I can see that in my old age, I'll be able to blame my lack of children on trying to write good mpreg. Thanks, Deena. There's a lot there to work with.

Cool :)

Heh, what Deena said, except mine was complicated by being in traction three mornings a week until month 8 (Adam's rib, pressure on spine).

A Darla pastiche:

• **

The girl sits, and combs her hair.

It's morning, for her; she's just waking up, a late riser, greeting the moonlight as others greet the day. She yawns, she stretches, she lets the chilly cool of the evening raise her awareness that the enforced slumber of the sunlit hours are behind her. She doesn't break her fast yet; that's for later. There are other things to do first.

She opens the casement window, seeing the last of the light slipping behind the tower of the Tuscan hills. She has always wanted this villa, from the first time she and Angelus came to Italy, in 1844. The creamy stone, the tall gates, the curve of the ells that felt like welcoming arms: all these things spoke to her, seeming to call her home. She discovered, after they had killed the man who owned it, that the tall windows in the master suite had been fitted with specially-made wooden shutters, allowing no crack of sunlight to fall across the floors. She remembers Angelus holding the man like a small screaming doll, offering a dense-skinned throat for her to taste first. She had drained him, leaving a few drops for Angelus. Having Angelus hold him up meant that both her hands were free. She had drunk deeply, the warm pulse of his blood slowing against her teeth, the vein walls collapsing, and all the while, one hand had stroked her dinner's shrivelling masculinity. The other hand had stroked Angelus, who grew as their dinner shrank....

She opens the tall shutters, and lets the windows swing wide. Cold air blows in across the hills, lifting warm from the Valdarno, nearly a mile below, cooling as it meets the upper reaches. She doesn't breathe, of course, and she has no need to fill her lungs, but her skin still loves the wind. She takes in the vineyards, a few cars on the distant roads leading to the frenzy of the Autostrada and the decadent feeding grounds of Florence. The sun is completely over the yardarm now.

She turns back to the bed, where the man lies waiting, bound, whimpering through his gag. He has lain there for the past three nights. She has enjoyed herself hugely, alternately feeding in small amounts and pleasuring herself with him. The paradox has never ceased to amuse her: even as the blood drains from a wrist or from the tender spot below a man's ear, he yet retains enough to flow to his groin and make him usable.

This one has reached his limits, though, and besides, she's hungry tonight. The foreplay of tiny sips and rape has brought her to full hunger and the need for something more.

She sleeps naked, so there are no clothes to drop. She mounts him, pushing the scarred wrists up from his belly, licking, kissing, keeping her teeth in check to arouse him. It takes a bit longer than it has done, since bringing him here, and her suspicion is confirmed. Ah, well. He'll enjoy his death, at least.

She mounts him, riding him, leaning over him. His eyes are wild, terror and lust, other things. At the moment of truth, she puts her teeth in his throat, and that is that.

She sits, and combs her hair.

Oooh, Deb! That's lovely! Shivery-lovely.

Although my mind catches at calling her a "girl" in the first sentence. Unless you did that deliberately, a wink and a nod to the reader.

Oh, very nice, Deb. Lovely. Evocative.

Couple of typos:

amd combs her hair.

She has always wanted this villa, from the first time [insert "she"?} and Angelus came to Italy, in 1844.

where the man lays,

"the man lies", surely? Or is that a UK/US usage thing?

Lay/lie, UK/US. I was giving it the US take, for the majority - I'm always getting yelled it for using the Brit "lie", even though, well, it isn't "Love LAYS Bleeding". I've just modified it a bit, though, and I think it reads better this way.

The girl was a nod/wink, Steph, definitely.

Typos, about to be fixed.

I just felt like a nice bit of Darla erotica and anyway, I miss Italy, and with the current world sitch, I don't see getting back to Arezzo anytime soon, damnit.

I'm US. It's lie. Hmmph.

I'm US. It's lie. Hmmph.

Well, that's what I think, as well.

But three - count 'em, three - separate copy editors back in the late eighties/nineties screamed at my usage for the "American market."

Feh.

Sure, Deb, Americans are supposed to use one fork at dinner and have bad grammar. :) I liked the Darla, and it creeped me out too. Who better than Klinger to act out an mpreg.(I just don't get that whole thing, I gotta tell you.)