VESPER
He feels her coming like a shift in air pressure. Her presence, golden and slow-blooming, rolls in at the edges of his mind with the scent of resin and something warmer beneath, like orchard fire on wool. It winds through him before her heels ever touch timber, and he lets it; lets her gather behind him like the night behind a curtain. Only when she’s close enough for the weight of her gaze to brush the back of his neck does he turn, a smooth pivot that draws no attention to itself. His eyes are already finding her, drinking in the sight with the kind of patience that most men forget how to wield.
His mouth curves gradually, as if pulled by gravity itself, one corner tipping before the other. Because of course she looks like that—draped in midnight, stitched with every inch of boldness she usually keeps in her grin. Black silk cleaved up the thigh like it’d been dared to, red gloss smudged onto a mouth made to ruin him, and a flash of light from the constellation of jewellery glinting at her throat and wrist. It’s not the sort of beauty that asks for approval. It just is.
Vesper doesn’t offer compliments she already knows are true. Doesn’t fumble to find words she'd beat him for using. Instead, he pushes off the railing with unhurried grace and steps into her orbit. His fingers are still turning the violet by its stem as he studies her, sharp and slow, then, "Come're." He lifts the flower and tucks it with clinical precision into one of the plaits she’s arranged in her hair, angling his wrist with the familiarity of someone who’s wrestled braids into place on a twin mid-squabble. The violet nestles there like it belongs—something stubborn and lovely in the middle of all that golden fire.
Only when he’s finished does he step back, blue eyes flicking up to hers with a kind of warm amusement. "Must’ve had a dull week," he murmurs, low and drawling. And then, with a shift as smooth as moonlight changing angles through glass, he leans in, close enough for her breath to catch his collar. His lips hover just above hers, and when he speaks again it’s quieter, coaxing the edge of her pulse toward him. "Our reservation’s not for a while." A pause, heat ghosting between them. "Take a walk with me?"
The kiss that follows isn’t deep, but it isn't meant to be. Just a brush of promise—a whisper of what’s to come. A slow press of lips that lingers long enough to be missed when it ends.
His mouth curves gradually, as if pulled by gravity itself, one corner tipping before the other. Because of course she looks like that—draped in midnight, stitched with every inch of boldness she usually keeps in her grin. Black silk cleaved up the thigh like it’d been dared to, red gloss smudged onto a mouth made to ruin him, and a flash of light from the constellation of jewellery glinting at her throat and wrist. It’s not the sort of beauty that asks for approval. It just is.
Vesper doesn’t offer compliments she already knows are true. Doesn’t fumble to find words she'd beat him for using. Instead, he pushes off the railing with unhurried grace and steps into her orbit. His fingers are still turning the violet by its stem as he studies her, sharp and slow, then, "Come're." He lifts the flower and tucks it with clinical precision into one of the plaits she’s arranged in her hair, angling his wrist with the familiarity of someone who’s wrestled braids into place on a twin mid-squabble. The violet nestles there like it belongs—something stubborn and lovely in the middle of all that golden fire.
Only when he’s finished does he step back, blue eyes flicking up to hers with a kind of warm amusement. "Must’ve had a dull week," he murmurs, low and drawling. And then, with a shift as smooth as moonlight changing angles through glass, he leans in, close enough for her breath to catch his collar. His lips hover just above hers, and when he speaks again it’s quieter, coaxing the edge of her pulse toward him. "Our reservation’s not for a while." A pause, heat ghosting between them. "Take a walk with me?"
The kiss that follows isn’t deep, but it isn't meant to be. Just a brush of promise—a whisper of what’s to come. A slow press of lips that lingers long enough to be missed when it ends.
Will I ever quit playing with matches?
Why am I making angels in the ashes?
Why am I making angels in the ashes?
☆ has a pale star tattoo beneath his left eye, and freckle-sized constellations move across his skin
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
