SUNJATA
i heard you telling lies
i heard you say you weren't born of our blood
i heard you say you weren't born of our blood
Hotaru’s soft words overlap with Nate’s outburst and he’s flinching slightly. He didn’t trust them. He doesn’t trust easily. He doesn’t trust because it always comes to bite him in the ass later. And it seems this has too. So he’s at a loss, closing in on himself in a weird chimera type of partial shift that has wings and scales, claws and lightning trying to swallow him up. He takes a steadying breath, the buzz of alcohol hitting him so suddenly in that moment he thinks he’s nauseous. But he tries to focus on Nate’s words.
He wants to protest and say he won’t die, but, even he isn’t so sure now. Not with the ichor of Safrin on his tongue, in his veins, in his very bones marked on skin and inside along his rib cage. No, he doesn’t know what will happen. So he closes off until he asks what to do, because he doesn’t know how to make it better, doesn’t know if he can. But he doesn’t want to stay if it causes a multitude of pain. He doesn’t want to leave if it does the same.
And so he asks, back against the wall and wings opened just enough to see them together, to think how much they deserved to have him leave if all he was going to do was cause them pain.
Hotaru doesn’t answer. It’s Nate’s voice, cutting through the thick of it. Cutting through him as he’s told what to do. And he will, entirely do that. He loves them enough that he’d do anything to try and fix what he’s done. Part of him considers it a major mistake, but the other half could never look at his soon to be child and think it. And so he says nothing, he just swallows hard, his wings droop and his legs give out and he, too, slides to the floor.
He watches that hand again, staticky and bright — so much like the Voice’s own that he clenched his jaw, tears his red rimmed eyes from it to look at Nate’s cold face.
It cuts through him again with Nate’s confirmation, that he still loves him. That Sunjata isn’t leaving and that they aren’t leaving. And it takes a second to hit him where it really matters. No forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve it anyway.
The Flood nods, just the once, before he’s letting that shuddering breath leave him as he draws his legs in against a freshly inked chest, as his blood stained hand rises to cover his eyes again, to rub at his face, his wings dropped and sullen and spread along the floor.
He wants to protest and say he won’t die, but, even he isn’t so sure now. Not with the ichor of Safrin on his tongue, in his veins, in his very bones marked on skin and inside along his rib cage. No, he doesn’t know what will happen. So he closes off until he asks what to do, because he doesn’t know how to make it better, doesn’t know if he can. But he doesn’t want to stay if it causes a multitude of pain. He doesn’t want to leave if it does the same.
And so he asks, back against the wall and wings opened just enough to see them together, to think how much they deserved to have him leave if all he was going to do was cause them pain.
Hotaru doesn’t answer. It’s Nate’s voice, cutting through the thick of it. Cutting through him as he’s told what to do. And he will, entirely do that. He loves them enough that he’d do anything to try and fix what he’s done. Part of him considers it a major mistake, but the other half could never look at his soon to be child and think it. And so he says nothing, he just swallows hard, his wings droop and his legs give out and he, too, slides to the floor.
He watches that hand again, staticky and bright — so much like the Voice’s own that he clenched his jaw, tears his red rimmed eyes from it to look at Nate’s cold face.
It cuts through him again with Nate’s confirmation, that he still loves him. That Sunjata isn’t leaving and that they aren’t leaving. And it takes a second to hit him where it really matters. No forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve it anyway.
The Flood nods, just the once, before he’s letting that shuddering breath leave him as he draws his legs in against a freshly inked chest, as his blood stained hand rises to cover his eyes again, to rub at his face, his wings dropped and sullen and spread along the floor.
i know we're the crooked kind
but you're crooked too, boy, and it shows
but you're crooked too, boy, and it shows
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
