Northstar Vale and we weren't even married (dmn?)

She had let the male who had let her down lie beneath her;
and she now wanted only the one who had not;
wished for him to unravel her whilst she looms over him.

For him to taunt her; for her to set him atremble. Dark lashes come together; melitse's name was in her mouth and with some garbled, near-timid murmuring moan for him drawn by Fëafelmë's massage the fée holds the velvet of the siren a moment longer; snout wrinkling half-heartedly at the clattering of claws catching themselves along moon-jaw ... but she acquiesces, eventually;
“You will be good for me,”  Undómiel proclaims, myriad meaning and impling mischief; blindbride of her season that she was not yet incensed by.  “Though I take my leave, know that I am indebted to your services.”

Heavy-lashed halfsights;
offers no reprieve that she might have given, were she less a loving being and more lusting ... but Andraste is in love, is in a mimicry of season limned with power, too much too much: she strides from the scheming sea-serpent with roused reachings; soon to reek of her own desire at the last-year reminiscence of her warlord's languid torments.

Onto the next.