SUNJATA
i'm drowning in all these voices in the sea
and meeting all my vices in the ring
and meeting all my vices in the ring
“No.” As it falls from her lips, he doesn’t look to her, unsure if he wants to know the answer to which part of this is the part she’s denying. He expects it to be all of it, the step granted toward her, the closing off from her that he does as his arms fold along her chest, the blame as it sets in deep and he internally scowls at the ring on his finger, the person back home he’d been attempting to avoid. No.
But he does look back at her with the desperation and sorrow clear along his face at the possibility of hurting her, of having never wanted or intended that, breaking ever so slightly as he focuses on her words that leave her lips. That she hadn’t wanted to stop him, and he hadn’t wanted to stop either, and how he curses internally at the predicament of how things were, caught up in a wash of uncertainty, breaking and ever so fleeting. What would it have been like to shift the course of his life so he didn’t agree to the wedding.
He had loved Phoebe once, long ago. But that part of him had become buried beneath the sand of the deepest ocean when this predicament fell upon them. And he’d tried, but somewhere he knew within that it wouldn’t work out. Because they never truly had. It was one thing or another that kept them close and kept them apart, and it should have remained that way. So when Maea says that she doesn’t want to hurt him, he can’t help but let his gaze linger on her — some sort of longing hidden beneath the rest.
A small nod is given when she suggests to remain friends, hoping he can contain himself enough for it to work. But the mention of whether he decides he doesn’t want the ring? Well, he looks at it then, fully looking at it, a heavy sigh sweeping over him at that. Hadn’t she heard him when he’d said he didn’t want it? Had never envisioned a life for himself that had him married to anyone? He frowns as he stares at the sapphire on his finger, wondering what would happen if he took it off. Wanting to try. “I’ve never wanted it.” He tells her hoarsely, honestly.
He looks back up to her then, his claws digging in still when she speaks, a quiet nod given as she says that she had fun, that he’d been successful in that venture of trying to get her to enjoy herself. But he can’t help but to ask, letting himself devour her with his gaze as though it were his last time. “Was that your first kiss?” He’s not sure why, but he wants to know.
But he does look back at her with the desperation and sorrow clear along his face at the possibility of hurting her, of having never wanted or intended that, breaking ever so slightly as he focuses on her words that leave her lips. That she hadn’t wanted to stop him, and he hadn’t wanted to stop either, and how he curses internally at the predicament of how things were, caught up in a wash of uncertainty, breaking and ever so fleeting. What would it have been like to shift the course of his life so he didn’t agree to the wedding.
He had loved Phoebe once, long ago. But that part of him had become buried beneath the sand of the deepest ocean when this predicament fell upon them. And he’d tried, but somewhere he knew within that it wouldn’t work out. Because they never truly had. It was one thing or another that kept them close and kept them apart, and it should have remained that way. So when Maea says that she doesn’t want to hurt him, he can’t help but let his gaze linger on her — some sort of longing hidden beneath the rest.
A small nod is given when she suggests to remain friends, hoping he can contain himself enough for it to work. But the mention of whether he decides he doesn’t want the ring? Well, he looks at it then, fully looking at it, a heavy sigh sweeping over him at that. Hadn’t she heard him when he’d said he didn’t want it? Had never envisioned a life for himself that had him married to anyone? He frowns as he stares at the sapphire on his finger, wondering what would happen if he took it off. Wanting to try. “I’ve never wanted it.” He tells her hoarsely, honestly.
He looks back up to her then, his claws digging in still when she speaks, a quiet nod given as she says that she had fun, that he’d been successful in that venture of trying to get her to enjoy herself. But he can’t help but to ask, letting himself devour her with his gaze as though it were his last time. “Was that your first kiss?” He’s not sure why, but he wants to know.
so step inside, i ain't afraid to bleed
there ain't a casket strong enough for me
there ain't a casket strong enough for me
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.
