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♱ - blog overhaul imminent! Mostly aesthetic, since I made this 7 years ago ....

#im recoiling at myself from 7 years ago #issok issok #i'll spruce it up soon

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Im just here to say Sypha is the hottest woman on the planet and I can only hope to expire by her hand

#LIKE????? #MINT IS NOT LONGER SOLID FORM #I CAN NO LONGER SUPPORT MYSELF #SHE DESTROYES ME ON THE DAILY #A CWEN

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Some today’s warm up doodles

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jfc guys get your asses over alucard’s place and give the man a hug

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they deserve to be happy ;;;;

#WHEN!!!!!

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Clarice Lispector, tr. by Johnny Lorenz, Um Sopro de Vida

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Paul Valéry, Fragments from “The Youngest of the Fates”, Selected Writings

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All I want is for Trevor and Sypha to hug Alucard … 

#please ..... when will i ever have this ....

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the whole 'leaving alucard behind and going away to check out creepy villages' was some bs this season and i demand justice

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#this is every female muse #lbr

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some slooty meme i cant remember

“You’re only allowed to sit there and watch until I tell you otherwise.”  @blestemaata​

“Quid autem de corporis uoluptatibus loquar, quarum appetentia quidem plena est anxietatis, satietas uero paenitentiae?”

Alucard’s pale lips form the roundness of the vowels quietly, testing the elocution of the foreign words, the differing lilts and cadence within the prosimetrum. But his mouth finds impediment, when willowy fingers grasp the apex of his chin and pull the weighted tome from his hands. 

Lenore.

The book snaps shut to allow her to note the title. Her eyes narrow in question at the gilded letterings. “The Consolatio?” she asks, with a tinge of disdain to her question that hardly veils her disapproval. No matter how honey-sweet her voice. “Why on earth are you reading philosophy named after funereal encomia? I’d personally recommend the Enneads if you insist on Neoplatonism. But the genre itself is not particularly amusing, in my humble opinion.”

Alucard draws a lopsided smile as her hand releases its hold upon him, and instead smooths along his jaw with the affection of amelioration. “And when has your opinion ever been humble?” 

Her lips curl pleasantly, the point of a little fang peeking from the full of her lips. “Never,” she answers pertly, and pinches at the point of his jaw. “But now that I have your full attention …”

She tosses the book upon an adjacent table, which slips off with a heavy thud as it hits the floor. Alucard frowns with a mild confusion at such an inelegant display, that deepens when he notes how she directs a heavy, high-backed chair to swivel around to face him. Carved of dark wood, swirling volutes complement beautifully-rendered figures and elaborate curling ornaments, rich indigo velvet adorning the cushions, it resembled a throne for how regal it was. Most particularly so when Lenore arranges herself upon it, with a haughty air of  imperiousness that draws another unbidden smile from Alucard. 

“Yes?” he asks, encouraging the conclusion to her trailing thought.

She says nothing, lets her rubicund eyes flick upwards to catch his gaze as she bends to grasp at the hem of her skirt and lift it to reveal her silk-clad stockinged legs, her naked thighs. 

Alucard’s still grinning when he reminds her, “Is this wise? We’re not alone.”

“Does that matter to you?” she asks sweetly, her knees parting just so. “Truly?”

Alucard laughs. “No.” 

“But who to love can give a law?” she recites grandly. A quote from the Consolatio, Alucard recognizes. Even in their own tongue. “Love unto love itself is law.”

His cheeks color, flushed immediately in an unseemly red. “.... is this love?” he asks, and swallows hard at the boldness of his own question.

Lenore smiles, lowers her gaze to display the long, curling lashes that kiss her cheeks with an unparalleled coquetry. “If it isn’t, I certainly aim to conflate your understanding and expectation of it in a moment,” she replies, her voice low as her hand reaches between her legs. "You’re only allowed to sit there and watch until I tell you otherwise. Yes?”

Alucard sighs sharply, lost for words that he scrambles to assemble to some semblance of an answer. All he manages is a shaken, “...yes…”

Her lips curl in pleasure, revealing the tip of the smallest fang. “Good boy.”

#blestemaata #meme answer #/ nsfw / #look this is like a year later #but #ILU? #I WAS JUST #THINKING ABOUT THEM TODAY #AND I HAD FEELS #lenore tw #LMFAO #for the ppl who aint read my rules and know #that i write with u

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Bloodsport: ‘Hunter’s Moon’ by Yves Olade

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Mary Oliver, from Sleeping in the Forest; Twelve Moons: Poems, 1979

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I'm hurt. I'm lonely. What kind of loneliness? Every kind. I feel disconnected. Abandoned. As always. So what, my love, so what.

— Daul Kim, from Like to Fork Myself

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Gabriela Mistral, tr. by Ursula K. Le Guin, from “Verses”, Selected Poems of Gabriela Mistral

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“He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away.” - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray