ĺ, â, ⤠in that order my Count~
send one for my museâs reaction to your muse ---
alternatively send â + â after the symbol for the roles to be reversed where possible !
ĺ = patching a wound .
â = holding their hand .
⤠= kissing them .
Even after all of these Centuries practicing his poise with such a weapon he had still seemed to manage to flank about at his right thigh. No armor was worn, no protection be concerned, only simple cloth be covering his bodice in such a haughty daunt of cockiness. Even if truly immortal the Beast may still suffer intolerable wounds, if unfed, which he much hasnât to his Countessâs irritation and dismay he be weak in the flesh and taut to the bone. He would soon learn his lesson, or, would he? The evening would pass as such would practice as his Madame would be crouched upon her slender knee examining such the spot.Â
Heâd sit almost bare upon a cherrywood ottoman, he himself coming barely atop the edge for his height and brute. Sheâd shake her head to his pale flesh, glacierous eyes almost giving an annoyed roll as she would begin to primp and clean at the agape and yet cleanly torn flesh. !! A sting shocked through his meat, among fatty sinew and muscle being exposed to not only oxygen and air it be now coated with alcohol accompanied with iodine.Â
Oh how the Serpent sniveled his nose, as a child feeling too full of pride- chin up to swallow his bitter pill and poison liquid the Lord would sit there with callused palms along furred knees with a rather fowl expression. Furrowed thick ebony brows aâscowl, with eyes of flickering cardinal glancing away then down at his doted Mistress.. tending to his own damned ignorant wounds. She would patch ever so gently with tawny, red and rust stained hands, fingers alike a feather-brand touch but strength as profound as a strong leather band. Integra would rinse him then dot him with gauze, before finally wrapping his thick thigh with a tempered bandage.Â
Silence would commence between the two. Roughened fingertips would rub and rustle against one another in a fidgeting motion, a notion searching for the grandest of thank youâs or something beyond the quiet. Vlad, being the quiet yet brooding man he was wasnât really a man fit for the pleasantries of even the mildest of âthanksâ but to her, well.. maybe even that of an ample sigh and deep stare would speak a language only those two really knew.
 He couldnât help but feel the overriding stubbornness being drowned by this feeling of guilt, how she seemed to tend to him even at his most dumb of antics would do nothing but bedazzle him. She mesmerized him she did, her patience, trust and tongue sheathed only it seemed for him.. he respected her, but emotions for them both seemed to be something .. not so thought well of. The both of them prideful, stubborn and armed to the teeth; but not simply Beastâs of Burden. In the blink of his own heavily lashed eyes he would feel a warmth veiling over the cool wrist-bones in his hand, her hand lay soft upon his as fleece. Honey upon a marble slate with french curried nails filed to a perfect oval as his own dipped in charcoal and stained raucously veined with hints of damned disheveled rust. How their looks seemed to clash, yet concede, confirming their most different of statuses in all their most intriguing of painted beauties.Â
Dracul would gaze upon this woman, her platinum strings aâsway framing the perfection that was her face with brows strict and amply set for a strong tune. Skin, as rose gold and spun sugar, softer than a lambs leather and tougher than perhaps even his own Draconic hide.. but her eyes, the innocence of a child and the willingness of steel that be a woman fit for a throne. Perhaps even a King like himself be not even as she was, but she, still, a woman, and rightfully dutied as Sir; she was All. Â Perhaps the silence would be clipped, quipped then halted.. as a set of lips would part, and an ivory Hades toughened palm grace the Persephone -like graces of Integraâs face. âThank you..â he would murmur in hushed tone. As his tone be as bitter as unsweetened tea, it went down as the best.Â
Smooth, revealing and of pleasant boundaries. He meant those words. Upon his lips before he knew it a split-petal would form about his mouth. The familiar strict taste of a cigarillo burn with a luscious whiskey smoke; her air. Her mouth, that womanâs, would be his own very demise- Â as his own begot her damned throat. A kiss both passionate yet hungry, maliciously delicious.Â
Them both, Alpha and Omega, as different as night and day.











