voice is low and hushed as he continues. “How does that work…?” Oh, Gravity Breaker is curious alright.

  •  Likes doing it when you’re both lying on your sides. Him spooning you, face red and buried into the intoxicating scent of your hair as he slips into your wetness, moaning at the heady rush of pleasure that shoots up his cock to spread throughout the rest of his body.

 Isaac is snapping his hips ruthlessly fast and haphazard as he nears orgasm, hand reaching around to thumb at your clit, wanting to come together with you. He loves the feeling of you going overwhelmingly tight around his dick, sending him hurtling to his end. Make your little astronomer see actual stars.

  •  He despises Arthur’s and Dazai’s nick names for him “Don’t call me, Ai-chan!” but when you called him Ai-chan once teasingly, Isaac stopped dead in his tracks, turning towards you as if worked by cogwheel, his eyes going almost comically wide before his cheeks flared up like twin apples. He muttered something under his breath while you watched on amused. Suffice to say, he doesn’t mind you calling him by pet names, especially in bed. (Newt, Zack, baby, call him anything and enjoy his adorable reactions)

 “Are you feeling a little lonely down here, Isaac?”

“Mmph…” Mute nod, his fist stuffed into his mouth as he tries to keep quiet for you, your finger circling his weeping tip.

 “Be a good boy for me Zak and keep quiet, will you?” you croon lovingly, moving to take him into your mouth. He’s jerking and thrusting his hips into you, moans muffled at your request.

  • You’re a fool if you undermine the wolf within Isaac Newton, just because he’s a tame quiet man most of the time.

Isaac has a bad habit of getting lost in books and knowledge (once he finds texts to his liking), burying himself in some forgotten corner of the library for hours on end, and if he cannot find the library empty enough, he’s boarding himself up in his room to soak up all of that scientific wisdom.

Concentration disturbed only by the slow burning at the back of his parched throat, he realizes he hasn’t eaten… in a while. His eyes drift toward the Rouge you left him earlier… when was that?

He’s getting to his feet, tunnel vision taking him, as he rushes out of the room in search for you.

Once he finds you out there somewhere, dusting at the windows of the long hallway - your face lighting up in greeting before you register his expression – he’s grabbing you by the arm to drag you into one of the nearby rooms, or if his thirst is positively red-hot, he’s pushing you against the window pane then and there, looking up to meet your eyes, long enough to obtain your understanding and consent, before his hands are curling around you neck, pushing your hair to the side. Fangs greedily sinking into the flesh at your shoulder, he thirstily takes in huge mouthfuls of blood, you taste so good to him, all of you, you’re his philtre.

Even in his depraved state, his thoughts are coherent enough to not take too much from you, although the same can’t be said for your body. He’s slamming it back against the window, grip unrelenting as he drinks from you, the pleasure and ecstasy of having him inside so overwhelming, you’re left gasping breathlessly against his hard frame.  

Pray, Arthur doesn’t catch a glimpse of you two on his way out of the mansion. Isaac’s never going to hear the end of it then. Arthur will tease the poor apple to within an inch of his life.

Once the red haze has washed away, however, he’s apologizing for being too rough even though you assure him you’re alright. He’s taking extra care to be gentle with you over the next few days. Whenever he reaches out to kiss your mouth, or when you’re making love, he’s moving to caress the sides of your neck where light crescents still remain due to his earlier ‘mishandling’. Expect him to drop kisses all over your body in worship and remorse.

.

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Chapter Text

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

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  • Mozart. Is. Insatiable.

The man doesn’t retire to bed till the wee hours of the morning anyway, so his strength and consciousness keep up when he has you with him in bed.

You being next to him; it’s like a switch is flipped within the usually stoic, reserved man. He’s reaching for your chin, turning you around in his embrace to kiss your pert lips, mid-tale in narrating the day’s adventures, but Mozart is way more interested in hearing your body speak of its own mysteries, when he plays it expertly in accordance to his whims, however he wishes.

