#v-rp

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse ---

alternatively send ‘ + ‘ after the symbol for the roles to be reversed where possible !

回 = patching a wound .

⇕ = 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 hasn’t to his Countess’s 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. 

He’d sit almost bare upon a cherrywood ottoman, he himself coming barely atop the edge for his height and brute. She’d 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. 

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 a’scowl, 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. 

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 you’s or something beyond the quiet. Vlad, being the quiet yet brooding man he was wasn’t really a man fit for the pleasantries of even the mildest of ‘thanks’ but to her, well.. maybe even that of an ample sigh and deep stare would speak a language only those two really knew.

 He couldn’t 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 Beast’s 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. 

Dracul would gaze upon this woman, her platinum strings a’sway 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.  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 Integra’s face. “Thank you..” he would murmur in hushed tone. As his tone be as bitter as unsweetened tea, it went down as the best. 

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 woman’s, would be his own very demise-  as his own begot her damned throat. A kiss both passionate yet hungry, maliciously delicious. 

PIN MY MUSE  ||Accepting||

@saphirablufire

Send “UNF” to pin my muse against the wall with DESIRE

Steam would swirl forth from underneath the guest bathroom’s door, heavy it would fill the hallways with a scent of vanilla, cinnamon, sandalwood and myrrh. Even adorned still abroad with that sticky mineral scent. Even as a Sir, even in her most masculine of ways a’brood; she not ever lost her femininity. The corridors lit darkly this eve besides one lone electric lantern that filled the dark with light; but only there it be. Dainty fawn fingers with well-trimmed nails would slither about a mahogany door before closing it promptly behind her, her in her finest of robes, clothed to the hilt and proper still. She always made face regardless.

 A false-lion’s mane be cured with oils and spices; but soon would scent otherwise. Ruffling about her broad wool robe pocket she would bring out a cigarillo from its case, tipping the lighting end against the steel as her free fingers would grasp at her flip lighter with sheer effort. Her skin still moist with dew and steam, it smelling of the richest of parlours and most delectable of fine wine and teak; she be hunted, but did she know. As her soft soles would leave steamy prints along those dark and polished floors one lone flick of her lighter she would give as the cigar hung tautly between her soft and treated lips, inhaling deeply with lidded eyes -- before opening them amid the last flicker to see a pair of doting cardinal spheres staring right back at her. 

In a flash, one quick movement, a flickering gleam of ivories would make haste to her cheek as one would feel pressure wrapping about her throat in yet the most gentle of caresses. As a snake groing into coil, as did his hand. One by one thick digits would round. Her back be splayed against the wood, platinum merging with a cherry core damply sticking to the wall’s surface in a splay of webbing. Manifesting before her in the dimly lit hallway would be a brooding and darkly clad figure, a low pleased growl commencing following a hearty chuckle, soft but cool fingers rubbing almost lovingly against her throat as another seemed to bow and curve at the very feel of her fluffed hip underneath the woolen cloth. It was him, the Basilisk, and rare, to be grinning. Oh, how he had missed her scent.

@dutchvampirehunter

.How humbling. A slow shift would promptly take place beyond the Devil’s typical brutish stance, him seeming to blend in with the night aur seemed to do nothing but that of draw attention to his already shimmering facade abroad the moonlight beam. That voice, familiar, easing to the ears yet as a coaxing croon would brush gently along his pointed conch. Him, how long it had been, yet this be all but too true to the Count.

Sharp claws stained soot would begin to slowly massage fingertips in circles, his thick callused digits only looking to seek solace among the strange yet familiar scent that took thickly to night air. Erythraen eyes would flint past thick lashes and framing bangs to meet the strange speak, squinting, glinting beastly in the pitch. One would almost see a faint glint of ivory underneath a Dragon’s hollowing iris glow.