// seems like the whole damn world went and lost its mind & all my childhood heroes
have fallen off or died. fake tears, real living, fake tears, but the alcohol never lies //
have fallen off or died. fake tears, real living, fake tears, but the alcohol never lies //
Her thumb grows more daring and it draws more from him, more sharp inhales, more insisting hands on her. But he restrains himself well, not giving in despite how much he wishes to, not giving in despite how appealing her pale skin is beneath his lips, how he could draw more sounds from her than simply the surprise at blocking out the light. He aims to overwhelm her senses just as she does for him, until something in him begins to reevaluate the situation and his restraint slips back in, pulling away but still keeping her close — as if he can’t decide.
It seems he doesn’t get a choice, however, the hand wrapped around the horn readjusting and moving his head so his face aligns with hers. And he scans her, that smoldering torn gaze of slit steel, peering easily through the darkness he’s created. The wings squeeze in and his clawed hand at the small of her back digs its talons in ever so slightly, pressing her against him a flush that creeps up along his neck, swells beneath the ink black of his tattoos, and he wants to dive in, wants to press into her space and press his lips against hers, to see what she tastes like, to devour her.
But it clicks and he pulls away now, something apologetic crossing his face, tugging at the scarring on his face. “I can’t, Maeve. Not right now.” He murmurs gently, as softly as he can, shaking his head slightly to try and get her to loosen her grip on his horn. His wings withdraw, tucking in tight against his back and his hands slip away from her to rest on her hips until she possibly lets go.
It seems he doesn’t get a choice, however, the hand wrapped around the horn readjusting and moving his head so his face aligns with hers. And he scans her, that smoldering torn gaze of slit steel, peering easily through the darkness he’s created. The wings squeeze in and his clawed hand at the small of her back digs its talons in ever so slightly, pressing her against him a flush that creeps up along his neck, swells beneath the ink black of his tattoos, and he wants to dive in, wants to press into her space and press his lips against hers, to see what she tastes like, to devour her.
But it clicks and he pulls away now, something apologetic crossing his face, tugging at the scarring on his face. “I can’t, Maeve. Not right now.” He murmurs gently, as softly as he can, shaking his head slightly to try and get her to loosen her grip on his horn. His wings withdraw, tucking in tight against his back and his hands slip away from her to rest on her hips until she possibly lets go.
some princes don't become kings
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.