You haven’t even finished moaning into his mouth, the vibrations of it striking chords deep within his heart, before his fingers are reaching beneath your skirts to rub in circling motions against your clit, pushing his middle finger in, gathering the dew he finds there to spread it across your folds.

Clothes and undergarments discarded soon after, he’s moving to push himself within you, rolling his hips like a man enslaved to the rhythms and undulations of your body.

Over and over, he’s making you come, on his cock, his mouth, his fingers, the cycle seemingly endless until you’re a breathless, shaky mess.

“You fulfil me, meine liebe.”

  • Mozart’s a biter. He gets off on the taste and scent of you in his mouth.

His craving for your blood is higher than that of an average vampire’s and he frequently requires your blood to sate his hunger of youespecially when you two make love. Rouge just doesn’t cut it for him anymore. And leaves him parched far more than it does him any good.

Of course, he is aware that he cannot feed off of you in large amounts every single time. The thought of him causing you any health problems, even the shallowest pallor, terrifies him.

And hence, he keeps his fangs to himself, sinking them into your soft, lovely flesh only when you give him permission to do so. He could be aching with need but he would never take what isn’t his without express permission. He’s a rabid feeder for youbut he has his principles and he adheres to them strictly.

  • Mozart has most definitely composed new pieces in keeping with memories of your amorous times together.

Slender fingers dance across keys, violent when the demand sets in, softer in sections when he feels the need. He’s thinking back to the night when he asked you to spread your legs and touch yourself for him.

The flush of your cheeks as he asked you to give him this, to let him keep you engraved within his memory, leave a mark of his passion for you, within his music. You are what breathes life into it and hence, he wishes to centre his pieces around you.

When you hear his impassioned entreaty, you oblige easily, wishing to help him retain what he feels is precious and important.

The tempo of his music picks up with your image, still fresh in Mozart’s mind, the spread of your thighs, the glistening of your arousal clinging to petals flushed pink, as you touched yourself faster. Your moans and pants as you splayed yourself wider, emboldened by the look in his hungry eyes as he watched, all rapt fascination.

A final cadence to his musical recital before Mozart stops, a new private masterpiece born.

Chapter Text

Vincent Van Gogh

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Warning Tags:  thoughts of low self-esteem, perhaps even leaning towards depressive.

  •  Vincent the angel, loves painting you in the nude.

Ever since you two got together – no, even before that – Vincent has been fascinated by the curves of your body. The shape of your face observed at various angles through the strokes of his brush. Your cheeks as they plump out with sunny smiles so bright, they take his breath away. The shape of your brows when they arch up in pleasant surprise. 

Then there’s the swell of your body in places like your chest and bottom, the arches of it along your spine, the slope of your legs, your calves, waiting to be explored; you’re a great study and an experience on your own.

Even throughout his human life, Vincent lived to paint his experience, his perception of whatever caught his eye, the way he saw the world, the beauty and the melancholy, all rolled into one.

With you, Vincent sees hope. When he turns his eyes upward to glance at your face, into your eyes from behind his vast canvas, he sees love in your gaze, focused on him above a pretty tint of cherries blended onto cheeks so soft, it makes him want to put down his brushes and trace their boundaries.

Your breasts: another lovely sight, round and just the perfect size. The pleasant colour of them.

Further down, the catch of one fluorescent light against the glistening skin in between your thighs; perhaps it is your own shine or perhaps your arousal.

His gaze on you is so intent, it makes you flush under its urgency and focus, even as his brush continues to fly across his work, painting and painting and painting you, in glory and a burst of colours, so many of them. You’re a heavenly form, seen through Vincent’s artistic eye.

  • Loves your hands-on painting sessions, in turn, on him

In contrast to Vincent’s visual appreciation of his subject matters as he paints them, you like to use your hands, to feel the centre of your works as you re-create them onto blankness.

He was left pleasantly surprised and tongue-tied the very first time he found out you loved painting as a hobby and often created pieces purely for your own pleasurefor your travelogues and anonymous online blogs.

