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me and my buddies are building a silk road between our houses to make trading of spices, tea and oils easier

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Finally, his Need to rip the suppressing bonds of leather off from his bones, to seal this covenant of their bursting Hearts so that they may never, ever part. Roland groans low and soft, a ragged preacher of terrible sensation, and she writhes against his body, her softness pressed tight onto Roland's hard masculinity.

He breathes a gust of readying air past flared nostrils, and slips his knees tighter beneath her thighs. He begins to truly fuck her; harder, faster, soon to borne the clap of their bodies in this sweat-slicked heat; the shine of the Father Sun aiding in this healing salt, the frogs croaking their private audience nearby.

He snarls beside her wet, gasping mouth, unbidden, Roland's eyes rolling to the back of his head at how fucking good it truly feels, her heat, her clench, the slick of her ardent pussy foaming around his spearing dick. A moan shudders out from him, and his pointed ears twitch at the sound of his balls smacking against her ass.

"I love thee, I love thee," mutters he, borne to delirium at animal flesh; rocking inside her, clutching at her too tightly. "Isa, Isa, Isa!"

THE WET SOUND OF HIS COCK against her is profane, the type of thing no proper lady ought to enjoy. It only makes her want him more. God, but it is heaven. The pain is fading into a pleasant, throbbing pressure, and she curls into him. His arms around her leave her almost senseless -- where does she end? Where does he begin?

Every inch of her burns for him, her love, her Roland. She pulls him closer, deepening the kiss as best she can when she can hardly keep her mouth closed, head half thrown back in ecstasy. Her thighs twitch against his, and a low whine escapes her throat with each thrust. Still more pressure builds, and she's sure she can't hold on much longer

"I love you," she answers. "I love you," she gasps again. "Yes, faster. Please. You are divine." She wants to be disheveled and defiled. For Roland to take her and make her utterly, completely his. Never mind the walk back home -- she wants him to make her ache with pleasure so overwhelming she can only remember his name.

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He falls into her arms, a slow descent into her heat and smell and softness, and he smothers her with his love; wrapping an arm 'round her to clutch at her shoulder, grasping heady the back of her head, cradling her scalp in those entwined locks of her loose hair.

His hips move, a slow push-and-pull, and Isolde's slick wets him down in the bright squelch of their meeting bodies, dampening at his sac. He fucks her twice, thrice, four times, before the heartbeat of her pussy thudding around his cock matches with the one buried like a golden harp deep within Roland's breastbone, and he presses their brows together; holding her close, treasured, licking haphazard and drunk into her mouth.

"I love thee," whimpers he, and his speed softly gains traction. He releases her shoulder to brace her at her back, moving with her arch as dancers amidst the blue, flowing sky. He wants to fuck; he wants to keep her safe.

"Faster?" rasps Roland, the grit coming back inside his throat.

HER OWN GASP MATCHES HIS, a sudden sharp intake of air at his sudden push in, unexpected and much-desired. As much as she enjoys this, she enjoys him more, his reddened face, the sweat on his skin, the slip of his length inside her as he pulls back. It is him, all of him, everything, and she loves him for it. "You feel amazing," she says, just as he speaks, and laughs into the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close.

"So good," she breathes against his mouth. She hitches as he pushes in once more, tightens her hold on him for just a moment before easing into the sensation once again. "You are so good to me."

Even now, with two strokes at an achingly slow pace, Isa is oversensitive, and the pressure begins to coil inside her once more. It pushes her back into an arc, pressing her belly and breasts against his. She wants to be disheveled, taken wholly and completely, and yet Roland's gentle lovemaking sends her heart soaring as much as her head was reeling just moments ago. She kisses him again, wet and hot, and cannot let him go.

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"I hath many corsets!" announces he cheerfully, e'en as he tries-- and somewhat succeeds-- to paint her mouth to an adequate shape as it so moves; as she so speaks.

"I hath garters and pretty bralets and panties all abound, for those moments of blessed Femininity, and to borne myself as pretty as the nymphs in Spring for those late night parties." And Roland beams, dimpling and free, and finishes the bow at her pert mouth. He caps the stick and places it aside, and moves onto the eyeshadow; a blistering, vibrant blue.

"Not nearly done, dearest Friend. Close thine eyes," croons Roland.

