Northstar Vale i miss you in the dawn & most of all, your fingerprints, everywhere (mtr.)

;a;  ♡
love these two so much

He, come to masque as near mortal, descends from hazy heavens—
and perhaps not, for Mahler is as fragmented as she; refractured greyscale and ivory, gentled only in flesh. And beneath his hold she is thusly gathered, the heft of him upon her and the heaviness of him within her; beneath her hide she thinks, misting, he might have bitten therein pomegranate.

Through the halls of shade does she mean to chart some course for him from where-ever in Tártaros had bastilled him in the same manner his heavy thighs entomb her own. So exhaustively melded are they that an arch has been sculpted by the press of his stomach — which only deepens, dimpling the pale vaulting in nectareous woe.

Beneath him and the touch of his brow, Aurëwen is drowning above her waters and would never wish it else. Here, in all of nature’s symphonic quietude, he was hers—
—and as he refigured the summertide silence with his glottal moan Aurëwen can only crescent her waxen throat to the steadied sun; can only let an answering chorus warble from driveled, pomegranate lips. Her lungs flower; cheeks flush, harvest red as the shadowpriest’s dark hips hasten into a dizzying staccato—
—and when the strumming within her figure stutters it is with a wisping, ruined aria which the syren imbathes him so that he may harbor within her brimming depths to the hilt and further.

Tethered to another by myriad and many means, as starlit and stygian descend from euphoria ... the hushed willow-grotto had her cinching about Mahler  Mahler  Mahler. Swan’s neck draped over the edge of altar and she mouths foreign and his name. As he ports unto her each cascade of himself, she barters with softened writhes of fair hips, meant to work him through his listing pleasure.

Heartbeats pass.

It is all she endeavors;
yet regardless of his seal already pressed between them into the wax of her, regardless how her mind begs for reprieve — she is unseeing through the faint dew of ecstasy, of exhaustion trembling within the dark cusp of half-sight. Possessed entirely, savagely, by all her soul felt and sought and it demands once more and that he must cage her and make her quiver.

Lain as his gleaming ophelia who for him would endlessly invite his smothering sorrows. An endless, elysian gallery meant to be thieved.

His to pin and pluck; to conquer the faltering cant of her irregular and strident hips. The golem’s name knells from aching lips, without her own accord, as thin and quiet as a winter hymn. Her greycloaked gaze glistens, ravished, blindly reaching aquiver for his amethyst—