Northstar Vale i wouldn’t want my child married to a jailbird (dmn.)

sis has it bad or w/e. SIGSH @Astynome smh

Hours;
fathomless hours beneath the roots of a willow that cant've wept more in its half-century than tonttu has in half a day. She wakes from something half-dreamt. Something with whiskey-stale breath; something with Hades' mouth on venusian dimples. She hadn't stayed to cash her check, though  —  still dreads he'd found her here, pale and pink and quivering for him in the dark. She's the bluesy girl in the rain with a suitcase full of heart, waiting for a cab to whisk her back to the twilight zone. Keeping her lashes from falling is easier than catching herself. Cradle-crying was a cruel comfort, especially when there had been no rhyme or reason to cry about;
she's worried his stupid little handkerchief to bits and, hell! the initials are imprinted into her heartworn sleeve. He's with her wherever she goes; even here, where dawnlight dribbles into the ink of deephour like waterpaint. She'd been so scared of him seeing her heart through the gaps between her fingers  –  but melitse had looked into her crybaby grays without a lick of misguidance.

It'd only made sense that she's fallen ill for him; that she's gotten too stumped to fix it like she knows she's able; too shy to ring him up, ask after him. Caught up in the phone cord; what was she to do, with a heart that gave so much but only shivered and shook when it ... had been held so tenderly as never before? Never been the gem of another's eye?

Andraste's complaint is a wretched little noise; casts snowshoe paw o'er prism eyes and warm stardust cheeks.

He's always been so goddamn cruel.

there are so many rooms in this hotel full of mist, and she goes from room to room. the half-open doors show half-made beds and everywhere smells so strongly of living beings. activity. the cool winter air meeting the heat of cities— no wonder the fog was so persistent. 
jump to her weaving in between sweating willow trees. jump to the moment before she saw andraste looking like someone hanging off the 15th floor. 

designed like furniture straight out of the contemporary swedish catalogue. she's bone-white. she's four-legged and her arches go on forever. downturned everything. a reminder that gravity always wins. 

"astochía," she calls out softly. she's tempted to make the stupid infantile noises everyone does when trying to beckon a flighty but pretty animal. astynome could recognise a rough life. like reading tree rings, it only came with experience and practice. "i still do not know your name."

It was the bell beneath the countertop that saved her;
the one that'd looked at her like she was some gangster's graceless glam-goddess that she would not ever be  —  and she shirked it, really, for the same reason that she is ever dismissive of followers' belief of queen. She does not wish to answer the prayers and plights of others and yet it is all that her Court has been founded for; and yet still there is a laurel'd voice and she is writhing Proserpina beneath the willowboughs; straining melted marble reaching with arms to wend into trendils. A remnant of throe for Pluto  (but he is not here!)  —
“Perhaps you should bestow me one, little gnome,”
— desecrated eyes unveiled by hooded lashes, heavy lashes as she stares and stares and stares at the shy little faun all Atlas upside-down; waiting with the throat that will never know a female's kiss bared, cinching; thrust from fluted collarbones and feathered breast. Waits,
and wonders if this sunsetting Astynome had taken some cruel-blue pleasure in the sight of her heart's dismantling for the machiavellian mafioso.

at the sight of her lily-white neck all bared—something bobs in astynome's throat and she has to look away. she fidgets with the fraying edge of her sleeve, tugs at her collar. smoke is all she smells like. 

andraste is almost glowing against the wizened knobbly spine of the tree. in the court of the king of limbs. like they are being watched by a huge, unblinking eye of a monster far too big to even comprehend. a pupil the size of a sky. this was the closest she would ever come to with believing in fairies.
she bites her lip, her chin juts out. the smallest chain reaction. "ananke." she says. goddess of inevitability and compulsion. goddess of car crashes, airplanes on fire screaming across the sky, goddess of looking into blinding headlights that will eat you up in one swallow.
her bony, boyish hands rest limp in her lap. "you're like a dream."

“A dream who has dreamed, then,”
and it is the eyes of a depthscreature brushed by torchlight; something tears itself thrashing from between lungs and throat, more mimicry of the tundrian's thundersoft timbre than anything, everything,
“of melitse’s mouth between her thighs.”  Of her knees strewn over his shoulders; of her gaunt hips pressed down into furs, into feathers and before she had sundered herself to tears she had spread herself on her belly before him and nigh pleaded his ruination. She had cried out for him, unending. But then! But then!  “And you– you—!”  A shriek from somnolence; she is preying and shuddering ‘round to stomach; rising and lurching to claw at roots and to knead loam and thaw.  “He would have devoured me, but he spoke of you. He could have drowned in me, but you were ze one upon his tongue. You and your strangeness and your secrets!”

She is her own threatened species; she is the paragon of the unseelie phasing so rare found in tenderhearted kith. Snarling predator to protect the last of herself against all that had been her own wrongdoing, surely  —  stole twilit away and spoke to Aries’ dove of what a piece of work is male, and in the knowing of it had forsaken herself the boon of returning to her warlord's bed;
that she had become so weak, so wishing before him the morn of this nisse’ initiation; that she had fallen for him, terribly, truly Fallen for his winter-rime soul before the bloodglut gaze of Astynome and after all that had screamed at her raw-chorded that she would not ever get her wants returned! That she had been fucked and forgotten and failed time and time and time and time again and could not ever get that which she—!

“Lie before your Undómiel,”
spittle, tears; anguishing; slavering;
frightened face of Faerie that would not wait;
this maleficent mistcreature forging forth with ferocity of the petrified whether Her witness had begun to or no.

cameo.

the temptress lounged atop her throne to enjoy the show below. the undómiel, as it were, stood over her subordinate with unprecedented ferocity. a smile curled at either corner of kalika's lips, one of both surprise and intrigue. 

and in the other corner was her plaything, the magician standing in opposition of their leader. andraste continued with her approach; what would she do? the siren sat in silence while she awaited the intermission.

archiving!

Maddened, perhaps, as much as both men she had once taken between her thighs and into her body with love love love had so deemed her to be
I deserve it I deserve it why did they not give it back why why why why please
for Andraste was terrible, tearful as she descended upon her subject, shifting this gangly jailbird with a rough wreathing beneath her and thrusting with some anxious abandon into lean-sculpted loin; snarling pinching the base of her skull, slathering, slavering; spitting of all that had been taken from her lied unto her, lead on let go let go lead on! and lost! and
her apostle spirited from her, deprived Undómiel looked upon the siren lain upon her ridge; hissing, haughty, heady; daring the selkie if she might like to be cast asunder beneath gaunt baneful conquering hips as well.

Seelie, unseelie;
insatiable and aprowl.