The air answers him before the god does—warm and damp, fragrant with crushed blossoms and something deeper, muskier, more intimate. It coils low, rising like steam off the water and curling through the petals at Mateo’s feet, thick with promise. The leaves above stir without wind. The statue gleams. The world notices.
And then Frey arrives.
Not walking, not stepping—unfolding. Peeling into existence like a secret too rich to keep. One moment, there is only twilight and silence. The next, there is them.
They are, as always, nude. But more than that—designed— just for Mateo. Skin golden and radiant, glistening like honey poured over marble. Their form is fluid in its perfection, curves and lines shifting with slow, hypnotic grace, gender a suggestion rather than a boundary. Their hair tumbles in a tousled crown of spring blossoms and shadow, their eyes bright with amusement and heat both.
"Delayed gratification," Frey drawls, voice low and decadent, curling like smoke in the back of the throat. "Now there’s a phrase after my own heart."
They stroll barefoot through the water, not disturbing a single ripple, crouching languidly in front of the kneeling boy with all the air of a lioness deciding whether to tease or devour. Their fingers trail along his palm—an idle caress, a spark of sensation that travels all the way down his spine. "You’ve kept me waiting," they murmur, though there's no real scorn in it. Only pleasure at the fact that finally, he’s come. "But if you’re bringing cherries, cream, and completion, I suppose I can forgive you."
Their gaze sharpens, curious now as they rise again to their full, towering height, trailing fingertips along the curve of Mateo’s jaw. "So. Tell me what you've done. Show me what you’ve learned. And let’s see just how good your timing really is."
And then Frey arrives.
Not walking, not stepping—unfolding. Peeling into existence like a secret too rich to keep. One moment, there is only twilight and silence. The next, there is them.
They are, as always, nude. But more than that—designed— just for Mateo. Skin golden and radiant, glistening like honey poured over marble. Their form is fluid in its perfection, curves and lines shifting with slow, hypnotic grace, gender a suggestion rather than a boundary. Their hair tumbles in a tousled crown of spring blossoms and shadow, their eyes bright with amusement and heat both.
"Delayed gratification," Frey drawls, voice low and decadent, curling like smoke in the back of the throat. "Now there’s a phrase after my own heart."
They stroll barefoot through the water, not disturbing a single ripple, crouching languidly in front of the kneeling boy with all the air of a lioness deciding whether to tease or devour. Their fingers trail along his palm—an idle caress, a spark of sensation that travels all the way down his spine. "You’ve kept me waiting," they murmur, though there's no real scorn in it. Only pleasure at the fact that finally, he’s come. "But if you’re bringing cherries, cream, and completion, I suppose I can forgive you."
Their gaze sharpens, curious now as they rise again to their full, towering height, trailing fingertips along the curve of Mateo’s jaw. "So. Tell me what you've done. Show me what you’ve learned. And let’s see just how good your timing really is."
