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?
He’s always been a broken man, only in Korofi it was easier to hide it, easier to deal with it, when the only things you had to worry about were the hidden rebels and fighting back against the system. Here? He had hardly anything to focus on, hardly anything worth keeping his mind from racing back to the dark places he’s fought so long to keep it from. And when Lusea had left? When she had died? A piece of him went with her.
And even though she’s back, he’s not the same. He doesn’t have that piece of him back. He might never have that piece back again.
Could they still fit together, even if the puzzle pieces were warped and bent? He hoped so. It was all he could hope for. And he releases a shuddering breath when her hand reaches for his cheek, the crooning voice. He had expected more fire, had expected more than just the one punch gods knew he deserved it. But when she speaks further, his brows furrow slightly, the blood continuing to drip from his lip in smaller amounts as it begins to clot.
And she wraps her hands into his hair, pulling him sharply close, head shifting to where her lips are at his ear, and he listens for her – no protest. But her voice grows sharp, piercing, daggerish, and he clenches his teeth, another ragged breath of an inhale settling in his lungs. And what she says is the thing he fears the most, immediately trying to figure out what the fuck he’ll do without her – he had managed before, but it had been different. She had died and they were in love –
Maybe it had changed her too, and these puzzle pieces don’t fit as well as they used to.
There’s a sound, then, that he can hear. Muffled at first, quiet, and for a moment he tries to ignore it until her lips remain at his ear and he can hear one of his deepest fears. His eyes shudder, hands grabbing a fistful of the blanket beneath her as he hovers above her, jaw clenched until it hurts and throbs. Those sounds, he knows those sounds, so intimately. But the other – they’re not his. Someone else, giving her what he had always given her. And he tries to shake his head, but he can’t as she keeps her hands in his hair, keeping him there, pinned just as he pins her. “Stop.” He manages through clenched teeth, ragged and shaking. His arms, aside from his hands, certainly do begin to tremble more.
Plenty of realizations have been made today, but this one is probably the hardest one. In his moment of weakness, ironically one of his biggest fears – she too had those fears. And he hadn’t cared, hadn’t dared to think about what it would be like for her. But to have experienced it, to have heard it – he feels nauseous.
She lets him go and he looks to her first, silver eyes sharp and narrow, piercing and hollow – shadowed and just as much defeat as her own, just to ensure that she’s there before him and not fucking someone else, before he pushes away from her – leaving her there. She doesn’t want to punish him, but he wants her to do literally anything else but that. How had she even done it in the first place? “Fuck.” He manages, his breath heavy as he sits up away from her, hands reaching for his face to rub at his temples and cheekbones, the large scar from the night she’d died on full view for her from this angle. “What the fuck was that.” It’s flat, exhausted; he can’t say anything about it, because it was exactly what he actually did, but how did she do it?
He can’t even look at her, his mind too jumbled, confused, frustrated, scared deep down to be certain of what he’ll do if he does look at her.
And even though she’s back, he’s not the same. He doesn’t have that piece of him back. He might never have that piece back again.
Could they still fit together, even if the puzzle pieces were warped and bent? He hoped so. It was all he could hope for. And he releases a shuddering breath when her hand reaches for his cheek, the crooning voice. He had expected more fire, had expected more than just the one punch gods knew he deserved it. But when she speaks further, his brows furrow slightly, the blood continuing to drip from his lip in smaller amounts as it begins to clot.
And she wraps her hands into his hair, pulling him sharply close, head shifting to where her lips are at his ear, and he listens for her – no protest. But her voice grows sharp, piercing, daggerish, and he clenches his teeth, another ragged breath of an inhale settling in his lungs. And what she says is the thing he fears the most, immediately trying to figure out what the fuck he’ll do without her – he had managed before, but it had been different. She had died and they were in love –
Maybe it had changed her too, and these puzzle pieces don’t fit as well as they used to.
There’s a sound, then, that he can hear. Muffled at first, quiet, and for a moment he tries to ignore it until her lips remain at his ear and he can hear one of his deepest fears. His eyes shudder, hands grabbing a fistful of the blanket beneath her as he hovers above her, jaw clenched until it hurts and throbs. Those sounds, he knows those sounds, so intimately. But the other – they’re not his. Someone else, giving her what he had always given her. And he tries to shake his head, but he can’t as she keeps her hands in his hair, keeping him there, pinned just as he pins her. “Stop.” He manages through clenched teeth, ragged and shaking. His arms, aside from his hands, certainly do begin to tremble more.
Plenty of realizations have been made today, but this one is probably the hardest one. In his moment of weakness, ironically one of his biggest fears – she too had those fears. And he hadn’t cared, hadn’t dared to think about what it would be like for her. But to have experienced it, to have heard it – he feels nauseous.
She lets him go and he looks to her first, silver eyes sharp and narrow, piercing and hollow – shadowed and just as much defeat as her own, just to ensure that she’s there before him and not fucking someone else, before he pushes away from her – leaving her there. She doesn’t want to punish him, but he wants her to do literally anything else but that. How had she even done it in the first place? “Fuck.” He manages, his breath heavy as he sits up away from her, hands reaching for his face to rub at his temples and cheekbones, the large scar from the night she’d died on full view for her from this angle. “What the fuck was that.” It’s flat, exhausted; he can’t say anything about it, because it was exactly what he actually did, but how did she do it?
He can’t even look at her, his mind too jumbled, confused, frustrated, scared deep down to be certain of what he’ll do if he does look at her.
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.