Curiously probing, always gentle, somewhat teasing; your fingers trace the notch just above his sternum, thumb pressing in for an estimation of depth. Measurements interrupted only by the catch of his breath.

Focused, serious, your brush rushes across in patterns of spun gold and azure skies, the hazel of fresh dirt; hand sliding towards the tell-tale bulge of his pants.

Smiling eyes swivel up to meet his as Vincent struggles to maintain his composure, his arousal at being the centre of your orbit, your world.

Truly, he loves your art but when you request him as the subject of some your most favourite pieces, he hardly knows what to do with himself.

  • Shocking as it is, Vincent suffers from issues of self-worth from his past life.

Despite being an angel incarnate, his gentle smiles freely given, heart purer than any you have ever known, no grudges ever held, Vincent often finds himself convincing his heart of your and Theo’s greater much better compatibility.

When he gets like that, you’re the only one who can reach out a hand into that cage he’s locked himself in, helping him escape little by little.

Kissing down the length of his body, worshipful, loving, you stroke him harder, relishing the gasps and moans of pleasure he feels no shame in hiding from you. You lay a gentle kiss against his chest, his heart. “I love this, the sound of this very heart.”

Traveling further up his body to peck him on the nose. “I love this.” A lave at his wet cheeks. You stroke harder, faster in contrast to the painful gentleness, the utter helplessness and the solace he finds in your love-making.

“I- ah… mm…” A small wounded sound, the tears coming down in rivulets. Your heart aches for this sweet, sweet man.

 He doesn’t wish to hurt you, and tries to speak through his cries of pleasure to tell you how happy your words make him, your kisses, and your touches.  He adores them and you.

“I love you,” your lips fall as silent pleas, your hopes, your aching heart, hoping to hold and cherish the pieces of him he so loves to hate.

  • Happier and much better times are Vincent’s enjoyment of your fingers. In his hair.

Vincent is ready with a shy sweet smile when you move to place your lips upon his golden locks, telling him he’s your personal cupid, one you plucked down from the Heavens to keep for your own.

When he’s rolling you over in bed, the two of you engaged in happy playful sex, he’s leaning down to nuzzle his face into your neck, amidst your musical laughter, the ends of his tangled locks pleasant against your skin. You move to sink your fingers into that gorgeous hair, just as Vincent moves to drown himself in you: fangs, cock; hips bucking against yours in slow rocking motions.

  • Vincent whole-heartedly adores all of you but your fingers – your hands are what get him truly flushed and hard, especially wrapped around his cock.

He loves kissing along your digits, slow and hot, savouring you, taking your fingers into his mouth, pumping them in and out between plush lips; the sight has you dry in the mouth.

He also really loves the shape of your thighs, the curves of them in all the right places, the softness of their insides as they move to squeeze around his head when his mouth is on you, tentative licks urged on by your desperate hold, hands pulling at his hair to drag him close, closer.

Once you’ve come on his mouth, he likes to stay down there, painting soothing wet circles against the flesh of your inner thighs until your pants turn even out, holding at least one of your hands throughout.  Well, before you’re pulling that shockingly wicked mouth up to do wicked things with yours instead.

Dazai Osamu

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Warning Tags:  potential depressive episodes/mentions of depression, getting frisky in public 

  • Sexual relations with Dazai… start pretty late into your affair.

Dazai has secrets of his own, his demons, somewhat like Arthur, but unlike the infamous mystery writer, he doesn’t wish to drown himself in superficial carnal pleasures just for temporarily detaining that drowning, dragging sensation.

When you do have sex, Dazai wants it to mean something, to the both of you.

And when it does finally happen, it’s mind-blowing. Not just in the way of how hot or how passionate it is but by the way you two touch each other, exploring each other’s bodies. Committing to memory, the way the other likes to be touched, how slow or how fast you both like it. That is not to say Dazai’s deeper, more unpleasant thoughts aren’t somewhere right at the edges of his consciousness but with you, the voices in his head are a little less clear. Sex with you is comfort for Dazai as much as it is raw pleasure. And he wouldn’t give it up for the world. He wants to hold on tight.

