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xxsycamore · 2 years

Text

—𝘈 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘺

► SYNOPSIS:

Comte finds you curled up on the couch, fighting some persistent period cramps. Naturally, he takes it upon himself to help you relieve the pain in all ways he can think of.

If only he knew what you truly need is simply... him.

▍comte x reader ▍rating: G ▍tags: Menstruation; period cramps; Fluff ▍wordcount: 1,009

▍masterlist

▍a/n: Last month's self-indulgent period cramps comfort fic with Napo was really well received, so this month I decided it would be just as nice to write one with Comte, for both me and you!

Note: The beginning is copied directly from that fic in question!

I hope you enjoy <3

It's another beautiful day at the mansion, and the sun is continuing to shine brightly outside as afternoon settles in. Your list of chores is more than half-way done now, the morning was a productive one and you pat yourself on the back for pushing through at your usual pace, even if your period surprised you early this morning. Sleeves rolled up and armed with a feather duster, you march towards the lounge room to take care of another chore.

Specks of dust dance in the afternoon sun, windows wide open, as you complete your task little by little. Soon the sections left to dust decrease and you start to tire - a minor pain in your tummy appearing as well, as if to persuade you into taking a short break. You throw a look to the grandfather clock. You've been a busy bee; not even the distraction of dusting off some of Comte's highly intriguing antiques couldn't get you late on your own schedule.

You sit down at the spacious couch area, grab a throw pillow to hug, and fall on your side - shoe-covered feet juust hanging off the couch because it won't be worth the effort of taking them off for just a minute or two of rest.

Uh-oh! The pain doesn't go away and only gets worse instead. Suddenly moving as much as a millimeter equals signing a death warrant.

"Help" You whisper to yourself, clutching onto the throw pillow.

With today's newspaper folded under his arm, Comte enters the lounge room. It's not unusual for him to finish reading what he couldn't at breakfast here, or in the garden, or back in his room. It just so happens that he comes in here exactly on time to find you like this.

"Ma chérie, are you alright?" He's at your side in the next second, worry playing on his face. You've barely managed to sit upright and smile nonchalantly, anything to swipe your apparent slacking-off under the rug, but he's fast at putting a hand on your shoulder. The touch makes your arm jolt a little but not in a bad way…

"Lay down, now. Tell me how you're feeling."

He's really good at reading your body language, alas you're over with pretending that nothing's wrong.

"I, uh… I'm having some menstrual pains. I just need a minute or two and I'll be back to work."

He nods, perfectly understanding the situation and glad that it's that and not something more worrisome. Giving you a reassuring smile that is warmer than the sun in the peak of summer, he moves to take your shoes off, a clear sign of his intentions to make you rest a little longer.

"Nonsense, you need a break. I'll tell Sebastian that you're having the rest of the day off.

"But that would be-" Before you can voice out your concern about the poor butler taking in more work than all that he already has to do, your face heats up. Having your shoes taken off for you by none other than the master of the house himself is very, very embarrassing, but reaching out to do it yourself is ensured to end with another gentle push to lay down. You simply stay put, hoping that this is the end of his caring-but-dangerous-for-your-heart acts…

"Do you want me to give you a massage?"

"No!!", you nearly shout, the mere image of him giving your feet a rub getting you to overheat with embarrassment, so you're sure you won't be alive to see the rest of it. "I mean, there really is no need! I'm afraid I'm too ticklish for that."

"I see. Well, then, excuse me for a second." He's so, so understanding and kind; for a second you grieve about the lost opportunity to see his massaging techniques put into action but you value your life too much for that. Just as you sign in relief, Comte enters anew, with a small tray of painkillers and tea - your favorite blend, your nose immediately informs you.

"Why thank you, Comte! You shouldn't have!" Sitting up on the couch, you anticipate having a sip of the warm liquid. As soon as you take it in your hands, your eyelids fall closed in bliss, and you miss the moment Comte drags the nearby ottoman closer in front of you.

"Put your legs up to rest here while you're drinking, it would be better."

"Thank you!" With a cup to hide half your shy expression behind, you oblige. It does feel better.

"Would you like me to put a pillow on top of it, as well?"

"Ah, no, no need, but thank you!"

"Then, another one behind your back?"

"No, that's alright! Thank you."

"Should I have a hot bath run for you? Or would you rather I bring you your heat patch instead?"

"C-Comte…"

Having already crossed the room towards the door awaiting to hear your decision, your voice calling him is the one thing that has him returning to your side. His brows are slightly raised in that innocent way you're preciously familiar with, features remaining elegant and deeply caring, and beautiful.

"Yes, ma chérie? Can I help you with something else?"

"There is one thing, but please, forget about the rest! It's really alright, just-"

You look up at him, fighting the guilt of posing a request even though the cramps already seem to have weakened - or maybe the man in front of you has distracted you successfully from them.

"…Stay by my side for a little bit?"

Comte's golden eyes widen in surprise, but he surely heard you right, albeit in that quiet voice. He smiles, eager to comply with your wish.

"Of course, my dear."

He sits down right next to you, and it comes so naturally to you to nest yourself against his arm. Heart racing or not, you indulge in the rare moment, able to tell that Comte indulges in it, too. Hopefully, he would understand that sometimes the right remedy is the most simple one there is.

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violettduchess · 2 months

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

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

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

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

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

Comte x Reader, Tutor AU/ Modern AU

WC: ~1.9k

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

Except Comte is inside, waiting for you.

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

Several weeks ago:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hear he’s never been married.”

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

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

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

Until……

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

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

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

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

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

The Present:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then let us begin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tenderness. Joy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An echo of Cupid and his beloved Psyche.

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

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