Frey
Frey laughs, a rich, indulgent sound that seems to seep into the very air, thickening it like honey, sweetening it like wine. "Ask? Or beg?" Their voice hums against her skin, a whisper and a promise, something that will curl low in the belly, something that makes the air ache with anticipation. Their hands, weightless and decadent, roam the length of her body, skimming over the silk-heat of her skin as though memorizing every contour, every nerve that sings for them. But they do not rush. No, Frey is a god of pleasure, of indulgence, of teasing things to their breaking point before granting release.
"But you know me," they murmur, lips brushing against her jaw, against the pulse fluttering at her throat. "I always prefer to give, rather than take." And with that, the string she so conveniently pressed into their touch dissolves, slipping away like mist on the morning tide, baring her breasts to the warm air, to their molten gaze.
"Much better." Their fingers trace feather-light circle are the Valkyrie's nipples, skimming over skin that tightens deliciously under their touch. They lean in, breath warm against her ear as their hand lowers down, their touch drifting between her parted thighs, slow, agonizing, deliberate.
"Oh go on," they murmur, their voice a decadent hum against her pulse, "be crass." A roll of their hips, a press of heat that settles against her, their shape shifting between states and different physical manifestations.
"But you know me," they murmur, lips brushing against her jaw, against the pulse fluttering at her throat. "I always prefer to give, rather than take." And with that, the string she so conveniently pressed into their touch dissolves, slipping away like mist on the morning tide, baring her breasts to the warm air, to their molten gaze.
"Much better." Their fingers trace feather-light circle are the Valkyrie's nipples, skimming over skin that tightens deliciously under their touch. They lean in, breath warm against her ear as their hand lowers down, their touch drifting between her parted thighs, slow, agonizing, deliberate.
"Oh go on," they murmur, their voice a decadent hum against her pulse, "be crass." A roll of their hips, a press of heat that settles against her, their shape shifting between states and different physical manifestations.
