Frey
Heat arrives before Frey does. It rolls in slow and low across the Rainbow Road, turning the air thick enough to taste, sweetened at the edges by fruit and mineral-warmed stone until every breath seems to drag satin over the back of the tongue. The cold retreats as if shamed by it, Deepfrost’s teeth blunted beneath the sudden bloom of something humid and wanton, lust made weather and arousal given weight enough to press against the skin. Colour seems to deepen around the shrine, the reds growing wet-dark, the golds molten, the violets bruised and lovely, while the offerings gleam as if touched by candlelight from within.
Frey appears as they always do, entirely unadorned and utterly unconcerned with it, their body shaped by whatever Hotaru’s desire knows before her mind has the chance to dress it in manners. There is nothing coy in the way they arrive, nothing performative in the ease of their nakedness; they are simply there, beautiful in the dangerous, intimate way hunger is beautiful when it has never once apologized for being hungry. For a moment their attention rests not on Hotaru, but on Andraste, and one elegant finger extends to stroke along the young dragon with slow, indulgent affection, as if even shame and uncertainty are things best answered first by touch.
Only then do they lower themselves before Hotaru, kneeling with the liquid grace of something divine choosing to make itself close enough to be breathed in. Their hand drifts toward the glass-blown bowl, and when they select one of the persimmons, they do not peel it, do not make it neat, do not pretend there is any virtue in denying the skin before reaching the sweetness beneath. Their teeth break through with a soft, obscene give, tearing into the bright flesh until juice gathers slick and golden at their mouth. Frey lets it bead there for a moment, their head tilting as their tongue, unhurried and shameless, catches the droplet from their lip.
"Oh?" they murmur, the single syllable warm enough to feel like fingers beneath the jaw, their smile curving with lazy interest as they look at her. "And what is it you think you’ve broken?"
Frey appears as they always do, entirely unadorned and utterly unconcerned with it, their body shaped by whatever Hotaru’s desire knows before her mind has the chance to dress it in manners. There is nothing coy in the way they arrive, nothing performative in the ease of their nakedness; they are simply there, beautiful in the dangerous, intimate way hunger is beautiful when it has never once apologized for being hungry. For a moment their attention rests not on Hotaru, but on Andraste, and one elegant finger extends to stroke along the young dragon with slow, indulgent affection, as if even shame and uncertainty are things best answered first by touch.
Only then do they lower themselves before Hotaru, kneeling with the liquid grace of something divine choosing to make itself close enough to be breathed in. Their hand drifts toward the glass-blown bowl, and when they select one of the persimmons, they do not peel it, do not make it neat, do not pretend there is any virtue in denying the skin before reaching the sweetness beneath. Their teeth break through with a soft, obscene give, tearing into the bright flesh until juice gathers slick and golden at their mouth. Frey lets it bead there for a moment, their head tilting as their tongue, unhurried and shameless, catches the droplet from their lip.
"Oh?" they murmur, the single syllable warm enough to feel like fingers beneath the jaw, their smile curving with lazy interest as they look at her. "And what is it you think you’ve broken?"