Liddy turns her head obediently, but blows a raspberry at his joke only to smile immediately afterwards. "Ah, the old corsets-are-a-torture-device argument." She had tight-laced, true, but not to the point of body modification. It just gave her a bit of extra curve, and helped to accentuate the wobble. "It's not like we had bras back then, babe. Plus I still look damn fine in a corset."

"You'd look good in one, too, come to think of it. We should get you a corset. An underbust, probably. They make really nice underbusts for men. Are you almost done?" Despite all her griping and whining, she was curious to see what he'd done to her, and if she'd be recognisable at all.

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He wants to push, to unweave the stitches that which tether Polly forever into this mortal Forme ... but his red Heart breaks for her, as she winces and sways, and doth Roland grasp her elbows to steady her, the crisp birdsong above their heads in this public outing a reminder of their present Placement.

"Here," bids he, as Roland leads her. 'Tis a park, yea, and a bench is sure to find. "Sit down a moment. Mind thy footing, and protect thine eyes to comfort the brain, my precious bearclaw."

She isn't sure what to make of it. Roland isn't the type to make things up, but it didn't make sense. She'd always been at the shop, working all day, with a few breaks here and there to pick up extra supplies. Where else could they have met?

Polly wracks her memory, trying to figure it out. A new sudden burst of pain makes her wince, though she tried to shake it away, but the fog of confusion is already starting to roll in no matter how she tries to fight it. "I-I'm not sure I understand. Where else could we have met? At -- at a farmer's market, or...maybe on another errand run?"

Her life is the shop. Her world is the shop. Polly's too busy to go out and meet people, and, before Roland, she barely went out for fun at all. She has the faintest idea of something there, but she can't quite reach it, not yet.

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The first few hours, Roland is prepared, in Scholarly perpetuity: cleaning her body, tending to her hygiene and wrapping her naked body in warm wool and soft furs, placing her in his own bed with which to rest from that heinous ordeal. Such power, leaking from her body as a punctured cell; dripping with energy like slippery, thick, black ichor, almost come to snatch out Roland's soul from under his clothed feet.

The first few days, he panics, and pours himself into the Arcaenum at all hours; into the tomes hidden away in those dusty, cobwebb'd, forgotten nooks of the ancient College. He frets into loud arguments with his teachers, his colleagues, over forbidden Rites, banned magicks; he writes to his ancestors, his more-vicious forms of Aunts and Cousins disappeared into the sickly-Greene shadows of the Reach.

They invite him to join in with their bloody revels freely, for a taste of aetherical control. Roland will not leave Haleth's side.

At the end of the third week, his is a righteous mess. Naught hast Roland shaved, nor barely bathed, and hast picked at his food what his teachers grant him in their moments of compassionate Understanding; for he wilt not leave his room, if only to use the facilities and the toilet. A beard stubbles at Roland's cheeks and chin; his face is haggard, the bruises beneath his sleepless eyes borne purple and too deep.

Haleth remains, neither moving nor breathing, nor decomposing; a statue in his bed, woven into his blankets and furs as if she were merely asleep. 'TIs the only time she doth ever seem peace-filled, his violent, quiet Love.

Roland sits at his desk, his meager room overwhelmed with stacks of books and loose leaves of parchment, scribbled unending with runes and sigils too complicated to read directly; too otherworldly to see without a proper migraine brilliantly blooming. He sags into that wooden chair, the rickety one with a simple, flower-embroidered cushion, and covers his face with his chapped, chipped palms. He weeps woefully.

Her mouth is slow to return his kiss, broken-window eyes wide and open, interested to the pattern in which his long lashes splay like the barren branches of winter trees. Her stiff-skinned palms come upon his hands, sinking into that livingness that so thrums from him, and only then do her eyes shut, to hazard a dream that his maddened ravings are enough to undo the work of the Necromancers Three.

What better time than when her tongue is tangled in her lover's to split her skin; using an iron dagger the severing of the runic lines bursts the air with frantic energy, a void vacuum pulling for his life force yet abated by his glimmering charms and the wards he drew so careful.

"Until I may kiss you again, living." Is all she says, unable to look him in the eye as she bites away the cork, pouring the elixir down her unmoving throat.

The powers which liven her hurry to stitch her skin and repair the runes, prepared is Haleth's blade, cutting again, and again, until her grasp cannot hold, and her legs give way; the undead drops, unmoving, and the chaos ceases— it would appear she is dead once more.

