it's a sweet soft serenade

// and if i was the only thing you couldn't bear to lose,
i'd set fire to the wood, just so you wouldn't have to bury me too //

With news of the spread in Torchline and the announcement from Hotaru that she’d be arriving home before he has a chance to make it to Halo – there’s a small amount of relief in the fact he won’t have to stumble across the tundra in all of its terrible glory. There’s also the relief that Hotaru was healed before it had been enough of a problem for the Family to get involved. But it was also uncomfortable to know recall the way Vox’s voice had slithered into his mind, pronouncing his and Hotaru’s name as if they had been grand prizes, grand boons for the Family.

And he also knows that his region now knows it – not that he was intending on keeping it a secret, of course.

But he’s back home – in his region. And while he’d always left the gods alone for his internal problems, a part of him craves seeing Frey. To feel that belonging again. And so, it’s likely a first, but before the Flood even has a chance to stop by his home and to see Hotaru (anxiety spilling in his gut at just the thought of the reunion), he stops here first. Selfishly so.

“Frey.. I don’t usually call upon you unless it’s absolutely necessary, but.” His nose wrinkles and he heaves a soft sigh, kneeling in the snow at the shrine and watching the flame dance and burn away the surrounding cold, the light reflecting off the offerings brought – a few peaches purchased in Torchline before his return just for the occasion, a bunch of grapes, and a unique addition of pomegranates, given the season – Sunjata tilts his attention to the windchimes fluttering in the chilled breeze. “Do you have a second to just talk? If that’s okay?” He wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t show for such a ridiculous reason – but it’s the only thing he can think of to do to try and get his head on right.

He's theirs at the end of the day.

SUNJATA

The snow softens under the weight of Sunjata’s thoughts as his words dissolve into the chill air, but the shrine doesn’t stay silent for long. The flame flickers, sputters, then bursts outward—not violently, but with the warm swell of an embrace. The windchimes’ melody grows fuller, harmonizing with an unseen rhythm. A scent blooms amidst the frost, sweet as ripe fruit and heavy as summer. "Of course I have a second for you, gray-eyes," comes Frey’s voice, liquid gold with just a touch of smoke, teasing and tender. "More than that, even." They emerge not so much from the flame but as if the world itself gives them form. At first, they are golden-haired, their eyes a green that shifts and deepens like an emerald caught in sunlight. Their features hold an unmistakable echo of Hotaru’s grace and beauty, but their shape is fluid, ever-shifting, a masculine jawline softening into full lips, a curve at their hip flickering into lean muscle.

They tilt their head, studying him with an expression that’s equal parts affection and knowing. "Oh, darling boy, you’ve been through it, haven’t you?"

Stepping forward, Frey lifts one of the peaches from the offerings. They sink their teeth into it, the juice running over their fingers as their eyes never leave Sunjata. Then they kneel, the snow melting into lush grass beneath them, and hold the peach out toward him. "Here," they murmur, their tone coaxing but firm. "Can I tempt you with something sweet?"

// and if i was the only thing you couldn't bear to lose,
i'd set fire to the wood, just so you wouldn't have to bury me too //

Warmth flares in confirmation of his answer, the flame bursting from the shrine in an embrace more than anything dangerous. He relaxes imperceptibly with it, his nose filling with the scent of summer and ripe sweet fruits, the wind chimes becoming a harmonious sound that had Sunjata been religious growing up, he imagines this would be exactly why people were devout.

It’s why he’s here, truthfully. As Frey’s voice soothes the anxiety that swirls in his stomach, gentle waves erasing the rough waters that had led up to this. It’s evident as their form appears, too, that his tension alleviates from his shoulders, drooping as he sees the mixture of Hotaru’s face, blessedly without the too many eyes and teeth and just as beautiful as she always had, with the morphed changes that are reminiscent of Nate, in the muscle and sharp jaw lines, the hip that curves into even more muscle.

“Yeah. It’s been bad.” He admits, scarred brows pinching as he shuffles a little toward them when they retrieve the peach and bite into it. The offering is accepted, as is the craving for closeness, to belong again, to not feel so awful all the time. Gently taking the peach into his hand, he shuffles closer to where he can get into Frey’s space, boldly choosing to settle where he can press against his god’s side or shoulder or wherever they decide is best. “Please. I’d love something sweet.” He admits, lifting the peach to his lips, assuming that’s what it is, and takes a bite, mimicking Frey to let the juice from it drip against his chin into his scruffy beard.

SUNJATA

The grass beneath them softens further as Sunjata presses into Frey’s side, and their expression shifts into something achingly tender. A hand—calloused in one moment, silken in the next—reaches up to wipe the juice from his chin, their thumb grazing his beard with the casual intimacy of someone who’s known him far longer than time allows. "That’s better," they murmur, their voice a warm hum, a low tide lapping at the shores of his anxiety.