  • Is calling you by all sorts of Japanese names (“Yoshiko-san!”except yours and you’re sometimes left mildly exasperated by this habit of his.

But then he’s turning around, the change seemingly sudden, and calling you by your actual name. You were half worried he didn’t really remember your name but he does. And –

A soft kiss against your sweat soaked skin, a murmur of you name as he thrusts into you. Like a prayer he has said one too many a times. Your eyes are flying open to stare at Dazai’s calm, somewhat forlorn expression. Your heart is squeezing around itself. The hint of a smile on his lips as he pets your hair, fingers sifting through your locks before letting go. Your name – your real name – is the only thing on his lips for the rest of the night.

  • The man isn’t all sadness incarnate, though. He has a playful, somewhat wholly eccentric side to him.

He loves coming out to watch Fumie-san when she’s out in the mansion’s vast gardens, watering and taking care of Mozart’s violets. He’s sitting astride the dry fountain’s rim as he watches you work, oscillating to a rhythm going around inside his own head.

Or the two of you are outside and its great weather for reading! The two of you sit quietly, back to back, enjoying your own stories. You’re glancing over your shoulder to see Dazai well-engrossed in his book. Satisfied, you move to continue your own literary journey before you sense eyes on you, staring intensely enough to pull your head out of your novel. The beautiful gold of autumn for eyes, his handsome features, the look on his face has you frozen, long enough for him to plant his lips on yours, kissing you firmly.

Books forgotten, the two of you are exchanging kisses that grow heated in conjunction with Dazai’s wandering hands on you, crushing your bodies hip to hip, touching and squeezing, until you’re a restless frustrated mess of passion.

Just as you’re about to suggest heading indoors to continue further, Dazai is pulling away lightning fast, just as swift as the man had attacked, to flash a serene smile at you. “Thank you for the energy boost! I think I can finally continue reading now.”

And with that, the man is turning around, actually getting back to reading while you‘re left to stare at his back, dumbfounded and beyond exasperated.

Dazai-san is so mean!

  • As hinted above, Dazai isn’t shy to show his affection for you in places outside the bedroom.

He wouldn’t really want anyone walking in while he makes love to you but he agrees there’s a certain… appeal, an excitement to be derived from doing it somewhere public or semi-public. Be it a broom closet.

Man totally followed you into one while you were working one day, gently pushing you inside, letting the door close behind the two of you ominously.

The door opened again, some quarter of an hour later, a gleeful, whistling Dazai walking out of the closet, leaving you – hair and clothes a mess – behind with your burning cheeks and dirty thoughts for company.

  • Has totally written about your sexual escapades in his journal, despite all your protests.

“And why not?” He’s genuinely curious, even as his brush moves across paper in swift, smooth strokes, leaving you speechless.

“The lovely moans spilling from my pretty lady’s lips were enough to send even a man better than I into flames. And when I pushed into her –”

“Oh my God, Dazai-san, what do you think you’re writing?! What if someone reads this stuff?” You’re horrified at the text, covering your face in shame.

“No one would, I would never share what you and I are to each other, what our time means.” Serious eyes are staring into yours, pleading as much as asking. “If it still displeases you, I suppose I’ll drop it, after all. A shame though it is, but I have my memories to keep me company. Of your beauty.” A smile so lovely you’re blinded.

You end up letting him keep his journal of risqué encounters, after all.

 

Johann Georg Faust

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[Warning Tags (Faust is not going to be a walk in the park, y’all, don’t expect sunflowers to grow over this patch of dead miasmic land): use of derogatory terms, jealousy, sinning right in the middle of a fucking church, call on your God/s for help and avoid this if religion is serious business to you, for the sake of your own mind’s peace. Your thoughts on the matter as well as your mental health are important.]

