felled in the night by the ones you think you love
they will come for you
She traces the scars, and his breath pauses with the feeling, wondering how many more new ones she’ll be finding and feeling, questioning and kissing. His hand meets the small of her back like she was made for him, molded to him, and he smiles as she reaches for his stubbled chin — fingers tracing over him like a statue she’s created. But she asks of her father, and he exhales slightly, smoldering steel softening a touch before he hums a mixed sound between pride and a touch of apprehension. “I did not see him before I left. He had a bounty on my head when word spread.” He tells her, honesty beneath the face of him. “But I saw the grams of him when I reached Dorobo—” He pauses, remembering the small broadcasts of sorts the countries had. “Howling like wolves from the rooftops while the world burned.” He finally says after a moment, edges of his lips quirking in a smirk.He doesn’t know when the last time he had a cigarette was, having stopped sometime between Dorobo and here, but he craves them like no tomorrow as her eyes meet his — smoldering dark hues, momentarily wondering where he can get some to indulge, for nostalgia with all the pieces in his board back into place.
His lips find hers, hungry and territorial, and she returns it — not before biting down on his lip enough to open the wound a small amount more, and he hums a soft growling sound to her as she does it, strong arms holding and roaming and touching. And he grins against her when her hands find his hair, his neck, catching her when she jumps onto him. Just like before.
Of course he catches her, he always does, and he presses her against the wall just enough to pin her there while she moans his name and he breaks away from the kiss long enough to remove his hands from her — begrudgingly — calloused hands reaching for his shirt, lifting it over his head and dropping it to the ground before he regards her, showing off a small amount, a tease. His body still has the same scars from before, but there are new ones too. She’ll find the scar above his hip that she had stitched up when someone had brought a knife to the boxing ring. She’ll find the edges of his tattoos along the tops of his shoulders, with a compass aimed directly at her in this present moment. She’ll find the small scar above his heart, that she had given him. “You are mine — don’t you ever fucking forget it.” She had said, and he wonders if the tiny blue mark still remains on her flesh too.
But ah, she has so many more scars than the last time he’d seen her, where once they were wounds they have now healed, and instead of soaking himself to the pale confines of his bones with her life’s blood, he finds her whole and well — his blood the war paint between them, however minimal it may be. He looks her over for a moment, wondering if he dares, if he’ll let her reach for the shift, for the coat, not caring they are in Phoebe’s home where he’d loved and caressed and fucked her. He has tunnel vision, and he finds his smoldering eyes lingering on her — hands strong and testing along her thighs as his head nears hers again.
“My flame.” He rumbles in return, hands slipping to cup her ass and tug at her own shirt, lips and teeth meeting her neck where he first kisses the scar that had taken her from him softly and gently, before growing deeper and hungrier the further he strays, biting hard in the space her shoulder and neck meet, he claims her, marking her. I am hers, she is mine. He leaves a small amount of blood on her, but the iron only adds to the sulfur of her body to him, igniting him deep within. His tongue slips out to caress the bite, to trail along her neck until he reaches her ear, playful bites along her earlobe. “God’s, how I’ve missed you.” A husky rumble, but the words hold so much more than they seem.
He missed her left hook, he missed the eyes that could sink ships, he missed the wildfire she had become, he missed her marks and her teasing, he missed her addictive kisses, her body he could rarely keep himself from, the fan to his flame — igniting, igniting, igniting. And like always, he was prepared to burn.
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.
