𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙖

probably dead.

@testedsoul 
            
            What a funny little thing you are. You amuse me. Where were you when I needed a good laugh? 

@_D3V1LISH_  [oh! Okk! Ty for clarifying lol]

@toodledoodleem [hello deaaar!! No darling, I’m romanian, but my oc Frida is romanian with some german ancestors] 

@obsidiancrown 
            
            “I was a prostitute, before my coven found me.” Frida breathed out, moving her gaze towards the steaming  water. “My parents were farmers. They didn’t owned any land, we were six siblings.” the redhead sighed, running a wet hand through her braided hair. “I was the oldest sibling so I did what I naturally had to, bring food to the table.” she shrugged her shoulders, then finally looking again in his direction. 
            
            “No one wanted to marry me then, no church would accept me as a nun. I had no other option but to sell my body.”
            Yet, as she spoke one hand moved on Veytharion’s arm, her finger tips tracing slowly his golden veins. “It was easy for me, surprisingly.” the woman admitted. 
            
            Suddenly, Frida leaned into him, the tips of her lips slightly touching the shell of his ear. “I would kiss their neck.” then she kissed his neck. “I would whisper the dirty things they wanted to hear.” then she bit the lobe of his ear. “I would get undressed, putting on a show.” her voice sultry, her golden eyes shining brighter than ever before. 
            
            Then, out of sudden, she pulled away from him. Frida climbed the edge of the bathtub, her dress, due to the water, becoming like a second skin on her, revealing every curve of her body. “I’ll go change dragon.” the redhead spoke over her shoulder, a little smirk appearing on her face. 

he swallowed hard as she settled beside him, her head resting on the tub’s edge, her body so close he could feel the heat of her through the water. the wet dress molded to her, outlining every dip and rise, and it took every ounce of his control not to stare. not to touch. his hair burned deeper, the red now the color of fresh embers, betraying the storm inside him.
            
            “tell me,” he said, voice rough but gentle. “tell me the worst of it. i won’t flinch.” his fingers flexed against the obsidian, the only outward sign of the fire he was holding back. “you survived. that’s all that matters to me.”
            
            a pause. then, quieter, his voice thick with restraint: “but if you keep looking at me like that, phoenix…” his eyes flicked to her, gold bleeding into the steam, his hair a blazing warning. “i won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

veytharion’s breath hitched as she stepped into the bath, the water hissing where the damp silk of her dress brushed his skin. the fabric clung to her like a second skin, the emerald darkening to black where it pressed against her thighs, her waist, the swell of her chest. his hands twitched beneath the water, fingers curling into fists. not out of anger, but restraint. the strands of his hair, usually flickering like molten gold, deepened into a slow, smoldering red, the color of embers just before they catch.
            
            when her lips met his. soft, fleeting, a whisper of a kiss. his entire body locked. the runes beneath his skin flared gold, the heat between them spiking so sharply the water steamed. his exhale was rough, almost a growl, but he didn’t move. didn’t dare. not when she was this close, not when the scent of her. wine and smoke and something wild, filled his lungs like both poison and cure.
            
            “frida,” he managed, her name a prayer and a warning. his voice was rough, the sound of a man hanging by a thread. his gaze burned into hers, molten and dark, as she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. he wanted to grab her. to pull her onto his lap, to trace every scar, every new curve of her with his hands, his mouth. to claim her in a way that left no doubt, no space for the past or the future. just this. just her.
            
            but he didn’t.
            
            instead, he let his forehead rest against hers for the briefest moment, breath mingling between them. the red in his hair darkened further, a silent confession. “you don’t owe me purity,” he murmured, voice low and raw. “i don’t care about the others. they were never you.” his hands finally moved, but only to brush lightly against her waist, thumbs tracing the damp fabric clinging to her ribs. “and i’d take your nasty over anyone else’s perfect a thousand times over.”