  •  You’re his one and only precious guinea pig. Of course he has got to treasure you and take care of you. Since when do prisoners look after themselves?

“F-Father…” A shaky hand is all that reaches Faust, going as far as his face before it moves to fall helpless against your tired, clammy body; the motion knocking his glasses askew. He narrows his eyes at you, head at a slant as cool eyes stare down at your writhing form, the movement sending his specs sliding off of his nose to jerk uselessly against the chain holding them in place.

“Is that how you beg for forgiveness? In that graceless manner?” Fingers digging heavy crescents into your hips, he’s dragging your naked body against cold stone, towards him, the Devil. You’re screaming out his name, louder this time, even before the sting at your back at the chaff of rough stone has stopped aching completely.

  • Cold and meticulous, aloof with a politely distant smile on his face, he watches you frolic about with your other vampire fiends in town, cool indifference the only response you manage to dredge out, outside his dungeons chambers.

Make no mistake however, little pet, you’ll be in for a thorough lesson on discipline and loyalty, later on in the day when the sun can no longer protect you from being consumed by the dark

  • Has most definitely fucked you into pleasured tears right on top of an altar

“Why don’t you cry out louder?” A careful finger treks across your hyper- extended neck as he pounds into you harsh, unrelenting. You feel humiliated beyond belief, moving to close your legs around him but he stops you with a frown, forcing you wider than before, for him, as you’re throwing your head back into a keening moan.

You’re ashamed and yet, so very turned on. You pray to your Lord for your soul’s pardon even as you’re beseeching Faust on gasping whimpers to make you reach farther stars, the bursts and sparks of them behind your lids. Your hands are curling into the cloth of the communion table, your body skidding across the hard surface underneath with the ferocity of his thrusts, making you slowly release your grip on consciousness with every hard invasion of his cock inside you.

 Charles Henri Sanson

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  • Cheeky Brat

The man has a terrible non-existent concept of personal space. Be prepared to be showered smothered in love, kisses, surprise hugs. You can’t turn a corner without being jumped by Charles, always ready to curl his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your hair. Pepper your cheeks, your mouth in tiny loving kisses, your neck, lapping at you to have you moaning for him without you really meaning to.

He would stop if he sensed you were really not in the mood to be coddled coddle him but good luck convincing him you’re not interested, Miss, when you’re moaning into his mouth like that.

  • Really fond of soixante-neuf

“Really? Your people call it 69-ing? That’s interesting!”

He derives great pleasure from sucking and lapping at your slit while your mouth is pretty much uselessly working around his cock (once Charles has his mouth on you, you can forget attempting to get anything else done. Perish the thought. You’re a rag doll in his hands, his to do with as he pleases) but he loves how good and sloppy your mouth feels on him. The scent of you in his face, your arousal dripping in abundance. He’s so hard he feels he could come solely with his senses being overwhelmed by you, all of you.

  • He needs love and attention like a puppy. Give it to him.

His hands around your face, his cock nestled snuggly within you, he’s ducking to plant kisses across your forehead, your lids, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, before finally moving to dip his tongue into you, moaning at the hotness of the inside of your mouth.

“Mm… you’re so sweet and I love you so much. Say, won’t you tell me you love me too?”

His hands are reaching to touch the place where you two join, making you shudder. ”A-Ah… I love being joined to you, you’re so warm inside. Perfect for me. I love you….”

  •  In keeping with his no-shame no-gain attitude, the man does not mind where you get frisky as long as the two of you get to do the dirty whenever you’re in the mood. He’s always down to fuck you, the man is a rabbit.

He’s pinning you to the wall, ravenous mouth on yours, swallowing up each and every single sound you make, of pleasure, of protest, until he’s the only thing you can think of. “Don’t think about anyone else. It’s alright. This is proof of our love, isn’t it? You’re so shy, haha.”

  • Want to unravel him? Suck at his ear piercings.

