we cuute (

croceos  asked:

her warm palm stretches over this expanse of scales. the siren strips her silk & melts into serpent raiment. they are so brilliant they shimmer in her light. she cannot help but smile, to let the sun settle high above the waters. ❛ so fair thou hast become. ❜

/ @croceos .

—— Mother sun; galaxy daughter: touch these scales with your rays, and let the core flicker within her gloomy chest. Yet thine words were much alike a sister’s so flattering, a smothering of serpent’s rage. They set her asunder from ache into a reminder of blissful skies. Golden hands were a cure. A cure of the same kind as death , who calmed with silent arms and cold embraces.  

       But still, there was a flinch under this warmth, as these aquamarine ornaments quivered with an illusion of its surface’s wavering. Not out of fear - but concern. Concern about the impurity upon which this holy goddess might run her fingers to align – over astral mud and grime would her light shine. Please, my dear friend, please do not pollute your wondrous skin with riot filled filth and sin. “Dearest, wilt thou dare to reach out for wrath’s epitome?” ( doest thou not wish to wait until mine body is once more silvery? doest thou not wish to wait until mine limbs become those of a siren; a goddess; a nymph or cosmos’ slave? until mine form is not this anymore? ) But did it ever bother? No. And the sea knew. Thus, the sea gave in.