Northstar Vale you've made a pig's ear

Valitúrë spoke, bovine, inelegant and oh, bother! The fairylight flits o’er, foolishly, flippantly leaving behind the gnarled, woven oak that had so benevolently allowed her to rest her weary head. Were she not so blundering, so bleary-eyed, she might have commended the tundrian's efforts on using the brawn of his beliefs to do away with any other sniveling vagrant. But! this Astynome, she liked;
and so it was that the faerie queene came to sidle 'round to the warlord's front.  “Must you be so terrible, my rook? I like her.”  Rubied brow writ with something petulant, appeasing,  “She is good.”

His trademark hum settling within her own throat  (he's cursed her!)  ... and she liked this looming look of her lover even more.

“I’ll be good for you,”
— even gussied up in a shawl of insomnolence, those talks with Tundra made now a weak parting of lips, tongue curled between teeth; breathy, breathless. Spoiled and pouting fatale wending plush mink ‘round the shoulders of a mobster’s son; not a care who-ever heard her sullying words:  “Let you drown in me,”  all low lashes and licking the ashes from his crass lips; getting off on her own words of whimsy. Quivering, tucked away in the little dark corner of their moment, their mess  –  hitch in her lungs, hitch in her skirts. Preying, praying; sleepy eyes, sultry eyes sidling o'er shoulder ... and not one bit affronted at this audience of theirs. Burlesque, vaudeville; that skinny showgirl, prancing down from stage by proffered, ask-no-more shoulders. The one from Romania that reignites the flame of the boy she's been warned about and pampers herself with the first drag:

“You will be good, will you nots, little gnome?”
Lambthing, nearly on her knees, almost purring, almost pleading; the nicotine breath of Melkor at velveteen ear her unraveling; smothering.