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

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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.