Frey takes another piece of fruit from the offerings, this time a cluster of grapes, and plucks one from the stem, holding it between their fingers. They offer it wordlessly, the green/blue of their eyes catching the firelight as they tilt their head, studying him. [says]"You know, gray-eyes, you could’ve called me sooner." The words are gentle, without reproach, their free hand tracing lazy patterns against Sunjata's shoulder, their touch feather-light but grounding. "You carry so much until it nearly breaks you...but here you are, still standing." The corners of their lips curve upward, their approval radiating like sunlight breaking through a storm.

The hand on his shoulder shifts, fingers trailing down his arm as they lean closer, their presence warm and intoxicating. "Take what you need, my darling one." They could guess, of course, but consent was one of the hallmarks of all of their relationships, and they'd not betray Sunjata's confidence simply by steamrolling through his autonomy.

The pomegranate catches their eye, and with a flick of their wrist, the fruit splits in two, its ruby seeds glistening like jewels in the firelight. "And if sweet is what you want…" Frey’s voice drops to a near purr as they hold it out to him, their features shifting slightly—Hotaru’s golden hair blending with Nate’s sharp angles in a way that feels seamless, perfectly balanced. "There’s more than just this that I can offer."

// and if i was the only thing you couldn't bear to lose,
i'd set fire to the wood, just so you wouldn't have to bury me too //

It is so much better. Comfort in all the ways he always craved, and the Flood finds he might be content with this if it was all that was on offer, just silently lingering at his god’s side, soaking in the attention. With the follow up statement and the smooth tender touch to his face to clean up the peach’s juice, it’s almost like he remembers once again how wholly he is theirs, how much he’d made the right choice. “I know.. I just don’t like being a burden or a pain.” He admits once he’s swallowed his bite, but he can feel the radiating approval and he basks in it.

As Frey leans in, Sunjata relaxes further, finding himself more and more at ease with the closeness of his deity, and it’s enough for the smile to curl on his scarred face, a small one that seems tired as it does appreciative. “Thanks.” He murmurs softly, shifting enough to wind his arm around the herald, tucking in close and feeling the swell of a smooth curve beneath his touch as he watches the flick of the wrist and the pomegranate as it splits in two, his steel gaze lifting to Frey’s striking face.

It returns to the pomegranate a second after, a silent what were you thinking of? expressed in the way he gently leans forward to take the pomegranate and subconsciously through his attuned bond, scooping some of the seeds onto his fingers before delving the sweet and juicy fruit into his mouth, his gaze lifting to his deity again.

SUNJATA

Frey watches with open delight as Sunjata relaxes into their touch, the shift subtle but unmistakable—the way his shoulders uncoil, the way his breath deepens, the way he reaches without hesitation now, curling an arm around them like he belongs there. Because he does. He always has. The tired edge to his smile, though, earns him a softer look, something far deeper than just affection.

"Burden?" they echo, shaking their head as they reach to brush a few stray strands of hair from his forehead. "You forget, my darling one, I don’t keep things that don’t please me." The warmth in their tone is absolute, unwavering, leaving no space for doubt.

There’s something knowing in their eyes as they watch him lift the pomegranate seeds to his lips, as he takes the fruit into his mouth. The deliberate movement, the slow indulgence—it pulls a pleased hum from Frey’s throat. The firelight catches the glisten of juice on his lips, and their own curl in approval. Beautiful, they think, though their thoughts are likely clear enough in the way they look at him, in the slow trail of their fingers down his arm, tracing veins, tattoos and scars alike with idle reverence.

As Sunjata leans forward, silent question in his eyes, and Frey leans with him. "Oh, gray-eyes," they purr, their voice a velvet thing, rich with promise. "I was thinking of… you."

Their fingers slip between his, catching one of the glistening pomegranate seeds and lifting it to his lips. "Take what you need," they murmur, their gaze dropping to his mouth, watching the way his breath shifts, the way his body anticipates before his mind can catch up.  Their thumb ghosts over his bottom lip as they press the seed against his tongue, lingering for just a moment too long.

"You always have been so reluctant to ask for what you need." Their free hand drags through his hair now, nails scraping lightly at his scalp, soothing and teasing all at once. The approval radiating from the deity isn’t just warmth—it’s something felt, something that seeps into the skin, into the blood, curling through the attuned bond with all the intimacy of a whispered secret. "You have been cleansed and yet...still it haunts you, mm?"

