O King of Misrule

The Fool and Page of Swords

me: idk man it still sounds like an ocular migraine

Genus loci, Edgar Ende, 1936

"As stupid as thee for thine own amusement!" bellows he, yanking and thrashing and barreling to the wave of her own wind. Something hard and important inside his breast doth crack with a heavy finality, and, yet: dost Roland ignore it, for the searing, burning pain of it fuels him to cause so much more harm.

"As stupid as thee to cause this ruckus! An affront to thine dining! Art thou as low as a dog, nay, a worm to eat the garbage belched from the bottom of the World? To lick the floor as carrion, finding it supplement, Nan?!" He bites at her face, tearing into her cheek. He latches and scrapes at the root of one of her curling horns, trying to pull it off, to unmoor it.

He hums sharply through his lips, snorting and huffing laughter, too breathless for the appropriate guffaw. "Thou dost call me 'impatient'?" sputters he, joyfully, grinding again.

The slick slide of of Mal's hips 'to the crux of Roland's groin rasps softly with the wire of Roland's hair, there; is there a sweetness to his kisses, thus pressed onto Mal's cheek: a pertness of Roland's soft lips, like a fresh rose. His handsome brow doth cock in this peaceable Gesture, and dost he carefully test:

With the gentleness of handl'ng a dove doth Roland seesaw his hips, sliding and arcing, and dragging the breadth of his cock in this masculine thickness, the slick of the barely-there lubricant, the gritty sweat of their bodies inbetwixt lower genitalia. Canst he feel the spear of heat what is Mal's own cock all but smushed against Roland's lower belly, and lifts he that place of his sturdy breast to eagerly and boldly look upon it.

Dost Roland coo, and settle at his side, still connected. He runs the Wood-worn pads of his fingers 'long Mal's dick, that velvety, hot skin, with the idleness of a fond lover. "I believe canst I never sink inside thee all the way, my darling boy," murmurs Roland; dazed at the picture of perfect Carnality, the way the skin folds by the head of this cock, the blushing bulb of it, the delicate, soft texture of their a'waited urethra.

He thinks of thus for a Moment, so Roland, and idly rubs his thumb o'er Nan's callused knuckle, trapped warmly in her clasp, in Pondering.

He glances down, afraid that if he keeps looking at Roland, he'll see how his eyes have grown wet. "Before I was forced to be a gladiator, I lived on the streets. I grew up on the streets. I've never had a real home before."

Perhaps he had one when he was very small, but those memories are fuzzy. His earliest memories are of eating garbage and snatching scraps from wherever he could.

Neverminding that barrier of humility and terrible shyness, doth Roland bend his face to catch Muriel's eyes, that brilliant green, that shining lace of shed tears. He smiles warmly, his dimples pressed in beautifully.

"Thou art welcome," murmurs Roland, and dost so wink as like a true Rogue.

"What say thee, Inanna?" says Roland, too, as he meanders with cleaning and finally drying, and wrapping again those bandages with clean linen. His handsome brows dost in thrice at the wolf, this gorgeous beast what always watches. "Wilt thou stay here, too, and make sentinel of the Wood surround?"

Roland... Nan brings her great head close to his neck takes a long, deep breath, basking in his scent, masculine and animal and oh so alive. A low rumbling moan sounds in her throat. She's needy, already dripping. Come here, she wants to tell him. Let me have my way with you.

Familiarity in Beauty of her bestial Forme, this magnificent monstrosity that what sings inside Roland's own blood. How fond dost this very blood boil, what eager sweat gathers at his throat and upper lip as he is hoisted, snatched, cradled, held as a precious dolly within Nan's six-fingered limbs.

"Hello, my girl," purrs he, arching his throat to hath it wonderfully bared. His skin frissons by that wet warmth of her tongue, of her slinking spit, and doth he grasp at her with that same ferocity, the same as she.

Twin flames, myriad souls both impossibly intertwined. How canst he stray; how canst he ever deny her, forever?

Cult of the Star

Zuhair Murad haute couture ss 20 , Schiaparelli haute couture ss 22, Balmain rtw ss 23, Tex Saverio haute couture 12