i am the man we both couldn't stand, i can't wash the dirt from my hands
what was it like to feel in love?
How many times can he think about how shit the blight is before it’s over? The answer?
Too many to count.
A hiss of air leaves between his clenched teeth as she brings up an old argument, old enough to bring him back to the smell whiskey and cigarette smoke in an underground fighting rink, the iron rings of blood in the air. It’s almost the same, minus the whiskey, minus the way Caido and the Glade smells. It’s certainly no Korofi bar.
“You’re not a toy, Lusea.” His voice is rough, honest, deep in his frustration at himself. “You never have been.” No, the one that had alluded him for reasons much like this, uncertain how a fucked up noble boy could handle a girl from the slums in her entirety, in their priorities, it had taken months to win her over. And he’s certain he’s ruined it all in a night full of regret and frustration, of sickness and alcohol.
He breaks his gaze from her to rub his hand along his cheekbones as she sits up, knees still drawn to his chest, he doesn’t know what he can possibly do or say that could make any of it okay. Because it isn’t okay, it never would be. But his heart still races with the sounds she made him hear, and he knows deep down where his insecurities lay, beneath the hardened exterior of a man that pretends to know exactly what he wants in life.
He can tell that she looks at him, but a part of him breaks as his head turns, the hand rubbing by the scar that’s near his main artery of his neck, but just far enough to ensure that he lived when she didn’t. And he visibly winces when she calls him princeling. She’s reaching for the insults deep in his memories, and he can’t find it in him to blame her, but it still fucking sucks.
“Alright.” He concedes, hands dropping from his neck to the blanket they sit upon. “I will.” A quiet vow, a promise, willing to do everything it would take to keep her there. And he figures a few steps is ensuring he returns to how he once had been — the storm, the floods to her flame. Not the man who had first joined the resistance, uncertain and broken hiding behind pretty smiles and suave words.
Too many to count.
A hiss of air leaves between his clenched teeth as she brings up an old argument, old enough to bring him back to the smell whiskey and cigarette smoke in an underground fighting rink, the iron rings of blood in the air. It’s almost the same, minus the whiskey, minus the way Caido and the Glade smells. It’s certainly no Korofi bar.
“You’re not a toy, Lusea.” His voice is rough, honest, deep in his frustration at himself. “You never have been.” No, the one that had alluded him for reasons much like this, uncertain how a fucked up noble boy could handle a girl from the slums in her entirety, in their priorities, it had taken months to win her over. And he’s certain he’s ruined it all in a night full of regret and frustration, of sickness and alcohol.
He breaks his gaze from her to rub his hand along his cheekbones as she sits up, knees still drawn to his chest, he doesn’t know what he can possibly do or say that could make any of it okay. Because it isn’t okay, it never would be. But his heart still races with the sounds she made him hear, and he knows deep down where his insecurities lay, beneath the hardened exterior of a man that pretends to know exactly what he wants in life.
He can tell that she looks at him, but a part of him breaks as his head turns, the hand rubbing by the scar that’s near his main artery of his neck, but just far enough to ensure that he lived when she didn’t. And he visibly winces when she calls him princeling. She’s reaching for the insults deep in his memories, and he can’t find it in him to blame her, but it still fucking sucks.
“Alright.” He concedes, hands dropping from his neck to the blanket they sit upon. “I will.” A quiet vow, a promise, willing to do everything it would take to keep her there. And he figures a few steps is ensuring he returns to how he once had been — the storm, the floods to her flame. Not the man who had first joined the resistance, uncertain and broken hiding behind pretty smiles and suave words.
i can't scrub the black from my lungs
SUNJATA
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.
