here comes drunk ylva. "what's up buttercup?"

ㅤshadowheart    palms    the    surface    of    a    golden    leatherbound    book    so    old    that    when    she    flips    it    open,    residual    dust    wafts    up    toward    her    face    ﹠    the    spine    of    the    tome    whispers    an    archaic,    papery    protest.    she    lurches    away    as    choking    to    death    on    elder    soot    isn't    her    ideal    means    of    an    exit.    she    had    seen    ylva    indulging    in    her    very    own    supply    of    arabellan    dry,    ﹠    it    would    be    a    lie    to    say    that    she    doesn't    at    least    half-expect    that    she    will    be    the    lucky    winner    of    her    confused    concentrations.    so,    when    ylva    approaches    her,    shadowheart    is    only    moderately    surprised—

ㅤnevertheless,    she    shuts    the    book    fast,    like    it    holds    the    mightiest    of    treasure    ﹠    she    wants    it.    it    doesn't,    though.    writings    of    religious    history,    yes,    but    no    troves.

ㅤthe    term    is    lost    to    her.    she    makes    an    inscrutable    face,    ﹠    there    is    little    she    can    do    about    answering    with    a    scoff.    ❝    what    did    you    just    say?    ❞    she    demands    clarity    but    isn't    going    to    hold    her    breath    for    it.    none that    will    be    coherent,    anyway.    what    once    was    an    offense,    becomes    a    defense    when    her    scowl    molds    into    an    amused    smirk    in    the    shadows.    her    shoulders    bounce    when    she    laughs,    ﹠    it    swings    low    in    undertone.    ❝    forgive    me,    i    briefly    thought    you    responsible    for    your    actions.    look    at    you.    you're...    ❞    there's    no    word    for    what    shadowheart    sees.

ㅤbut color    her    impressed,    as    ylva's    usual    tolerance    for    alcohol    is    radically    high. she    tucks    the    book    under    her    arm,    in    the    bend    of    her    elbow    ﹠    takes    ylva's    in    the    opposite    hand.

growing tiresome and weary of hunters who were always attempting to claim a kill on the prince's head yet always seemingly failing as dracula had managed to face off twenty of them all at once. fighting with ferocity and with such precise speed it was as if he could move through the air at the speed of light. the shadows being his ally made it all too easy as the men and women utilising modern weapons such as pistols and powder were pointless as those who were wielding them were so primitive and small-minded. dracula revelled in delight when he had claimed a kill on the leader's wife having removed her brain and tossing it so hard at the leader's face that he broke the man's nose causing him to stumble back. the man was distraught clearly crying begging for mercy for his life to be spared while crawling on his stomach like a maggot as the fair-haired price sauntered his way towards the pathetic mortal and kicked him on his back. he savoured the final moments of the leader whose purpose was made clear he was attempting a rescue. the price would tilt his head off to one side while his boot remained pressed to the man's chest. dracula's eyes reflected light as if he were a wolf staring down his prey in the dark. dracula didn't say a word having grown quickly bored he would lift his boot and stomp on the hunter's head crushing his skull and finishing him off completely. dracula stood for a moment in silence in pensive thought about how he had come across a few men who worshipped the woman he kept captive - - yet they barely knew that she was a long-lost relative of his as he wanted to keep her.

[ x ] 🌟 ― i love how you portray your muse(s) 🎀 ― i love your aesthetic / graphics ✨ ― i love the way you write 💫 ― i enjoy writing with you 😊 ― i enjoy talking to you 💖 ― you seem like a genuinely nice person ☀️ ― your posts always bring me joy ❤️ ― you're one of my favorite blogs

Aggressive Starters

The punch caught James by surprise. Svetlana knew how to throw a good punch, too. James was fortunate he'd been punched numerous times and by people a lot stronger than her. It still hurt, more so because he wasn't expecting it.

send me    ‘  ♡ _  ♡ ‘    and my muse will admit one to three ( 1-3 )  features of your muse  ( physical or personality )   that they find incredibly attractive. 

"Elouise 's... a good person, I t'ink... Deeply, truly a good person... I'm probably not the best judge of character, but I'm literally a judge of character for a living, so... Right, t'ats number one... Two and t'ree would probably be her refinement and her... " Smushing his ciggie out, holding in a puff. He was only halfheartedly testing himself to see if he's fully beaten the old habit, anyway. He knows he doesn't like to smoke anymore and yet he feels more pensive with something in his mouth. Or coming out of it, as it may be. Makes him feel like a dragon. Which is nice. Ultimately, it's the decision he doesn't want to kiss her with that mouth which ends it. You know... for when he does actually kiss her (alongside an admittance he doesn't want to live without her).

if a higher power exists… i wonder what they think of us. ( from ylva ) :)

ㅤblood    is    pooling    in    the    hot cave    of    her    cotton mouth,    ﹠    the    cloying,    thin    rusty    taste    of    it    all    is    why—    never    mind    the    pain—    she    flips    herself    onto    her    belly    ﹠    spits    the    fountain    of    it    into    the    stream    she's    kneeling    in.    it    unravels    in    the    water    like    skeins    of    threadbare,    crimson    yarn    ﹠    she    watches    it    twirl,    consume    a    view    of    the    little    rocks    that    make    dimples    in    her    hands,    submerged,    with    double    vision.    ❝    i    knew    you    were    going    to    try    ﹠    kill    me.    ❞    consciousness    is    forgoing    her,    losing    the    uphill    battle,    slipping    like    her    speech.    ❝    i    didn't    expect    you    to    succeed.    not    in    this    lifetime, anyway.    ❞

ㅤa    boot    to    the    jaw    sends    her    face-up    once    again.    she's    never    begged    for    her    life,    ﹠    the    uncertainty    of    forever    be    damned,    she    never    will;    she    swipes    the    blade    of    her    forearm    over    her    brow    ﹠    smears    red    down    the    grooves    of    her    face,    ﹠    it    mingles    with    her    dark    hair.    lends    the    coils    by    her    ears    a    red,    marbled    sheen.    ylva's    face    melts    in    her    sights    when    she    steps    over    shadowheart's    debilitated    body,    spins,    morphs    into    a    cloud    she    can't    recognize    from    below,    ﹠    then...    hands,    on    her    shoulders,    her    face,    her    arms,    everywhere.    ylva    has    taken    mercy    on    her,    ﹠    walks    her    back to    the    mountainside.    she    stirs.

ㅤthey    sit.    shadowheart,    war-tired,    exhausted,    beaten, barely-there,    ﹠    ylva,    tending    to    the    wounds    she, herself, has inflicted    upon    her.    she    says    something    that    shadowheart    only    partway    understands,    ﹠    her    sanguine    mouth    peels    back    into    a    disgusting    leer.    a    wince.    both?

simple shipping meme - SEXUAL relationship