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.
"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.
