Northstar Vale with parted lips in fragrancy of prayer: unearth everything that’s in me

“Yes—”
the saltcrest taste of loin remains anchored to tongue; barely a breath is hitched as Fëafelmë scythes the tenderlean portions 'round her own fluted collarbone, “—and, neither tongue.”   She’s fed Melkor bits of valerian, as oft as she was able, yes; but the fée was certain that he was not versed in the words of the stoneflower  –  the ones that she sometimes, fewtimes misses within her throat. Heavied, crowded, roughening, like—
“I no longer speak ze second,"  the fairylight near hisses; shooing shardthought in favor for Agana's upkeep of their second haventongue;
darting now for the selkie's open breast, or shoulder in her own hopes of leaving some nibbling peck that would last to sting sweet the flesh. Pursuing, now; attempting to advance, to wend spindly arms whichever way 'bout her mentor she might:
“I want to make him dream of me. Make his longing so terrible,”  churring creature-thing,  “so if he wishes to taste me, he must sleep,”  reaching, reaching for sweeping jawline; simpering;
“and then he must wake, and plead for reprieve. I am not sure how lenient I would be?”

Shameless, as ever-eventually;
green and girlish sensualities.