#v; the weight

[eritvita]

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@archaeval

Such an alien abnormality the long length of Ruby's body.

Her lower portion is beyond anything hath Roland fretfully seen: eight limbs, a spinneret, and vulva 'neath that coarse thatch of hair matching the blond of her loose roots, and canst he smell her in this dizziness, this bawdy affirmation that dost she so desire him.

"Oh, Ruby," moans he, following her downward sprawl like a ruddy wave 'long the briny sea, all pinks and purples as the flora of corals and splayed sea anemones in the bed of silt and gold. He nestles himself within her forest of limbs, naked, dawning, brusque as a healthy burn from the gleaming Father Sun.

He takes one of her many hands and presses he his mouth to her palm, lapping at her hiding veins; mimicking the very first, Carnal kiss hath she granted him not too long ago. Doth Roland's nostrils flare with that animal elasticity, a ridge curling in the middle of his brows, a sharping of his feral pupils.

He falls to his knees; reaching for her as a supplicant before the very First Goddess e'er Born. His palms, wide and callused and so very gentle, frame that triangle of her gleaming flesh, that scarlet aura of her flexing pussy.

His mouth waters; a bead of drool drips from the corner of his mouth. His human face ripples with inhuman hunger.

"Please, I beg thee," rasps he, and dost he hath a fraction of a Mind to keep himself from panting, for his tongue to loll as a dog at her steaming cunt. "Allow me to taste thee!"

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@archaeval

His blood boils in his strong veins, an aching, shimmering ichor for Ruby's splendor, Only. He wreathes around her like an excited childe, a drying vine desperate for thirst and cool water, a soft place to rest his roots and to intertwine with the very lattice of her chitinous bones, and he laughs giddily, hiccuping, clutching at her shoulders in wide, callused palms.

"Wilt thou take me, o wonderful Librarian?" dost Roland crow breathlessly, arching his hips to wrap his naked legs 'round her waist; feeling the flex of her impossible muscles beneath his thighs, beside his stout, stalwart belly what rasps with his growing, bouncing hair.

His grin is ne'er eclipsed, ne'er diminished, borne with that maniacal Turn of finally acquiring what he hath so desired, for how long hath he desired! 'Wilt thou sup at me, and bite me, and finagle me into whichever position thou wouldst lovingly require me? Wilt thou hold me, forever?"

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@beautiful-mischief

Tankards and mead and fruits ever-flowing, the crust of fresh, steaming bread upon Roland's plate, and a cacophony of willing participants willing to sing with him, and to make Merry in this wood-smelling inn of rowdy patrons and red-cheeks of eternal Joy. Is naught Roland, therefore, in his prime.

He regales fanciful listeners with a tale of his own Adventures, chapters of his glorious past: an ankle-kicking fleet of Fancy of a woman unicorn and a frightful dragon, and sword-fighting and gallantry to swoon maidens and delectable princes of their gold and their precious, red Hearts. Foam sloshes from his tankard as he uses his body to weave his improper tale, hands splayed, default on his glory with wide-eyed, gleaming splendor upon his face ... and a pretty eye, one of the barmaids, flicks into Roland's broad, roguish curiosity.

He catches her eye-- this Rogue of a Wanderer, this sharp Heathen-- and without missing a beat to his artful tune dost Roland flash her a wink, and a nod, and a funny waggle of his brows, which dost handsomely bounce in thrice.

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@archaeval

"Oh, Isa," hisses he, petting her pretty head so affectionately. "That's it, so good, such a quick student."

Couldst Roland taste the irritation along that wet, soft plane of her tongue, his beloved Isolde, and 'tisn't been very long since her proposal upon that clean, sun-dappled shore, that newly-written Chapter of their glorious lives.

Desperate for approval dost Roland know and Know 'tis her Grandmother what holds the leash of their proud, important Name, and is Roland bounce'd upon the balls of his naked feet to prove himself: that is he a suitable husband, that is he a Good Person, one with a career, e'en in the esoterics. He hast five books published and grafted to children all across the world, in this Time, to learn them of the common good and of the practice of magick in their innocence.

Yet, nothing is innocent in Roland's mind as the slide of Isolde's tongue drags heinously o'er the bobbing head of his dick; as she grasps tenderly at his wide sac, making the inner places of his thighs shivery; as she suckles at him, soft lips flushed wet around the most sensitive part of him, and the sensation licks up Roland's spine as blue electricity.

His back bows backward, the moan low and long and sounding like a gong come up from his golden belly, spreading his thighs wider 'round her head, giving her more room.

"Fuck, darling." He cups her head in both hands, her face; nestling his thumb across her sharp cheek, cupping her jaw to feel the divine muscles stretch beneath his palm. "What didst thy Grandmother say today?"

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@lunarscorching

"Of course," affirms handsome Roland warmly, and lifts aloft again that delicate crown, filled with sweet-smelling flowers and fresh, dainty pollen.

He shrugs boyishly, and smiles a little in his dimpled cheek. "Why not make this Gift, for thee? Why not spend the days whiling away to create beauty, to spread the affinity of flowers and the Gift of Life and Growth onto this simple crown? I wish friendship with thee," says he honestly.

"-- and thus is the First Step onto that lovely affirmation. Wilt thou accept this?"

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@aamaranthiine

His is bleeding, scarlet rivulets streaming to those rumpled ferns underfoot. A stab wound, a gouge at his side, just beneath his ribs, and Roland is near feral in his protective stance.

His great body heaves to prevent a yipe of purest pain; for each inhale hast his wound to flex, to stream more lifeblood past his clutching, staunching grip, and his handsome face is marred by his permanent wince.

Littered with bruises and broken fingers, knuckles purpled and doubled in size, and a sprained foot is this broken doll of a gangling Mummer, trying to hide himself within the brush.

He wheezes, a sound similar onto a passable laugh. "Possibly," rasps he, and wheezes again, whimpering in the catch of his Voice and curling deeper into that safety of himself; blinded magnificently by the continual Beauty of this fairest creature, his oldest, most lovely Friend.

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@vernades

Smells of wolves and scents of blood perforating beneath a moonless sky, all opulence in glittering silvers and protective golds, and hath Roland been ambushed by confused parishioners, those settled hunters of monsters wedged into the cracks of all the Worlds' timely bedrocks.

Funnily enough hath Roland been compared 'to those same, drooling monsters as hath he danced behind theseskies: his eyes turn'd yellow and his teeth elongated, hungry for the taste of lamb and bitter alcohol thrown from purified, rushing rocks.

"What hast happened?" rasps he, as the injection of this new magick is pervasive in his simple State. He groans, shifts, tries to sit up; trying to brush away those invisible hands and tender, clinical touches with a child's grace.

He looks around wildly, his hair skewed, Roland blood-tinted, his clothing ragged and ripped and all but removed. "Where am I?"

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@empyreau

Meandering comes as swift and as oft as this Spring rain, pattering with the eclipse of Roland's naked feet upon strange cobblestone, marked pathways, eager Walkings beyond Roland's forefront of his miraculous comprehension.

His Walkings hast taken him Here, to a Gothic castle with a lithe form of a Prince at its elegant, carved doors. He beams disarmingly, amiable down onto his ivory bones. "Why not Walk this far, whence the trees art kind and the air is fetid sweet?" inquires he, instead.