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

Andraste knows only that she feels an aching draw to him, as starlight is invited to that stygian and unending forever. He, the embodiment of boreal hour that is neither dark nor dawn.  Feel me  (untethered, helpless) —  with shivering sighs, the faerie is fever reforged; falling from his brow to first lave light and longing o'ertop the scarification that dons the left of his features; little carols caught within chords as she lies cobwebbed lips upon his lashes; chin, nipping; to rise from where she has been sat proves to be irresistible, necessary;
she feels faint, takes a half step away as her mouth parts, she parts, ragged and breathless wisps of this somnolence in the void that diminishes and flourishes between them; the chasms that she crawls through to have finally, finally reach him. His little endearment is theirs: meaning unknown and definition blurred, bleary; but now, she feels it against her soul, takes it as hers and holds it tender to her breast. And now—
The incense of female, of she;
tonttu warbles for the tundrian, low, private; longing ... before whirling from him, churring impling creature that she is, and flits from Cúivenen to coax him into pursuing her;
heady scent-trail to chart her return to the seclusion of her wintertime Rest.

with a low warble, andraste is off; he watches with heavy glacial gaze as she steps from the pool and flits up the caverns path to its exit not unlike the moonsprite he had first nicknamed her as. melkor gives her the head start, lifting himself from the pool and giving his coat a fierce shake to dispel the worst of the waterweight. still, he is made for brute force and not the speed with which his tonttu has as advantage on him. her scent trail is easy to follow, however;

and he follows after her, chasing her trail.

where andraste leads him, melkor doesn't know — and is, admittedly, a bit loathe to leave behind the seclusion of the cavern given how they were blatantly interrupted last time. nevertheless, he trusts her judgement and quickens his pace as her heady scent causes the ache for her to worsen. stronger her scent grows, hotter the fire burns, slower his steps are as he finally catches up to her.

i've caught you tonttu. though the irony that he thinks it's she that has ensnared him remains. even if it is true he thinks that he does not ever wish to be freed from her enchantment.

Lead him from the belly of Cuivénen she does; but it is from the amphitheater of the communal bath that she parts from, in favor of wending ever further into the arteries of the earth; brandishing her hide of springwater at anxious intervals, 'til the fée is made to await the arrival of Melkor in a pocketed gem where the crags crowded close and the waters were ever-enkindled. And then he is there, here; looming before the conquering and dark fever that had come to gloss argent halfsight;
“Thief,”  she faux chides; nearer to him, closer than she should be but still not as close as she wishes; but enough to know the the remnants of robinsegg from his silvered chest and the male incense wreathing; near enough for him to smell the female fervor that flares with the quivering ache he so instigates within her  —  the one that begs for the raw, rapturous cessation of her and him as two tethered and the giving of a new singularity.

Tonttu nears evermore into his irresistible wrath, this ruiner of her; lungs bellow deep the ambrosial redolence of him;
and it is only when her shoulders nestle into his breast (the trendiling, tattered tapestry meld to this beast's belly) that Andraste reaches with swan's neck; pinked nose scarce limning his chin.

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thief.

her tone is false in its chiding and yet, melkor grins wicked all the same as she draws ever nearer to him. ❝i won't be apologizing for it.❞ rasps the machiavellian. black, leathery nostrils flare as her perfume wafts around him; sweet, floral, intoxicating on its own but mixing with her arousal as it is ...he cannot place ever smelling anything that disarms him so entirely. it further enchants him, lulling him ever deeper into her spun spell.

who instigates it first, melkor doesn't know — does not matter! — but she is nestled beneath him, her scarred spine tucked against his belly, her hips to be flush with his, held by his forepaws as, with a thrust of his hips and a low rumble of pleasure and rightness rumbles like the warning of an oncoming storm deep within his chest. they are merged as one; enchantress and warlord tethered to the other in the most powerful of physical magicks. ❝tonttu...❞ he croons into the moonlight velvet of his lover's ear; soft thrust of his hips given as he intends to take his time, to explore her.

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—

melkor supports the majority of his weight upon his hindlegs as he curves against her; melding his body to her own. he marvels as he once has at how his belly drags against the elegant curve of her spine as he rocks against her with each roll of his hips. her hips rise to meet his, adding to the sensation ...and quickly melkor is lulled into lovemaking bliss; cottony and rapturous as the world 'round them melts away until there is nothing left but her and him.

she gives a tug of her hips, as if trying to break the tether and he responds to the exposure of her neck, spurred by her wants, teeth grazing the supple lifeflesh; chiding. he gives another rock of his hips against her own in time with a sharper nip given to her throat, careful not to break skin.

