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
She’s far more comfortable around him than he expects, and as the feathers flit through his tattoos and he looks up at her and she focuses down at him. She takes her hands and places them on either side of his face, and he clenches his jaw beneath her hands again, the feather light touch as his own hands move to rest along her waist. He listens to her question, the riddle, and he’s never particularly been good at riddles – preferred the use of words in sly tongues, in other ways.
“Forward?” He asks, rough, exhausted, he’d taken too much out of himself from what they’d done, the emotions he’d shared, spilled into her. He doesn’t care if it’s the right answer, doesn’t care what the right answer is. All he wants is her, and he has her in his grasp, in his hands, looking up at her like some sort of devilish fallen prince and broken – all that’s missing are the wings to drape along the sand in his own sorrow.
He has none of that but the navy that flits over his shoulders, focusing on her through his haunted dark gaze, before one hand reaches up to cup her head, tilt her closer to him, tangling those fingers into her white pale hair and to breathe in her scent. He knows what mistakes he’s making, knows the fallout will burn them all, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care, because she holds his head in her grasp, holds his gaze with her own pale stare, and he shudders beneath the attention.
He was lost, and always would be. Because the point to his compasses had been Lusea, and she was gone not once but twice, and he had revolved around her in her presence. And without her, he was adrift, floating among the rough currents of the sea, broken and battered and bruised along the way, with short goals of finding oceans and then… And then what?
He can’t stop himself when he leans up slightly, tilts his head up a bit further to pull her into him, needing to feel her lips again, needing to feel something other than the constant shattering and building up and shattering again within him. What had become of him? And how did she manage to do this in such a way so many others hadn’t? Hotaru had, and he’d burned her by marrying Phoebe. Maea had, and he’s already burning her on the edges by this secret.
He realizes he doesn’t care, in the end.
“Forward?” He asks, rough, exhausted, he’d taken too much out of himself from what they’d done, the emotions he’d shared, spilled into her. He doesn’t care if it’s the right answer, doesn’t care what the right answer is. All he wants is her, and he has her in his grasp, in his hands, looking up at her like some sort of devilish fallen prince and broken – all that’s missing are the wings to drape along the sand in his own sorrow.
He has none of that but the navy that flits over his shoulders, focusing on her through his haunted dark gaze, before one hand reaches up to cup her head, tilt her closer to him, tangling those fingers into her white pale hair and to breathe in her scent. He knows what mistakes he’s making, knows the fallout will burn them all, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care, because she holds his head in her grasp, holds his gaze with her own pale stare, and he shudders beneath the attention.
He was lost, and always would be. Because the point to his compasses had been Lusea, and she was gone not once but twice, and he had revolved around her in her presence. And without her, he was adrift, floating among the rough currents of the sea, broken and battered and bruised along the way, with short goals of finding oceans and then… And then what?
He can’t stop himself when he leans up slightly, tilts his head up a bit further to pull her into him, needing to feel her lips again, needing to feel something other than the constant shattering and building up and shattering again within him. What had become of him? And how did she manage to do this in such a way so many others hadn’t? Hotaru had, and he’d burned her by marrying Phoebe. Maea had, and he’s already burning her on the edges by this secret.
He realizes he doesn’t care, in the end.
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.