For a month the corpse remains in stasis; not to rot, yet not to breathe.

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Albert Bartholomé (Fr. 1848-1928)

Adam et Eve (ca. 1905)

Marble (h. 163 cm)

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a kiss to resolve suppressed ( romantic / sexual ) tension. (Elekasya)

He cannot stand her, this wretch of a woman, this sneering, rat-like creature that cackles and jeers at e'ery piece of Roland's misfortune, e'en imagined.

Yet, the beer is ever-flowed, and the ale and the dark, amber whiskey filled forever to his glass, and Roland's teeth art bared in this jeering, this Banter of barb'd back-and-forths. In a crowded corner of another inn, a place where is he so followed, he hast hoisted her amongst the dark, pressing her back against the wood with his thigh betwixt her cruel legs.

Her kiss is violent, snagging and sharp. Canst Roland taste blood within this kiss, as he meets her; as he grasps at her hair within the both of his tight fists; holding her still in this battle of wills and wet, domineering tongues.

‪‪❤︎‬ ˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 & 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 ! 

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hairy bodies are so hot how the fuck are people trying to say theyre not into body hair. are you not into sunsets and good food and orgasms too? jesus christ.

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Fingering the plot hole

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He laughs breathlessly, e'ery inch of Roland's great body above her shuddering with deliberate curtailment. "'Unsure'," gasps he, leaning harder into her comforting palm.

His hips twitch, sheathing himself deeper, and he gasps in a sharp, sudden flex. "Oh, Gods, Isa, thou art wet and tight. How often I've dreamt of this moment ...!"

Hovering above her, his palms pressed flat to the grass beside her heaving ribs, dost he draw his hips backward; that slicked slide delicious and heavy as his cock slips, catches along her insides as 'tis so lovingly hugged.

Roland trembles, bodily, e'ery second of his muscles and blood caught as if beautifully electrocuted. "Thou dost feel so good around me, as a lick of Heaven's flame." He surges downward to catch her mouth in a searing kiss, messy and wet, lapping at her lips as Roland breathes.

He sinks in deeper, his rhythm jerky, forcefully slow; trying to acclimatize her kindly onto his girth and width, desperate so as naught to hurt.

HE GOES SO TANTALIZINGLY SLOWLY, and it is only the slight pain that keeps her from wanting to rush. Roland stretches her wide as he enters, but the delirium and pleasure overshadows any unpleasantness. He fills her completely, a key finding its lock and opening her wide. Isa's gasp is only that of sheer delight as he reaches home, mouth a perfect O.

She keeps her hand against his cheek, a gentle reminder that she is here, that she loves and trusts him, and oh, god, but does she desire him. Her Roland, fighting against his instincts out of fear of ever causing pain.

"Yes," she answers, and means it. "I like you there. I think this is where you belong, but..." She runs her thumb against his cheekbone, brow knitting. "You seem so unsure. If you don't want to do this..." She'd be disappointed, true, but Isa had never seen Roland quite like this before and it worried her, even as he throbbed inside her. Was she too greedy? Did she ask for too much, too soon?

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Art Nouveau 1890 Plique a Jour Brooch in 18kt Gold Diamonds Pearls Ruby

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So ridiculous is this wretch's concept of their innocence-- untruth, unkind, wholly lying of Roland's conceptually gaiety-- that doth Roland burst into laughter, echoing and disbelieving.

"Thou art a bastard!" calls he, still, laughing, and squeezes he the bars of this dreadful iron as if miming to squeeze her awful, awful neck. He throws himself from the bars with a snorting huff, as like a Stag in an angry rut.

"Dost thou lose so badly at cards so oft?" shouts he; pacing his own cell, now.

At his squawked reaction, Elekasya cackles- boisterous and with intent to rile him obnoxiously. "Have you got your panties in a twist- or have the guards confiscated that from you as well?"

Her voice a sour-saccharine tone in feign of earthly innocence, practice for what she would say to the captain of the guard once they came to speak. "Last I checked I was simply lost on the way to my room, and some rage fueled lunatic grew antlers and tried to slaughter me! I did what I could to defend myself - I am lucky to be jailed and not dead."

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Saint Jerome (detail), c. 1530 - 1540. The workshop of Jan Massys (Flemish, 1509-1575) Oil on oak panel

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