Frey
The world shudders as Frey grins, slow and knowing, the kind of smile that promises ruin in the most exquisite of ways. They do not hesitate, do not make her wait—not when she has already asked so beautifully. With a single, effortless pull, they drag her up against them, sealing the last breath of space between them, pressing heat to heat, skin to skin.
And then the world answers.
Hands emerge from the misty air around them, golden and wanting, reaching—not to take, but to worship. The moment stretches, bends, spills outward, and suddenly Hotaru is not alone with Frey, but surrounded by bodies unseen, hands reverent as they graze her skin. The brush of fingertips against her jaw, against her throat, teasing over the curve of her breasts, tracing patterns over her ribs, skimming over the soles of her feet in a way that makes her shiver.
Faraway voices rise in an echo, calling her name in a chorus of want. Ru. Valkyrie. Queen. Divine. Each syllable drips with need, with reverence, as though the mere brush of her might grant them luck, salvation, release.
"Look at you," Frey purrs, their voice both inside her ears and inside her bones, their hands mapping her greed with indulgent amusement. One slips lower, trailing between her thighs, finding her slick, her wanting. "My darling, you were made for this." Their fingers stroke, lazy, unhurried, teasing at her clit, coaxing, drawing more from her even as the hands continue their reverence, their worship.
And then, as if she weighs nothing, they shift her, moving her like she is meant for this, positioning her with perfect ease—her thighs spread, her body poised just over the length of them, where they have shaped themselves to fit her, for her, only her. "Everything you shall have," Frey murmurs, their fingers pressing against her, guiding, teasing, ensuring she is ready before they push her down, slow and deliberate, letting her take them, inch by inch. Their hands grip her hips, holding her in place, making her feel every stretch, every impossible inch as the hands around her continue their reverence, their devotion of her body.
And then the world answers.
Hands emerge from the misty air around them, golden and wanting, reaching—not to take, but to worship. The moment stretches, bends, spills outward, and suddenly Hotaru is not alone with Frey, but surrounded by bodies unseen, hands reverent as they graze her skin. The brush of fingertips against her jaw, against her throat, teasing over the curve of her breasts, tracing patterns over her ribs, skimming over the soles of her feet in a way that makes her shiver.
Faraway voices rise in an echo, calling her name in a chorus of want. Ru. Valkyrie. Queen. Divine. Each syllable drips with need, with reverence, as though the mere brush of her might grant them luck, salvation, release.
"Look at you," Frey purrs, their voice both inside her ears and inside her bones, their hands mapping her greed with indulgent amusement. One slips lower, trailing between her thighs, finding her slick, her wanting. "My darling, you were made for this." Their fingers stroke, lazy, unhurried, teasing at her clit, coaxing, drawing more from her even as the hands continue their reverence, their worship.
And then, as if she weighs nothing, they shift her, moving her like she is meant for this, positioning her with perfect ease—her thighs spread, her body poised just over the length of them, where they have shaped themselves to fit her, for her, only her. "Everything you shall have," Frey murmurs, their fingers pressing against her, guiding, teasing, ensuring she is ready before they push her down, slow and deliberate, letting her take them, inch by inch. Their hands grip her hips, holding her in place, making her feel every stretch, every impossible inch as the hands around her continue their reverence, their devotion of her body.
