Porcupine Ridge ❝—berries tart & lilac sweet.❞ (wdg.)

Assurances, retrieved and reciprocated;
but no remedies have been brought, for she had not believed he would have ever said yes.

Still  –  the fairylight cannot resist nudging soft at her  (phantomless!)  paramour's shoulder as she nears, nibbling at the dark fur there in some  I will still try  gesture; foolish of her as ever, perhaps, for he was a master of his craft and such guarantees as her own should not need minding, nor even repeating. Nevertheless, Andraste cannot help but touch upin him as her godless self might if presented with something sacred; to worship him as she so oft did in the sweeter moments after she awakened, or those that ached before he took her with the wanting;
from the crease of underarm and to the aforementioned second rib did she lave a path; much sooner rather than later, the fée was combing through the heavy, ashen hide with a patience that was almost reverential. She sectioned each cowlicked tuft, setting it as apart from the deigned skin beneath it as much as she could muster; boney hip frequently bumping against his breast with her workings.

Eventually, with exposure came gooseflesh, and so too came the mark itself—
she begins, letting her lower fangs catch upon the skin, and using the steady resistance of his figure against her as pressure. She is gentle, of course, though this needling at him might be likened to the blushing irritability from kitten-scratches. Etching the trendiling, tattooing strokes into the living canvas of him dies not take as terribly long as she had been brought up to believe;
​tonttu is soothing the welts her tongue, murmuring foreign nothings against breathwarm skin.

Finished;
in time, she returned to address Melkor; to express  (with what she could remember, of course)  how her own bridesmark was supposed to look. And when she could not:  “I do not think my folk would damn you, if some deviation from its original design were to be had,”  a shy simper;
but upswept her skull, and gave her eyes to the stars ticking slow in the sky; kneading claws into thaw, bracing. Must quell her tremblings.

He would have to begin at the delicate hollow of fluted collarbone.