// and if i was the only thing you couldn't bear to lose,
i'd set fire to the wood, just so you wouldn't have to bury me too //

It’s a statement he should take more to heart — that if Frey didn’t want him, he wouldn’t be theirs. So obviously, regardless of his typical self deprecating thoughts and attitude, he has his perks. He’s important. He’s a demigod and he’s theirs. And he forgets that far more than he should. It’s the statement and the utmost approval spotted in his deity’s eyes, something that reminds him that he’s perfect as he is.

Their touch is featherlight as it is warm and comfortable along scars and tattoos and he leans into it as if he’s touch starved, despite very much feeling the opposite as of late, but it’s a touch he can’t help but to indulge in time and time again, only to blink at them when they say they were thinking about him. A soft snort leaves him, the tips of his ears flaring a touch red and warm with it as he looks away, looking back to see just as they snag the seed of the pomegranate from him and slip it between his lips.

A soft sigh passes from him as he gratefully takes the seed, tongue dancing along their finger for a few lingering moments in turn before he can snag the seed to bite into. “I know,” he starts to say as he focuses on the sensation of the hand through his hair, the light scratches against his scalp that have him shivering with delight. “I can still see it sometimes in my reflection. I know it’s gone, but.. I can see it in Hotaru, too. And it’s so much.” He pauses, biting back the slight whine his tone has taken, squeezing his arm around Frey a little as he heaves a small sigh. “I can tell when other people are infected and it’s helpful, but, it’s so fucking hard seeing it in her when I know she’s healed. I don’t know if it’s something we can stop without ruining my… detection of the full infected, I guess?” He puffs out a sigh before a thought occurs and he seems to simultaneously brighten and dim with it. “And the refuge was supposed to be safe for everyone but it doesn’t stop the Family. I just.. I don’t know what to do anymore.” Another point of worry, that it may be harboring his citizens as sitting ducks in case the Family were to invade.

SUNJATA

Frey listens, their expression shifting, liquid with thought, as Sunjata speaks. They do not interrupt, nor do they rush to fill the spaces between his words. Instead, they let him spill his worries, let him hold onto them for as long as he needs before they begin the slow work of untangling them.

"Ah, gray-eyes," they murmur, their hand never ceasing its slow, indulgent path through his hair. "All wounds leave ghosts behind. And some wounds—" Their fingers drift, tracing down his neck, over the sharp ridge of his collarbone. "—come with healing pains." They pause just long enough to pluck another pomegranate seed and press it to his lips, waiting until he takes it before continuing. "It is uncomfortable, yes. But it is also... knowledge. What you see now, the way the infection lingers in your sight even when it should be gone—it's a lesson as much as it is a curse. One that might serve you yet."

Their thumb brushes lightly against his jaw, coaxing his gaze back to them, back to the liquid green-blue depths of their knowing eyes. "But if you want it gone, darling, I can take it from you. I can smooth over the edges, wipe clean the stains left behind, make it so you never see it again." Their voice dips, something softer now, something edged with a quiet reverence. "But you must decide if that is what you truly want. Because it will take everything with it—your sight, your ability to know when others are infected, your understanding of what they carry."

They let the words settle, let him sit with them, before tilting their head, expression slipping into something more thoughtful. "As for the Refuge…" Their fingers ghost down his arm now, brushing over the scars of his past, over the weight of his present. "It should be a haven, shouldn't it?" Their voice carries something almost wistful, a quiet amusement beneath the thought. "And it can be. But to sever the Family’s grip, to make it so they cannot touch those inside, that will take more than a mere blessing."

They shift, languid and slow, their touch curling around his wrist, pressing lightly where his pulse beats. "To block them, to make the Refuge a true sanctuary, you would need the blood of one of the Family itself." The words are simple, but their meaning is anything but. Frey’s gaze sharpens, bright as firelight on a blade. "And that, my darling one, will not be easy to come by." They watch him then, waiting, letting the weight of the choice settle between them. "So tell me, my Flood," they murmur, fingers tightening ever so slightly around his wrist. "What do you want?" And if it was to be fucked into oblivion, well, Frey could provide that as well.

// and if i was the only thing you couldn't bear to lose,
i'd set fire to the wood, just so you wouldn't have to bury me too //

It might serve him in the future, that’s for sure. Especially if the more he sees it the less harsh his reactions are. A walking detector, one he can tell himself how to brace for. A true Frey phase of evolving, utilizing the changes for survival rather than the alternative of letting it drown him instead.

So he listens as he takes the pomegranate seed, to the incredibly valid points that his god brings up, swallowing hard against the truths that reach him in such a way that makes it make more sense rather than the tangled web his mind had flung them into. “I should keep it.” He decides steadily, unwavering with the idea. It was better to be a detector for everyone else than it was to be selfish and simply rid it because he couldn’t handle it. It wasn’t fair.

