#frysse

ever the loyal dog, he meets her with no resistance.

she knows, she must know how much he loves her, and it makes her heady and erratic as the lines of her palms slip under the lapels of his coat. it tacks onto his lips when she bestows her inviolability upon him, dulcet and sickeningly sweet as it seeps into the spaces between his canines. she tastes so beautiful, effervescent in the dawning of his dreaming daybreak, very undeserved — but her wolf is naught but a predator to a feeding, and entitlements she does not consider among the trivialities of her possessions — so feed, she does.

❝ we shouldn't be doing this ... your majesty. ❞ he whispers against the edge that splits her face, delicate and dusted in the rose wine he savors; there's no urgency to the underline of his voice, no conviction. she may question if he means it, because levi's never cared about propriety before, and less so when it involved the eclipse of his longing. she's a wonderful lover, but cruel in her own machinations, stringing his fascinations and designs with the expert ease of a monarch who knows her place upon the arch of sensibility. such royalty shares its profundity in the divine, and in the pit of his stomach. he's powerless to withstand and she's coy in its consideration, that wicked curve tantalizingly close to his own. ❝ someone will see us. ❞ he tries again, less abiding. unspoken questions are spun in the cavern of his throat, tensions slipping as her wandering hands clasp behind his neck.

his pulse is thready against the shell of his ear,  heart stuttering as it erupts. it's a wild thing blooming in his chest, the only proof of temporality ... and it feels like a gutted corpse left to seep into the space.   an altar of dead things in a citadel far removed.  he doesn't remember a time where his tongue didn't split in his mouth  but @frysse's arrival placates him, delivers him to a place where he actually feels as though redemption can take root in him where that monstrous heart of his rests. though it's idle dreaming, wishful desire at best, there must be an acknowledgement to the birth of hope where he otherwise wouldn't have it. she is a cardinal brush of wintered wildfire,   the genesis of his humanization;   she releases him into a respite,   however brief, and the wolf bores into her with all the sensitivity afforded to him as she takes her place to his left.

❝  good morning,  your majesty.  ❞

" f— forgive me, i just . . . " half genuine and half exaggerated insecurity. he remembers to redirect his gaze to the floor at last, cease his impolite staring. he probably shouldn't be speaking to someone of her status at all. " i've never seen anything like this. " the hall, her presence, or maybe all of it at once. and that is a genuine truth.

WHAT A CHARMING SIGHT, : ATTENTION STOLEN AS SHE WALKS THROUGH THE LARGE DOORS ... &. though those 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒 are decorated by an enchanting smile, it does not remove the mischievous edge to it. she attends this hosted event as a representitive of the house hardy, she is the only one who is capable. ( long gone are the days she could hold her father's hand, as they attended these grand events. ) OBSERVANT EYES TAKE A QUICK GLANCE OF HER SURROUNDINGS, subtle with this act : until they fixate upon the prize at the end of the hall, standing before the throne. ... echoes of the clicks of her heels drown into the surrounding sounds, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃! ( she makes sure of that. ) THERE IS A CERTAIN GLIMMER TO HER GAZE, one this MYSTERIOUS ENIGMA won't allow anyone to wrap a finger around. ... standing just few feet away from the queen's figure, she performs a graceful bow of her head. ❝ your highness, ... ❞ title mixes with a greeting, SILVERTONGUE SMOOTHLY ROLLING THE WORDS OFF IT.

his nose was currently broken, bloodied. his fists carried the very same daunted destruction. peeled skin, and distorted dermis not yet healed. they needed the money, and he enjoyed the physicality of fighting without his curse gifts. it helped him feel alive. seeing the evidence of life on his hands and body like a bruised canvas.

the way they'd both have lived through the many centuries. no martyr, nor master — it didn't matter in this life, what they were or who he had been. the earth cried, the people scavenged. joy seemed a far off dream. but he had also become bleak, letting himself desaturate. ❝ don't be angry with me.. i won. but i noticed ( @frysse ) you weren't there. ❞ frown etches into scuffed lip. he was high on adrenalin. ( yet somehow he managed a softness reserved purely for her. ) having won all of his matches and coming out the victor of the nights festivities.

a man with weaker hearing would have missed it, but he felt the vibrations of her voice piercing the night like a stitch. through the fog of smoke, a contemplative brow, and a book weighty in his hands when sleep eluded him, the circus art of his mind had kept him wanting and willing for more. this was a maze of his own making, where his thoughts took him far and near from home all the same; the ripe ambition of where a knife fit, the enemies sequestered to the shelves like readings to be completed, and the narrowness of this flat, eliminating space as if it made it safer to traverse. ❛ elsa? ❜ she had put her hands to his face yesterday, tried to wring the suspicions of the world from his mind (which, and he'd told her this, is what he had suspected too, thus proving her point with a smile), but countering no success, he had nearly laughed.

now his suspicions lurch elsewhere: what was frysse dreaming of without him, who did she dream of if not him?

ruffled, he rose from his perch in the lounge, where he had settled to avoid disrupting her. he had never been an easy, restful sleeper, always light in his attendance of dreams and ready to spring up if needed, which made for a sullen bed partner on tired nights. as he entered now, he took in the shape of her half buried under duvets, her hair loosed from their braid over a navy pillow. at last he'd caught the name of the paramour consuming her dreams. settling at her bedside, his brows furrowed contemplatively. he reached out, tentative, and touched his fingers to her shoulder first, head canted to catch the soft pinch of her expression. ❛ what's the matter with you? ❜ he said, without true bite. and with her back turned to him in sleep, he would lean by and close the short distance between them, until his mouth brushed the slant of her neck with a hum. ❛ haven't gone anywhere. i'm right here. ❜

THERE IS A PRIVATE JOY SHE HOLDS IN ENCOUNTERING FABLES; there is an even stronger joy when these fables carry a similar weight of time. she feel kinship like a budding flame, the center of her heart making itself clay. a final step is taken forwards...

❝  Diana Prince ( … ) i come on behalf of Paradiseos, of Themyscira... ❞ the golden crown tips forwards in a small bow, a cascade of black curls falling away from her shoulders, then resuming their position back against. the woman looks at the other ( @frysse ) with a shade of admiration, another shade of intrigue and interest. she meets the ice - blue gaze.

behind her, an assistant rustles through loose papers. the Ambassador continues to look forwards, towards the woman; her eyes refuse to waver, even as a man behind her ( dressed in a crisp black suit and even blacker sunglasses... dramatics, of course... ) reaches forwards with small box. it's a decorative thing, its exterior decorated with gold and red accents and its lid made of gauzy glass. the woman takes it in her hands and glances downwards at it, and the back at the other.