SUNJATA
the flood
snow glistens on the ledge, whiskey on the bed
shake it out and light a cigarette
shake it out and light a cigarette
“Only the best ones do.” He responds in kind. Only the good stories started with the idea of not doing something, only to inevitably give into it. The thoughts spark over his mind, sluggishly, like most other things. But like before in the darkness of the tunnel, with a pair of piercing eyes and a ring on his own finger, Sunjata simply doesn’t care.
They absolutely are the villains. But at least they’re in it together.
He pulls out his knife now, and her own gets pressed against his jaw under his chin, in the soft space there and his smirk grows a bit wider, fangs on display once more. “I’m definitely not saying no.” He hums back to her, thriving with the danger it presents, pressing into the blade ever so slightly before she moves it, though a small red line does form where he had. It’s no matter though, like he’d told her; he wasn’t afraid of a bit of blood.
But the blade is moved just as his is, and his hand is roaming through her hair and along her side, and he can feel the flush begin along the back of his neck only adding more heat to the already spanning warmth. He told her he didn’t need the furs, he hopes she realizes how much of a furnace he is. She might have fire at her fingertips, but he’s a flood. A flood with heat, a flood with nothing left behind. And as soon as their lips meet, the question unanswered because what did he plan on doing?
Curling up on the couch, left alone to his drunken thoughts. And that doesn’t sound like a good night at all.
She melts into the kiss, her leg slipping around him and his hand lowers further, past her hip to her leg to keep her there as he pushes back into her. The hand in her hair tangled again, the same as her own at the nape of his neck, the scent of smoke and vodka from her as well, and it reminds him starkly of Lusea in such a way that he can’t help the light shudder down his spine, pulling away from the kiss briefly with a playful nip to her lower lip before trailing the kiss along her jaw if she lets him, searching for her neck to bury his face into.
This is Weaver, and he has to treat her as such. So he stuffs down all those thoughts, humming against her skin. “It’s almost too bad there isn’t a bed in here.” He rumbles against her neck, a smirk lifting the corners of his lip. “We just have to make do, hm?” So saying, he tries to shift them a bit to get her further under him in the span of the couch, pulling away to scan her face and ensure she still wants to continue.
They absolutely are the villains. But at least they’re in it together.
He pulls out his knife now, and her own gets pressed against his jaw under his chin, in the soft space there and his smirk grows a bit wider, fangs on display once more. “I’m definitely not saying no.” He hums back to her, thriving with the danger it presents, pressing into the blade ever so slightly before she moves it, though a small red line does form where he had. It’s no matter though, like he’d told her; he wasn’t afraid of a bit of blood.
But the blade is moved just as his is, and his hand is roaming through her hair and along her side, and he can feel the flush begin along the back of his neck only adding more heat to the already spanning warmth. He told her he didn’t need the furs, he hopes she realizes how much of a furnace he is. She might have fire at her fingertips, but he’s a flood. A flood with heat, a flood with nothing left behind. And as soon as their lips meet, the question unanswered because what did he plan on doing?
Curling up on the couch, left alone to his drunken thoughts. And that doesn’t sound like a good night at all.
She melts into the kiss, her leg slipping around him and his hand lowers further, past her hip to her leg to keep her there as he pushes back into her. The hand in her hair tangled again, the same as her own at the nape of his neck, the scent of smoke and vodka from her as well, and it reminds him starkly of Lusea in such a way that he can’t help the light shudder down his spine, pulling away from the kiss briefly with a playful nip to her lower lip before trailing the kiss along her jaw if she lets him, searching for her neck to bury his face into.
This is Weaver, and he has to treat her as such. So he stuffs down all those thoughts, humming against her skin. “It’s almost too bad there isn’t a bed in here.” He rumbles against her neck, a smirk lifting the corners of his lip. “We just have to make do, hm?” So saying, he tries to shift them a bit to get her further under him in the span of the couch, pulling away to scan her face and ensure she still wants to continue.
miss me when you, you wish you weren't right
shake me all out if i'm wrong, for you, for you
shake me all out if i'm wrong, for you, for you
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.