As for severing the Family’s bond to it, the Flood nods, realizing it’s exactly what he’s done before. Collected the blood of every race in order to make it. Another point that meant he should have known it wouldn’t have dulled their abilities before he even agreed to step foot in the fucking place to get infected in the first time. And, with the realization, comes the understanding that it would be tough as hell to get blood from them.

Sighing and nodding, he puts the thought away for later, ensuring he remembers it this time.

So now, what he wants, is to distract himself from the gaping hole it’s opened up in him, and he presses more into Frey’s side and the ghosting touches down his scarred and tattooed skin. “Distraction. Please.” He admits — the kind that only Frey could do. The one that came with such undeniable, godly bliss, he’d wonder why he’d prayed so stressed out in the first place.

SUNJATA

The shift is seamless; inevitable. Frey does not simply move, they flow, folding into Sunjata’s space like they were always meant to be there—like the space between them was never meant to exist in the first place. Their body drapes over his, all golden warmth and fluid curves, the press of their skin impossibly soft and impossibly firm, shifting between states as easily as the tide.

And then—nothing, and everything.

Sunjata’s clothes don’t fall away so much as dissolve, misting into the air as if they had never been there at all, leaving him bare beneath Frey’s hands, beneath their gaze, beneath the quiet, knowing hum of pleasure in their throat. He is theirs, and they intend to remind him of it.

The first touch is electric, a slow, aching press of heat that coils around him, that sinks into him in ways beyond the physical. Frey shifts—expands—and suddenly, they are wrapped around him, inside him, through him, the connection threading through every nerve, every inch of his body. They take him in and give him back in the same motion, a push and pull that should not be possible, that is not possible, except in this moment, with them.

They move like a tide, like something celestial, the rhythm of it inevitable, unrelenting, deep. It is not just physical; it is a claiming, a communion. Pleasure doesn’t build so much as erupt, unfurling through Sunjata in waves, cresting higher with each pulse of movement, each perfect, impossible twist of Frey’s body against his. They fit, not because they are shaped for him, but because they shape to him, knowing every need, every ache, every place inside him that begs for more before he even realizes it himself.

Their voice, when it comes, is a purr against the demigod's ear, a whisper that winds around his spine like a silken thread. "There you are, my Flood. Just like that." A slow drag, a roll of their hips, a pulse that flares deep inside him, tightening, tightening, winding him up so exquisitely that he might break from it.

They bring him to the edge of orgasm with practiced ease, with certainty, until his body is trembling against theirs, his breath ragged, the heat coiled so tight inside him he thinks he might burst apart from it. Frey watches him come undone with a slow, indulgent smile, their touch growing firmer, guiding, coaxing, as their mouth finds the shell of his ear.

"Now, darling," they murmur, their voice slipping into his bones, into the deepest, most hidden parts of him. "Give it to me. All of it." His pleasure, his fear, his uncertainty. Frey wanted all of it; all of him.

// and if i was the only thing you couldn't bear to lose,
i'd set fire to the wood, just so you wouldn't have to bury me too //

No one is truly honest when it comes to explaining what it was like to fuck a god. Or, more accurately, to be fucked by a god. Let alone the one whose entirety was about pleasure and reproduction and everything else. And Sunjata, a man who had gone most of his life under stress and abuse and manipulation and gaslighting, very rarely having the chance to simply let go and let be? The second it happens, it’s as if he erupts.

His moniker might be the Flood, but his name is just as accurate. He is both the Flood as Frey coils around him and through him, and the sun with all the spaces their being fills that burns away the dark that’s crept in. It’s a flash bang, but in a way that isn’t painful, that doesn’t hurt, that has him craving more and more and more until he thinks he might combust. Winding tighter and tighter with Frey and all the unhid sounds that escape him, burning brighter and brighter with each passing second and each roll of their hips.

Air both feels impossible yet so full in his lungs, shaking with anticipation and warmth and acceptance that he breaks, the sensation flooding through him and eclipsing everything that he’d wanted to ignore and get distracted from. He burns and burns until he can’t anymore, and the sweet swift release of Frey’s warm breath at the shell of his ear has him completely breaking, his orgasm racking through him with an intensity he thought he was prepared for, but isn’t.

It’s euphoric, in the way that he’s both so divinely free of his stress, too exhausted to think about it, the bliss so heavenly that he doesn’t realize that there are tears on his cheeks, leaking out of everything that’s weighed on his shoulders since he’d been healed of the infection and his mistakes leading up to it. It’s all gone, in warm salty streaks down his cheeks into the longer than stubble beard on his face and he collapses back into Frey’s warmth and embrace, panting hard and burying his face into their arm as he grips it tight. “Thank you.” He breathes in that shaky, trembly tone, the post bliss of his orgasm and the stress and weight being lifted from his shoulders.

~FIN

SUNJATA