The man’s a fucking mess if you’re moving to suck his piercings and earrings into your mouth. Be extra loud on purpose. Make it dirty and he’s the one who’s putty in your hands now, hard and shaking and whimpering for you.

  •  Fond of having your limbs bound. Works in any form as long as he can feel you flexing helplessly beneath him as he works to drive you crazy.

He wants you to give him attention.

Tying you up in bed makes him believe you’re his and his alone in the whole wide world, at least for a short while. It soothes his heart which craves to be loved so desperately.

Chapter Text

Theodorus Van Gogh

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  •  You know how he likes to be feel the one on top. But have you ever tried defying orders, hondje? Do it. Because nothing gets him harder than the sound, the feel, the taste of your defiance.

“Move.” He’s breathing the order through clenched teeth as your mouth bobs above his cock in steady undulating motions.

You do not comply immediately, and the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of that mouth of yours has the tension winding tight, tighter, until Theo feels he could suffocate under the sheer weight of his own desires. What you do to him.

The fingers of one hand are threading through the free strands of your hair, pulling without true enthusiasm in an effort to tug you off his cock. He’s amused when your eyes meet his in a defiant stare, lips curling into a smile as much as they can with him in between.

Bound hands reach for his balls, fondling, squeezing. Your sucks tighter around his length, much harsher, it wipes the smugness off his own face, long enough for his pleasure to release itself on a sharp in-drawing of air, but not for long. Breathless laughter leaves him at the sight of you, so determined to have him come in your mouth.

“Hah. You really like sucking on that thing, don’t you? Go on then. Show me how good you are.” He’s tugging at your hair again, until you meet his eyes; frosted sapphire glittering dangerously above a sharp edged simper. “But you better make it worth my while, hondje, disobeying me as you just did.”

  • Theodorus Van Gogh: lover of the sweetest diabetes-inducing desserts your release perhaps tops that list.

Your body thrusts itself against his hand, invasive, unrelenting, hard on you yet always so gentle . Settled on his lap, he watches the wanton gyrations of your body as you fuck yourself against his fingers, before coming onto him with a loud cry.

Your body collapsing against his chest in quivering gasps, Theo parts your hair away from your face so you can watch him as he pulls out of you, your aching pussy uselessly trying to clench around his digits to keep him within but failing miserably.

A deliciously dark chuckle leaves the confines of his chest, deep, resonating as you lie there against him. “Just look at this mess, hondje. You really want it bad, don’t you?”  His pointed tongue sweeps out a path across his dripping fingers, his knuckles soaked through, the sheer number of times he made you come through touch alone having rendered you useless and quivering.

Your wetness replaced by his own slick, his hand is making its way back to the space in between your legs before you whimper. “Theo, please, I want you…”

A short bark of laughter. “Surely you can beg better than that.” The words leave him on a lazy drawl before he’s pushing his fingers back into you for another torturing round of finger fucking.

He can be here all day, liefje, just making you come around his fingers, on his mouth, till he’s sated. And he’s not fulfilled that easy.

  • This one’s obvious enough but Bondage

Theo loves the feeling of you vulnerable beneath him. When you’re wrapped up nice, like his own personal present, your dress a flared mess around your bare legs, caramel satin unfurling around you like a flower’s petals wherever his hands reach to expose a new piece of you.

Your blush, whole and arousing against your cheeks, your neck, reaching down towards your breasts, Theo is almost jealous of how well it fares against your skin. He’s dipping his head to smear his own slick on broad laps of his tongue against the red, enjoying the feeling of you straining helplessly beneath him. Theo’s dress pants are heavy, too constraining against the arousal that wants to drive into you in maddening, senseless strikes till you’re a gasping, shuddering heap of pleasured moans underneath him.

