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

no, the word strikes him like a blow of an anvil. sweeter, she commands of him.

sweeter. how ever does she expect him to shift thru vast tundrian vocabulary with the tantalizing trail of kisses she leaves along his throat; the breathless croon that she entices from his lips as he feels each attentive kiss to his marred flesh. felt keenly in a way that is different from the feeling upon unmarred flesh. it is a feeling that causes his toes to knead into the unyeilding stone underfoot; a shiver to slither down his spine slow and drawn out. 

thickly, melkor swallows, trying to gather thoughts which have became cottony and consumed by her ministrations. tonttu? he croons out to her, awaiting her judgement with a shift of his weight, as if it might settle the low stoked fire in his loins elsewhere. instead, it spreads and he shifts his weight again, pressing against her ...wanting to be nearer still.