Frey
Frey smiles, and it’s the kind that warms every shadow inside the body—the kind that slips beneath scars and skin alike. "It is better," they agree, voice as soft as a moan beneath sheets, as heavy as dusk-laden heat. "Growth looks good on you, darling."
Their hand lingers against his cheek as he leans into it, fingers threading once through his hair, affectionate and indulgent. When he thanks them, when he looks up with that smile that once held grief and now glows like homecoming, Frey lets their gaze soften too—though the fire never leaves it. "You’re welcome, my Flood. And I’ll be waiting."
But then comes the question—the extra thought, the uncertainty. And for that, Frey’s smile takes on a sharper curve. Not cruel, but knowing. Ancient. True. "What should you know?" they echo, stepping back just enough to let the warmth stretch between them like a tether. "You are a demigod of me, Sunjata. Of life. Of nature. Of pleasure."
Their body shifts slightly, skin dappled with golden light through invisible leaves, like a god standing at the centre of all gardens—fertile, wild, unbothered by rule. "And nature," they continue, "doesn’t survive because it is right. It survives because it wants to. Because it reaches for what feeds it, no matter what burns along the way." Frey bends again, their thumb tracing the bow of his lip with reverence. "Take that however you like, my love. But don’t forget—" their voice drops to a purr, "no one has ever praised a rose for its thorns being heroic. "
A final press of their lips to his forehead, sun-warm and honey-slick, and then the shrine is empty again—except for the heat in his chest and the scent of something blooming behind him.
~FIN
Their hand lingers against his cheek as he leans into it, fingers threading once through his hair, affectionate and indulgent. When he thanks them, when he looks up with that smile that once held grief and now glows like homecoming, Frey lets their gaze soften too—though the fire never leaves it. "You’re welcome, my Flood. And I’ll be waiting."
But then comes the question—the extra thought, the uncertainty. And for that, Frey’s smile takes on a sharper curve. Not cruel, but knowing. Ancient. True. "What should you know?" they echo, stepping back just enough to let the warmth stretch between them like a tether. "You are a demigod of me, Sunjata. Of life. Of nature. Of pleasure."
Their body shifts slightly, skin dappled with golden light through invisible leaves, like a god standing at the centre of all gardens—fertile, wild, unbothered by rule. "And nature," they continue, "doesn’t survive because it is right. It survives because it wants to. Because it reaches for what feeds it, no matter what burns along the way." Frey bends again, their thumb tracing the bow of his lip with reverence. "Take that however you like, my love. But don’t forget—" their voice drops to a purr, "no one has ever praised a rose for its thorns being heroic. "
A final press of their lips to his forehead, sun-warm and honey-slick, and then the shrine is empty again—except for the heat in his chest and the scent of something blooming behind him.
~FIN
