[ They ate elves in Angband. Prisoners, usually, plated up for Morgoth in parody of a feast, their flesh as soft and tender as anything; best served with red wine, as was Sauron's preference. He smiles at the memory, nosing his way down Adar's neck to find a tendon to sink his teeth into, mercifully to do little more than send a bruising ache, holding him there with a hum before licking the reddened skin better. ]
My Arquenhuinë ...
[ Caresses slide south, fingers slipping a few inches beneath the band of breeches while another hand drifts further, a whisper's touch between the uruk's legs, not yet undressing him to see how he reacts. He imagines it has been a while since anyone (or thing) treated him so kindly. ]
no subject
My Arquenhuinë ...
[ Caresses slide south, fingers slipping a few inches beneath the band of breeches while another hand drifts further, a whisper's touch between the uruk's legs, not yet undressing him to see how he reacts. He imagines it has been a while since anyone (or thing) treated him so kindly. ]
Whom do you serve?