Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ dornröschen (mtr.)

how alive he felt within andraste's embrace; too much to know she would leave her children; too much to remember dragomir's pained face. guilt lanced through him, but the upturn of her mouth was sweet wine, and he glut himself upon it. mahler had never before been a hedonist — he was an austere being, but the pleasure that unfurled within him to hear his native words upon her scarred lips was pure, a sharpened bolt of gold to limn his ears.
"very good," the gargoyle rumbled, gathering her closer. so swiftly the moment must end. and yes, want her he did, but it would be utter selfishness in the taking. andraste fell to kissing him again; he lingered in the half-light between longing for diaspora and longing for her.
love — could he put the edge of that word to this?
and did it matter?
the sylph made of him an idol, and he stood perched upon the pedestal she had given him, his old arrogance surging forth. he was worthy, then, in ways the other had not been, and it had naught to do with the sensations he had wrought upon her yielding self. perhaps she saw in him the things that mahler himself could not always discern.
with that came a great power that he had willfully given over into her velveteen embrace, her misted eyes glistening ever toward him, urging that he spring out of his skin and into her own —!
she was spurring him on with the gentle press of her mouth; the sinew of him melted beneath the warm of it, his bones melting to ivory with the heat she engendered; spellwork,
witchcraft, this.
and he a general no longer, a mere supplicant that at last surrendered to her with a knowing glint in lilac stare and an invitation that andraste wield him in whater way she wished.