Northstar Vale & prayer-pale stars that pass the drowsing-incensed hymns (mtr.)

She would not be able to stand in this manner; aching and anguishing for him to to daub his tongue as molasses up to the feverish climes of her and ending her before he even began;
so with a tender half-order of Wait, his fairylight requested he lie once more to stonebed as she sidled down along with him; thin, rasping breaths wreathing with the headiness of Cuivénen when eventually, finally, she comes to cradle her minikin self upon the impressive tundrian figure in all its war-forged glory;
shivering so surely for him as she tucks her ruined cheek into his ribcage, melds her stomach to the great chamber’d breadth of his breast; quivering thighs bestride his frostmade throat and hips poked up so with her soft pink unfurling just out of mouth’s reach. He’d have to wend his heavy arms around her gauntness and gather her close; get her all writhing and weak and wailing whimsy for him and the seelie’s hips give a trembly, unbidden little thrust at the breath of him and the phantom simper she feels. Praying that he would dine on her, devour her; sleepy, shameless, shying.

Andraste has already begun to claw at him, clutch at him; felt and untouched and moaning some low warble into cloudthick mane that crests into an ever-needy and gentle, crooning gasp:

Please.

And her beloved did just that.