And when you call for him –

Theo

Like you would die if you do not feel him in you right this instant –

“Verdomme, lekker ding,” he’s growling out on harsh whispers. Lips pulling apart on a ferocious snarl to expose wicked canines, he’s reaching out to yank at the chain of your collar, propelling you towards him, crushing your mouths together in a vicious kiss. It’s like he has lost all his inhibitions, unhinged like a true beast as his fingers claw at your hips, shoving you down onto his throbbing cock. A scream has barely ripped free of your throat before he’s turning your world over on its axis again, pressing your face deeper into the sheets as he savagely works against your backside in rapid, frenzied thrusts, harsh slaps of skin against skin the only sound loud enough to rival your groans of ecstasy.

  •  Weakness: Ears.

The lightest of contacts, even just the tip of your tongue grazing against the softness of his ear lobe has him turning away from you on subdued shudders, his cock twitching in his pants at the cool wetness you leave behind on him. Sucking his earring into your mouth is worse because then Theo’s fingers are positively digging into your hips as you rock yourself against his clothed arousal.

“Knabbeltje ,what are you –” Your tongue coiling into his ear, the moisture cooling behind’s doing nothing to temper the heat. You don’t understand how hard he wants to fuck you right this instant, your drunk self a perpetual state of torture and divine test for his self-control.

He hardly wants to push you off of him but if you don’t get your act together sometime soon, hondje, he’s going to have to lock you up in your own room while he strides off to find a bathroom for himself.

Chapter Text

Jean d'Arc

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  • Your first time with Jean – a milestone – is hard-earned; as well as the soldier’s humble, gentle affections for you.

(Similar to Dazai) A convergence point in your relationship, the next step in your physical intimacy is a slow, patient trudge across a summit of hardships and questioning moments; many of which felt like a line stretched taut - too thin - but you persevered, wanting to hold this man and his heart for the rest of your shared eternity.

Coming together with Jean is intentional, thoughtful, forgiving. Like the love you hold in your heart.

His fingers, no longer carrying their share of hesitation, gentle though they are; tug apart your night gown to reveal flesh long held from sight, it causes the vivid blue of his eye to widen before it crinkles at the corner, lovingly, blinded by the beauty that is exposed with each careful drag of fabric against eager skin.

Your hands are coming around his neck to hold on, secure; firm in your desire. Jean meets your eyes. No words are exchanged. Not anymore. Not now.

Your mouths come together as swift as the assured arms that come around your waist to hoist you onto his body, carrying you back towards the bed before he lays you down. A gentle swipe of his palm across your thigh cajoles your legs into falling apart to finally let Jean catch a glimpse of the wet desire that leaves your body for his sheets.

A cool exhale leaves him on a sigh before his hands dip into the mattress on either sides of your body, head settling further down in the space you have allowed him to have, all to himself tonight.

And your cries leave you as adamantly as the mouth that plays at your entrance, worshipful; tasting your essence till you tremble with the intensity of what he does to you.

And when a smooth swing of those powerful hips finally has him buried within you, Jean’s breath leaves him on a wretched gasp of air, wrenched and stolen; the sensation of you all around him overpowering him in his entirety. Chasing your pleas with each desperate rock of his hips into you, the pleasure swells and builds till it finally lets him leave himself; body, heart and soul, within you.

  • Jean is a gentle, keen lover; punctilious in his methodical, heedful approach to sex with you.

Almost doggedly so, he is patient in his touches and preparation of your body. Your pleasure his first and foremost priority as he sinks his face into the space between your legs, lapping at you with slow, broad licks of his tongue as your thighs flutter beneath his lithesome hands, curved around the space where thighs meet ass.

The press of his fingers is gentle to hold, when your heels unconsciously dig into the sheets, the mattress. Your spine arching off the bed with a silent cry as you ripple around his tongue within your depths, sending wetness gushing forth to cling to his lips.

Flustered and guilt-stricken, when you try to apologize to him, he’s silencing your protests with a shake of his head.

“I would not be a man if I were afraid of letting myself be marked by my lady’s body in pleasure.”

Forthright, honorable; he is a man of his word, taking his duty of pleasuring his Mademoiselle very seriously.

