VESPER
Vesper grimaces, the expression sharp and fleeting beneath his mask. "The others were smaller," he mutters, voice like ground glass. "Or less lubricated. Or both."
He follows without hesitation; head high, shoulders tight, moving like someone too proud to hunch and too stubborn to stay behind. His chin tips up slightly, as if that alone might keep the nausea from winning, as if the posture will anchor him better than the ground beneath his feet. It’s not elegant, not really. It’s survival dressed in poise.
The further they move from the crush of bodies, the more the noise begins to ease. Not vanish, but fade, like a migraine backing down just enough to let the world in at the edges again. Thoughts become voices instead of thunderclaps. Desires dim to background noise. His own skull stops feeling like it might split in half from the pressure. He exhales sharply, breath gusting from his lungs as if he’d been holding it the whole walk. One ringed hand lifts to drag through his hair, knocking the silver-threaded hood back just enough to tangle in the pale strands before it drops to brace at the back of his neck.
"How do you do it?" he asks, voice still low but steadier now. His eyes flick to Jack, the blue of them cooler but no less raw for the clarity. "And don't fucking say practice—" He holds up a finger, deadpan despite the sweat beading at his temple.
He follows without hesitation; head high, shoulders tight, moving like someone too proud to hunch and too stubborn to stay behind. His chin tips up slightly, as if that alone might keep the nausea from winning, as if the posture will anchor him better than the ground beneath his feet. It’s not elegant, not really. It’s survival dressed in poise.
The further they move from the crush of bodies, the more the noise begins to ease. Not vanish, but fade, like a migraine backing down just enough to let the world in at the edges again. Thoughts become voices instead of thunderclaps. Desires dim to background noise. His own skull stops feeling like it might split in half from the pressure. He exhales sharply, breath gusting from his lungs as if he’d been holding it the whole walk. One ringed hand lifts to drag through his hair, knocking the silver-threaded hood back just enough to tangle in the pale strands before it drops to brace at the back of his neck.
"How do you do it?" he asks, voice still low but steadier now. His eyes flick to Jack, the blue of them cooler but no less raw for the clarity. "And don't fucking say practice—" He holds up a finger, deadpan despite the sweat beading at his temple.
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.
