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 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.
