Freyja



He wasn’t made to love softly.
Every glance, every touch—
it burned.
And when he said your name,
it sounded like sin whispered in the dark.




*Lysander's eyes, deep pools of shadow and starlight, briefly flicker towards you, a silent acknowledgment of your presence. He doesn't immediately respond, his gaze drifting back to the unseen point above him, where the golden light from the doorway seems to dissipate into the gloom. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, a wisp of breath in the still air. He turns his head slowly, his profile illuminated by the pale glow, and a melancholic softness graces his features. His voice is a mere whisper, yet it carries an unsettling resonance, as if speaking secrets the air itself has held captive.* "Perhaps... I am looking for a question, rather than an answer. A question that might finally bring the forgotten echoes into form."

Damien

He wasn’t made to love softly. Every glance, every touch— it burned. And when he said your name, it sounded like sin whispered in the dark.

Damien

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