now take what i offer, straight up the nose, down the throat
it's a bearable bruise on your conscious
He can feel her temple resting along his shoulder and he bites the inside of his cheek again with a quiet sigh. He doesn’t trust his heart, hardly trusts his mind nowadays, and he isn’t sure what it leaves him with other than auto piloting around the hollowed grounds. She tells him not to fight it, and he shuts his eyes tight against the implications, that he’s always been a fighter, that he can become one again — but he doesn’t want to. He’s not fighting in this instance. He’s numbing, dulling the pain, piloting off of it for whatever it is he does. He doesn’t even know how to tell her that.
Instead he remains silent while she tugs at him to find a bed, and he shakes his head to her, rooted to the spot. If he were in his panther form his hackles would certainly be raised, and a break through the hangover just enough gives him time to tilt his head and look at her. “I’m not going to bed. It’s what? Early afternoon?” Some frustration slips through. “I get that I look and feel like shit but I don’t need to sleep it off.” He glances then to the bottle she’d given him and he raises his hands to rub at his face before he stands to face her, eyes shadowed and haunted. 'Don't go soft, don’t go soft, don’t go soft.’
“What are you here for?” He begins, arms folding along his chest. “Condolences? Or something else?” Wondering if he wants her to choose him again, head still fuzzy, mind still groggy and slow. He waits for her answer.
Instead he remains silent while she tugs at him to find a bed, and he shakes his head to her, rooted to the spot. If he were in his panther form his hackles would certainly be raised, and a break through the hangover just enough gives him time to tilt his head and look at her. “I’m not going to bed. It’s what? Early afternoon?” Some frustration slips through. “I get that I look and feel like shit but I don’t need to sleep it off.” He glances then to the bottle she’d given him and he raises his hands to rub at his face before he stands to face her, eyes shadowed and haunted. 'Don't go soft, don’t go soft, don’t go soft.’
“What are you here for?” He begins, arms folding along his chest. “Condolences? Or something else?” Wondering if he wants her to choose him again, head still fuzzy, mind still groggy and slow. He waits for her answer.
but don't it feel good? don't you feel calmer?
i am the way and the life in the best looking truth
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.
