Archer White

@archerwhiterp

There's a heavy streak of bright blue above either eyelid of Roland's paint, his lips smeared with a brilliant, shimmery gold what matches his sheen and that shimmer of contour; that sharp, thick line of his exacerbated brow, and his scent is perfumes of heady, succulent berries and wines and meads all gathered for a glowing ball of Delight in these bell-like sounds of actual, literal golden bells hanged at his ankles and ringed upon Roland's elbows and wrists.

'Tis an aftermath of a club, that hallowed Sound what makes Roland half-blind and half-deaf, loose-limbed as he meanders to Archer's car: ready to pick him up in this Safety of sober driving.

"Archer!" crows he, automatic movement to hath him to open the passenger door, easy on its hinges. Roland is a bright portrait of cheerful beaming, all but singing as he saddles inside. "White Knight of the Blushing Gardener." And, braved, emboldened, dost he crowd himself onto Archer's personal space, clasping that delicate, pretty face betwixt his own hands to stare at him; to admire him, thus, affectionately, openly.

The kiss is sudden, firm and sound, and thus to transfer Roland's stern lipstick o'er to that pale mouth. He hums in this simple pleasure, sinking slowly into that auric Gather.