SUNJATA
the flood
'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading
She presses against him easily, slotting against the hard muscle of his body as she pushes him down and his fingers trace against her smooth horn and tangle in her blonde hair. She nears him to press a kiss to his lips, however chaste, before she presses one to the corner of his mouth, her whisper alighting in his ears loudly thanks to the golden earring in his ear. His lips part to respond, but only makes for a soft grunt as she grinds her hips against his, fingers slipping from her hair as she sits up. “No,” not entirely “it’s my most sensitive” shift. He can’t even finish the sentence as her hands run along his skin, along the wing to prove exactly just how sensitive it was as a shiver visibly racks down his spine and he exhales a gasp with it.
His eyes are half lidded as he peers up at her, as she takes his hand along her smooth skin, and he lets his calloused fingertips seek and explore as much as she’d allow before his fingertips find her lips and he knows she can feel the ache beneath her, still trapped in those nice pants he’d worn to the grand opening.
He arches his back ever so slightly, tilting his chin up as his fingertips stroke along her lower lip, as if preening under the look she gives him with each scar on display. Many have tried to be the one that ended him — the first being the one on the side of his neck that drops to the top of his collarbone, covered by one of those compass tattoos that have oriented just right from where she sits to be pointing his north toward her. The rest, criss crossing lightning scars dance from the hand at her lips to his chest, arching across like knobby fingers seeking out his heart, the slivers of Ascended bite marks that dot his neck, the NW etched into his chest, and of course the little marks here and there of other varying adventures that have left him with the reminder.
His eyes are half lidded as he peers up at her, as she takes his hand along her smooth skin, and he lets his calloused fingertips seek and explore as much as she’d allow before his fingertips find her lips and he knows she can feel the ache beneath her, still trapped in those nice pants he’d worn to the grand opening.
He arches his back ever so slightly, tilting his chin up as his fingertips stroke along her lower lip, as if preening under the look she gives him with each scar on display. Many have tried to be the one that ended him — the first being the one on the side of his neck that drops to the top of his collarbone, covered by one of those compass tattoos that have oriented just right from where she sits to be pointing his north toward her. The rest, criss crossing lightning scars dance from the hand at her lips to his chest, arching across like knobby fingers seeking out his heart, the slivers of Ascended bite marks that dot his neck, the NW etched into his chest, and of course the little marks here and there of other varying adventures that have left him with the reminder.
you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do
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.