  • You are a beautiful woman in Jean’s eyes, each and every part of you an honor he considers, to love; but if pressed to name his favorite physical attribute of yours–

Your lips are what have had Jean mesmerized since the day he met you. The words you spoke through those honest lips of yours, incapable of deceiving a soul. The mouth that found it so easy to drop a word of kindness to those you considered worthy of your compassion; as genuine as the warmth that lay buried within those hands that reached to embrace him.

But those lips. When you settle them above his head, kisses whispering of a loving heart; and he is reminded yet again: how you chose to give it to him. To entrust his unworthy hands with something so fragile, yet unnervingly brave. So precious, he did not deserve the benevolence, the solace of your love until you remind him that he does. And it is entirely his.

Jean, you are worthy of being loved.

Your kisses seem to scold in gentle tones as your mouth works above his own, tongues meeting across the pocket of warmth in between you. He lifts his head to chase after you but your mouth is elsewhere already. Branding your affection into the crescent of his neck as you grind your hips into him, moving to capture the short burst of air that leaves his mouth as soon as you do so.

His hands are at your back, softly coaxing you deeper onto him as you kiss away the soiled darkness of his heart and let him believe:

He is worthy of being loved.

  • Jean is ready to draw his rapier at the drop of a hat and doubly so, if it is to protect your ‘honor’.  

 

Arthur’s coquetry has more than once landed him at the receiving end of Jean’s glacial stare and his rapier’s even sharper point.

True, his reactions are a tad bit exaggerated when it comes to you, but when Jean stumbles upon you and Mozart by accident, one certain night and witnesses the creases that warm the edges of his friend’s eyes in soft affection, the tiniest hints of a smile playing across his lips before it vanishes just as swift when you lift your head to meet Mozart’s gaze–

Jean has his own share of insecure moments. He trusts you completely and is far more prone to drawing his weapon at men Arthur who would seek to bother you but when it is Mozart he finds standing in opposition, Jean is at a loss.

Far more sparing with words than he usually is, his mind is elsewhere when he has you in his arms, his stare focused at the top of your heaving breasts – right where your heart lies – as he thinks of how well you and Mozart seem to fit, perhaps… perhaps even better than–

“Jean?”

Your words are what strike him out of wandering thoughts, starless gaze focusing onto and taking in the worry on your face.

“It is nothing much, mon ange.” Jean whispers quietly, willing it to be true as he places his lips against your forehead.

You may not fully understand the sorrow that darkens his gaze but you inherently realize his need to be held, and so you do, pulling him down in a kiss you hope burns and sears through his worries, until all he remembers is that you love him.

And a part of Jean seems to break into that kiss, thawing, giving way until he reciprocates your feelings with a sharp movement of his hips, driving himself deeper into you. Your cries, the sweetness of sweat-soaked skin as he laves at you; all driving him closer and closer to the pleas that leave your lips.

Jean. Jean.

He believes. He lets go, finding his release within you, your walls clenching down tight as if you wish to keep his warmth within for as long as is allowed the two of you.

  •  Another thirsty one: Jean is addicted to the taste of you.

The terrible habit of letting himself hunger away till he’s absolutely parched is hard for him to let go of and so, you have taken it upon yourself to see he does not starve himself into frenzy, or worse, death.

Jean is understandably reluctant to feed off of you but when you offer yourself to him, in such trust and subjugation, in love-

Jean’s desire is flaring higher, the need for your blood stronger and so, he takes you.

He kneels at your feet, fingers a delicate circle around your ankle. The gentle scrape of fangs in kisses he lays upon your skin has you shivering in pleasure as he drags the fabric of your skirt high, higher, till his mouth has found its way onto your calf. The stray, torturous catch of fangs against your skin in preparation, his eyes meets yours when you move to sink your fingers into the silken strands of his hair and pull. Jean is drawn to you, teeth piercing skin and you moan, loud and sonorous, letting the pleasure of his mouth wash you ashore.