your hands are scarred from murder

SUNJATA

the flood

with every breath and every intake
tip toe further away

His lips continue their lazy traveling caress of her skin, pausing to murmur his comments of getting to know this Saiden person, and with it he spends the time relishing in her touches as well as halfway listening to what she says. The feathers flex again and again with goosebumps as she trails her hand to his hair then down to his spine again, and his kisses pause along the column of her neck at the revelation of the man having magic too.

For a moment Maea might feel his lip curl slightly, before he exhales a hot breath against her shoulder, resting his stubbled cheek against her skin in the crook of her neck. “My shifts aren’t very useful against magic yet, so I’ve found.” He says, though it’s hard to tell if there’s some bitterness in it — that when it came to the power of the elements, he was essentially useless, and a part of that bothers him.

But her hand trails down his side, over his scars, and Sunjata leans into the touch as he keeps her close as he can, shifting his hip to press the side of it into her hand further as he resettles. “I finished the shrine, by the way. Safrin gave me a new shift I think…” He hums against her skin.

further away from this mistake
i'm no savior, i'm no saint