Northstar Vale a grin as sharp as a knife (mtr.)

A gentle simper had feathered at the corners of ruined mouth, unbidden by words, as she melded herself to the contours of his breast, his belly. But then he was delving into her, bayoneting himself heavy, and what-ever mirth had begun to settle upon her scarification was promptly shooed from its stay; was retrieved so that the desecrated features could melt into a classical, impure rapture; unchaste. A weak and whimsical breath parts the seam of dumb lips so that a soft, suffocated moan can tiptoe timorous from arid throat. The endearment plagues her, has her involuntarily cinching taut about Melkor; inviting  —  needing craving claiming —  him further, farther.

Eventually  (achingly)  she eases herself from 'round him;
entire figure having gone aquiver far before he took her into his embrace, his possession. She dismantles herself beneath him, upon him; he cleaves between shivering lune thighs and the fée can only answer with an upswing of rawboned hips that has her breath come weighted, ragged. She would restrain herself; stave and stopper the impending unravelment  (even though it is far from clambering her innards);
resting the arc of her neck along his own, Andraste bares her throat with a cant of her chin to the warlord of him, lashes heavy to shorn cheek; promotly tugs her hips up along him, as if to draw him away from her sex. He needs to claim her throat, claim her inside; catch her—