Finn?
Sunjata will probably find that the space is quite similar to the Madame's tastes in her personal apartments - because these rooms used to belong to her too, and Finn has done nothing to make the space his own beyond the very basics. Not that he wants the Flood to be looking at the decor too much; that's a sure sign of a bad experience, if that's his main focus.
To forget and to loosen up, and that goes for the both of them. Finn is already wishing the whiskey bottle was back in his hand as Sunjata's fingers tug at his clothing. It all comes away very easily, of course, the loose fabric of his shirt sliding over his head in one smooth movement, his pants unlacing with nary a tug against them. The backs of his legs hit the bed and he sits, of course, peering up to watch as the other man strips to the waist.
The first thing he notices is the tattoo, Safrin's stars marking his skin in clear ownership. But around his neck and his collarbones, there's a different type of ownership, one that has Finn all but sick to his stomach. It takes everything he has not to shove Sunjata away, and more still to reach out and guide the other man closer, to pull him down onto the bed as well so he can roll over, blanketing the Flood's body with his own.
"So many stories written here," he murmurs, his lips brushing against marks of lightning, the ink of constellations. "They must be very heavy to carry with you. Would you like to forget about them, for a while?"
To forget and to loosen up, and that goes for the both of them. Finn is already wishing the whiskey bottle was back in his hand as Sunjata's fingers tug at his clothing. It all comes away very easily, of course, the loose fabric of his shirt sliding over his head in one smooth movement, his pants unlacing with nary a tug against them. The backs of his legs hit the bed and he sits, of course, peering up to watch as the other man strips to the waist.
The first thing he notices is the tattoo, Safrin's stars marking his skin in clear ownership. But around his neck and his collarbones, there's a different type of ownership, one that has Finn all but sick to his stomach. It takes everything he has not to shove Sunjata away, and more still to reach out and guide the other man closer, to pull him down onto the bed as well so he can roll over, blanketing the Flood's body with his own.
"So many stories written here," he murmurs, his lips brushing against marks of lightning, the ink of constellations. "They must be very heavy to carry with you. Would you like to forget about them, for a while?"
we all eat lies
when our hearts are hungry
when our hearts are hungry
