The shrine hums—not loud, but deep and warm, like a purr building in the chest of something divine. The wind chimes stir despite the stillness, and the Longheat air thickens, not with heat, but with presence. That soft bloom of arousal curls low in the belly, subtle and undeniable, as though the body recognizes what the mind has not yet named. And then Frey arrives.
They don’t descend or stride—they appear, sun-gold and silk-limned, bare and unashamed, skin dewed with the glow of pleasure and power. Their form shifts even as it settles, meeting the eyes of both visitors with the kind of lazy, attentive allure that sinks into the bones. Broad shoulders, curved hips, warm eyes, knowing smile—everything about them shaped to draw want, to offer yes without speaking it aloud.
They kneel in front of the shrine, uncaring of stone or dust, and scoop the floppy border collie puppy into their arms with a grin that radiates through the garden. "Now this," they purr, cradling the pup against their chest, "is how you get my attention." The little creature snuffles against their skin, promptly beginning to doze off with the contentment of the very young and very loved. Frey lets it nestle there as they turn their head slowly, looking toward the cucumber still lying beside the shrine. A brow arches. Then they look to Colt.
"And this," they murmur, tapping a finger thoughtfully to their lips, "tells me a very different story." Their gaze lingers on her, playful and intrigued. "So tell me, little hunter. Do you want your quest shaped in the image of the puppy—joy, instinct, and play?" A slow, sensuous roll of their shoulder, the puppy cooing faintly against their chest. "Or in the shape of the cucumber—creative, fun, fresh." Their brow arches again as they glance, deliberately and wickedly, to the side. "Sunjata,"” they drawl with open approval, eyes trailing over the Flood with affectionate hunger. "You’ve clearly been a good influence."
Then, back to Colt, their grin curling slow and promising. "Which path do you want, mm? Either way, I promise it’ll leave a mark."
They don’t descend or stride—they appear, sun-gold and silk-limned, bare and unashamed, skin dewed with the glow of pleasure and power. Their form shifts even as it settles, meeting the eyes of both visitors with the kind of lazy, attentive allure that sinks into the bones. Broad shoulders, curved hips, warm eyes, knowing smile—everything about them shaped to draw want, to offer yes without speaking it aloud.
They kneel in front of the shrine, uncaring of stone or dust, and scoop the floppy border collie puppy into their arms with a grin that radiates through the garden. "Now this," they purr, cradling the pup against their chest, "is how you get my attention." The little creature snuffles against their skin, promptly beginning to doze off with the contentment of the very young and very loved. Frey lets it nestle there as they turn their head slowly, looking toward the cucumber still lying beside the shrine. A brow arches. Then they look to Colt.
"And this," they murmur, tapping a finger thoughtfully to their lips, "tells me a very different story." Their gaze lingers on her, playful and intrigued. "So tell me, little hunter. Do you want your quest shaped in the image of the puppy—joy, instinct, and play?" A slow, sensuous roll of their shoulder, the puppy cooing faintly against their chest. "Or in the shape of the cucumber—creative, fun, fresh." Their brow arches again as they glance, deliberately and wickedly, to the side. "Sunjata,"” they drawl with open approval, eyes trailing over the Flood with affectionate hunger. "You’ve clearly been a good influence."
Then, back to Colt, their grin curling slow and promising. "Which path do you want, mm? Either way, I promise it’ll leave a mark."
