The rain doesn’t stop when Frey arrives. It parts.
Steam lifts in hazy spirals from the red river overhead, rising like incense from a body too warm to stay sleeping. For a breathless instant the world stills; not in reverence, but in anticipation. As though the forest already knows that something wild has stepped beneath its boughs.
Frey does not appear with thunder. They do not need to.
They arrive in the space between the hush and the heartbeat. Naked, of course—wholly, brazenly, gloriously so. Their skin seems to shimmer where the filtered light touches it, their form shifting subtly in the eye like something glimpsed in a dream: not fixed, not static, but tailored. Sharpened to suit. Made of everything Damien would most desire in a lover, whether he realises it or not. Hips, shoulders, lips, curves or hard lines; all fluid, all deliberate. Every inch of them is alive with invitation.
And with them comes need. Not theirs. His.
It bleeds in slowly, like colour in water—a low, humming tension that curls around Damien’s spine and sinks teeth into his pulse. The heat of it pools low and thick, undeniable. Not cruel. Just… inescapable. The air smells richer now. Wetter. Like something breathing open.
Frey barely glances at the carved hare. Their mouth curls, not in appreciation, but in something far more animal, something unimpressed. "Cute," they murmur, with the kind of tone usually reserved for things one outgrows. "But I prefer gifts with a little more life in them."
Their gaze finds Damien then, sharp and hungry behind the amusement. And when he asks about his axe, they tilt their head like a predator deciding whether to pounce. "Which one?" Frey asks, voice low and honey-warm, eyes dragging languidly downward to his groin. A brow lifts, deliberately. "The one you swing, or the one you play with?" Their grin, when it comes, is slow and knowing.
Damien rolled high enough on his own!
Steam lifts in hazy spirals from the red river overhead, rising like incense from a body too warm to stay sleeping. For a breathless instant the world stills; not in reverence, but in anticipation. As though the forest already knows that something wild has stepped beneath its boughs.
Frey does not appear with thunder. They do not need to.
They arrive in the space between the hush and the heartbeat. Naked, of course—wholly, brazenly, gloriously so. Their skin seems to shimmer where the filtered light touches it, their form shifting subtly in the eye like something glimpsed in a dream: not fixed, not static, but tailored. Sharpened to suit. Made of everything Damien would most desire in a lover, whether he realises it or not. Hips, shoulders, lips, curves or hard lines; all fluid, all deliberate. Every inch of them is alive with invitation.
And with them comes need. Not theirs. His.
It bleeds in slowly, like colour in water—a low, humming tension that curls around Damien’s spine and sinks teeth into his pulse. The heat of it pools low and thick, undeniable. Not cruel. Just… inescapable. The air smells richer now. Wetter. Like something breathing open.
Frey barely glances at the carved hare. Their mouth curls, not in appreciation, but in something far more animal, something unimpressed. "Cute," they murmur, with the kind of tone usually reserved for things one outgrows. "But I prefer gifts with a little more life in them."
Their gaze finds Damien then, sharp and hungry behind the amusement. And when he asks about his axe, they tilt their head like a predator deciding whether to pounce. "Which one?" Frey asks, voice low and honey-warm, eyes dragging languidly downward to his groin. A brow lifts, deliberately. "The one you swing, or the one you play with?" Their grin, when it comes, is slow and knowing.
Damien rolled high enough on his own!
FREY
