#espelharr

( text ); it’s my way of asking you to suck my dick :)

"Wait, you're serious? Right now? Right here?"

( text ); i thought you liked getting dick pics :( ( text ); can't promise on sharing 

HELP

HELP

𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙢, violent and destructive as it crosses over the land yet at its center it is tranquil. There is warmth within the eye of the cyclone, a heart not as wild and destructive as the air that surrounds it. What she is given is soft, his head leaning into the touch of her hand. Even now, he feels what she is. Her heart strums with pain across each of its chords, swelling with the chorus of her sister's voice and finding ritardando with the comforts of solitude and the road.

The snow-kissed toned coat of Valhir is soft under her touch, pressing into her palm. She is at the apple of the eye of the storm, the center of his heart. His touch finds her own palm, the padded embrace of his grasp settling upon velvet pale skin.

  〞Your last dance was enchanting, my dear. 〞𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙪𝙚𝙡  between her and Du Couteau. Of course he would. The clashing of steel, dripping sweat onto stone, it is the hook and the chorus to his hymn. Pain was his prayer, blood his blessed water: And he cared little from what source it did flow.

He parts the crowd with little effort, the space around him oppressive. A different soiree, he arrives unannounced. He gives ( and needs ) no warning, and the unknowing folk around him merely feel the presence of intensity; of inextinguishable fire fueled by endless bloodlust. He towers above the others, wearing no mask upon his visage: For his smile was guise enough, disguising the bloodied saint's true nature under a handsome visage.

The bow of his head is courtesy, entertaining the affair with an amused contentment. But he did not need to. A thought which always lingered in the back of his mind. It would be ever so simple. He ignores the man whom was previously speaking to her because he can. The hand of war finds his patron's, bringing it gently to his lips for only the briefest and most polite of moments should she only allow it.

   𝐈 𝐒𝐏𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐄𝐘𝐄 !   ―   what separates a spider from becoming pet or pest ? fascination, evelynn theorizes, of the resilience of nature. now, she could get the same satisfaction in the study of flaying her own prey, but where was the fun in that when the lady of house kythera was likely to not stand for this ? not when it was something she had been promised. oopsie.

   " better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right ? " the echoes of her tittering laugh float between them, the walls of a cavern no sanctuary to the sane. " keep a tighter leash on your acolytes if you don't want them running straight into my loving arms. i never turn down a free meal. " oh, he screamed so, so sweet . . .