Frey
The peaches and cream barely get a chance to settle where Loren has placed them when they’re gone again, in the hands of the god Loren has visited so often. But there’s something different about the Frey who sits with their back to the Launceleyn, their bare feet dangling in the water. Fresh crimson blooms where their toes touch the water, and they glance over their shoulder to him, licking cream from their fingers.
There’s no flush of arousal, no charged sensuality in the air. This Frey is still everything Loren might wish them to be, but in place of sex there’s a sense of abundance, of just about to begin, of nurturing calm. ”I have no idea, honey,” they say, swinging their feet. ”Looks shiny, though. Where’d you get it?”
There’s no flush of arousal, no charged sensuality in the air. This Frey is still everything Loren might wish them to be, but in place of sex there’s a sense of abundance, of just about to begin, of nurturing calm. ”I have no idea, honey,” they say, swinging their feet. ”Looks shiny, though. Where’d you get it?”
