in my darkness, you turned on a light
i hate the way you bring me back to life
He tries to push down and away the whine that grips his husband, that airs despite the way Sunjata’s hands rake through his hair in the attempts to quell it. He hears the question, the scoff, the easy question of just how old Sunjata was in comparison, how Nate had been twenty-eight when he’d Ascended. And this season, this year marks the year past that. It’s all he can do to try and joke along, to try and make it as if it were a joke just to keep the sorrow from entering his heart.
A mask of another sort, he supposes. Almost. Got a couple weeks still then I'm twenty-nine. He murmurs through the bond, if only to keep his voice from breaking to say it audibly. He half wants to joke about Nate not letting it get to his head, to joke about how he doesn’t get to call Nate an old man anymore, but it all feels awkward and far too sad to say aloud. They’re little things he keeps tucked in, thinking of the future they have together, knowing that it’s unlikely they’ll get to have that death in old age, when Sunjata’s peppered and grey and Nate looks exactly the same.
All provided they make it out of the war anyway.
So he tries to soothe – to calm his waters just enough to fill Nate to the brim with a warming caress, to offer that affection they both crave, to fill him of waves that press and pull at the Ascended in ways that direct him to himself, in ways that will hopefully keep Nate’s mind from straying too far ahead. So he presses down when Nate’s back arches, smothering his husband in attention and deft fingers that dance through hair, that move to Nate’s neck, along his muscled shoulders, one breaking free and dancing down his side painted with stars.
It suits you. He says with every ounce of meaning in the words, opening up easily for Nate, to tangle their tongues, to press and grip as he loosens his sorrows to be replaced by the warmth of the room, the way that they’ve been here long enough and in this position that Nate’s warm too. And don’t tell me it doesn’t, ‘cause my mind’s already made up. He purrs back, wondering if Nate can feel the smirk that tugs his scarred cheek, at the way his breath hitches and his wings lift up a fraction, as horns of his nyala shift sprout from his head and thread through mostly ochre hair, sprinkled with hints of silver throughout.
A mask of another sort, he supposes. Almost. Got a couple weeks still then I'm twenty-nine. He murmurs through the bond, if only to keep his voice from breaking to say it audibly. He half wants to joke about Nate not letting it get to his head, to joke about how he doesn’t get to call Nate an old man anymore, but it all feels awkward and far too sad to say aloud. They’re little things he keeps tucked in, thinking of the future they have together, knowing that it’s unlikely they’ll get to have that death in old age, when Sunjata’s peppered and grey and Nate looks exactly the same.
All provided they make it out of the war anyway.
So he tries to soothe – to calm his waters just enough to fill Nate to the brim with a warming caress, to offer that affection they both crave, to fill him of waves that press and pull at the Ascended in ways that direct him to himself, in ways that will hopefully keep Nate’s mind from straying too far ahead. So he presses down when Nate’s back arches, smothering his husband in attention and deft fingers that dance through hair, that move to Nate’s neck, along his muscled shoulders, one breaking free and dancing down his side painted with stars.
It suits you. He says with every ounce of meaning in the words, opening up easily for Nate, to tangle their tongues, to press and grip as he loosens his sorrows to be replaced by the warmth of the room, the way that they’ve been here long enough and in this position that Nate’s warm too. And don’t tell me it doesn’t, ‘cause my mind’s already made up. He purrs back, wondering if Nate can feel the smirk that tugs his scarred cheek, at the way his breath hitches and his wings lift up a fraction, as horns of his nyala shift sprout from his head and thread through mostly ochre hair, sprinkled with hints of silver throughout.
'cause i am haunted, i cannot tell a lie
i like you better when i am dead inside
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.