Renewal and ruination;
something low and hedonic leaves the throat that her lover worries at; that's what she is now, as she cinches herself straining upon him; the brawn of him melding with her spine. Moon lips find midnight mouth, breath one and the same until he releases her with tongue and teeth and she gulps in the crowding dawnmist as he nicks her; unravels from the numbness of the moment, piercing, presents itself to her in shivers flickering the soft heat of her figure. Offerings to her creature self, her wild and fey self; a reminder of the heart that sensuality murmurs throughout.  “Melkor—”

Quivering, elbows and breast meet stone; marred cheek follows; his tonttu rooting herself to it all so that she might writhe properly beneath him; coax him to drape the evendim of himself o'er her, billow down against her stormcloak'd spine. Cinching, slathering  —  the fée swivels rawboned hips, weaving herself incessant upon him; before trilling his name once more and pressing, holding; guiding her sex against his thrusts so that he might rut deep within her; see how long it would take to unmake her.

melkor.

the sound of his newest name; a gift given to him by the fey queen writhing beneath him in tandem with each rock of his hips against her own. hearing it now, murmured in the throes of their passion ( and remembering how she stumbled on 'wintersbane' the first time they'd done this near a year ago now ) only makes him like it more.

❝tonttu,❞ the tundrian rasps not even bothering to try to speak 'andraste' when his thoughts are little more than hazy and he is consumed solely with her and the feel of her. beneath him, 'round him; the guide of her drawing him deeper within her as he coils tighter and tighter until he begins to quiver with impending release.

Within his arms, she is not Andraste; not Undómiel  —  she is only ever some frostspun fée of female creature known as a tundrian’s tonttu who cannot resist the molding of himself between her thighs and within her; who soothes and seizes herself upon him and is made mute as shorn lips part on the edge of a breathless, backthroated cry. He strains within her and some anxious, ardent thredony and the fairylight trembles and tries to return to him, tries—!

Marred muzzle tucking into the vulnerable velvet of throat; the brawn of his belly once more hauling and heaving against the ruined tapestry of her spine and the fée pleads gentled and unraveled for Melkor again, again; tongue thickening as she allows him to hold her close and suffocating; can scarce stave herself against that impending little death with him so heavy within her sex and heady within her lungs. She can only quiver entire beneath him, against him, feel him; wait for him to give her all of himself to end her and him and him her, staving, shivering—

—swearing silent that they would unmake each other well and unending, next time.

catch me laughing @ this lame ass 4am post.

he feels her quiver beneath him; he thinks. it is hard to tell with the taunt restraint of every and all of his muscles. his heart beat is loud in his ears like the demanding crescendo of a war drum. 
thump, thump, thump...!
rapid fire, competing against the hazy buzzing in his ears only to be broken by the rasping rumble that pushes up thru his throat, against the supple curve of her own still; lips pressing, teeth preening thru the shorn ivory fur as he rocks against her one last time. hips press flush as his zenith is reached and seed is spilled within her.

it would not take root, he knows. not now. not until the season shifts and she becomes ( somehow; he can scarcely fathom ) even more irresistable to him. melkor slips from her back carefully, not wishing to jostle their earthly tether and not wanting to crush her with his weight as the vestiges of bliss linger and exhaustion begin to seep in thru the cracks.

so this got Longer Than Expected & nobody is more ashamed than me, eye-

Smothering her with steadied staccato, roving, ravishing; eyes lidding as he cascades with her and her 'round him and they melt and meld together; the thumping of his warheart an imprinting thing between her scarred shoulders and she arcs beneath him  —  remedying, readying  —  but, then! he heaves from her, and, and no no, no —
“P-...please  –  come back to me,”
chords thin and trilling supplication; dark lashes filmy, gauzy-eyed and glistering; features made finespun and sugary as she sketches the waxen arc of her nipped neck over shoulder-spires to ply the tundrian with an entreating look, an enervated look  —  was as far from it as she was the epitome of it.  “You should ... you could, you sh–should have kept going,”  gaunt hips tugging almost timidly against the seal of him; the tether of them.  “Such ... pity.”  Boney derrière  (somehow desirable)  ebbs now shallow and soft against the backs of dark thighs; the height there encouraging the seelie to poke her hips up as she presses her weight to limestone. Lashes flutter shut and words a back-of-throat whimper as she torments herself upon him; ever insatiable, ever unslaked.

Were he to protest in the slightest, she would heed him and halt ... but for now, Andraste cradles herself against his swell in some carnal, cherished stupor. Mouthless; moaning gentle his name, and that she could show him how to outlast her  (in time, of course)  and how she was simply not done with him;
syllabary petering off into muted, mouthless Melkors, confessions:  “This will never be enough, this ...”  rubied crown tipping, toppling to hang beneath straining shoulders,  “this wanting you, needing ... never ... ll'neverend. H-holdme,”  tongue thick and bloated, can't name him; can only drag herself against him at a pace that is suffocatingly slow. 

she teases and taunts him and he takes it in good natured silence; rasping a promising ❝next time.❞ between puffing breaths as the race of his heart starts to decline and the rapid breathes quiet. he rumbles a low chuckle at her pleading — as if he could part from her at the moment anyway — and shushes her with a nip of his teeth at the velveteen cusp of her ear.

when the pair is able to part he then draws alongside her, and stretches out like a languid cat, content to rest with her in his embrace.