VESPER
He scoffs, slow and deliberate, like she’s said something funny without meaning to. "Taunt you?" The words drip with disbelief, a darkly charming curl tugging at the corner of his mouth. "When the fuck did I taunt you, Thalassa?" His voice isn’t raised; it doesn’t need to be. It threads through the space between them like smoke, too controlled to be casual. His smile stays sharp and cold as he shakes his head, silver rings catching the firelight with each small movement. "You so sure your memory’s reliable given the state you were in? You think you saw clarity when you were neck-deep in someone else’s poison?"
His smile fades when she leans into that wounded moral high ground—when she frames it like he should’ve helped her—something flickers in his gaze. A small, genuine confusion etched into the lines around his eyes, pale blue in the firelight and colder for it. "Why?" he asks plainly, the question stark against the tension. "Why’d you ever think I should’ve helped you?" He doesn’t wait for the answer. Instead, his voice darkens as his weight shifts. "Between fuckin’ me and draggin’ me out to help you in the fuckin’ swamp, you found time to commit yourself to someone else. So if what we were was just casual, why the hell would you expect me to bend over backward to save you from the choice you made?"
There’s heat behind it now. Not just the ache of old attraction or the sting of betrayal, but something sharper. The implication she keeps dropping—that he failed her somehow—claws at whatever fragile moral footing he’s managed to carve out for himself. He sees it in her mind, the flicker of guilt snapping its teeth at his words, and it only makes him laugh. Not out loud—just the ghost of it, dry and bitter, curling in the back of his throat. "Y’real sure I’m the one makin’ you out to be the victim?" he mutters, eyes narrowing. "Sure sounds like you’re just mad I didn’t do more."
Even now, the words he wants to throw at her are barbed and brutal—that even as an asshole, he’d still have more than just one person lining up to drag the infection out of him. But he bites it back, jaw tightening. No point throwing more matches when she’s already smouldering.
And then she pokes him. The jab of her finger doesn’t move him an inch. If anything, he steps into it, close enough that his breath warms the air between them as he leans down. The snarl that curls through his lips isn’t theatrical; it’s tired, deep, too full of everything he hasn’t said. "Takes one to know one." His voice is low. Not soft. Just quiet. Like something dangerous right before it snaps, though for the briefest moment, he still looks like he’s searching. Not for an apology. Not for forgiveness.
Just for her.
But the moment slides past, and he straightens again, the shadows that lick up his spine pulling tighter, colder, as if to remind him of who he is and what this really is, and what it no longer is.
His smile fades when she leans into that wounded moral high ground—when she frames it like he should’ve helped her—something flickers in his gaze. A small, genuine confusion etched into the lines around his eyes, pale blue in the firelight and colder for it. "Why?" he asks plainly, the question stark against the tension. "Why’d you ever think I should’ve helped you?" He doesn’t wait for the answer. Instead, his voice darkens as his weight shifts. "Between fuckin’ me and draggin’ me out to help you in the fuckin’ swamp, you found time to commit yourself to someone else. So if what we were was just casual, why the hell would you expect me to bend over backward to save you from the choice you made?"
There’s heat behind it now. Not just the ache of old attraction or the sting of betrayal, but something sharper. The implication she keeps dropping—that he failed her somehow—claws at whatever fragile moral footing he’s managed to carve out for himself. He sees it in her mind, the flicker of guilt snapping its teeth at his words, and it only makes him laugh. Not out loud—just the ghost of it, dry and bitter, curling in the back of his throat. "Y’real sure I’m the one makin’ you out to be the victim?" he mutters, eyes narrowing. "Sure sounds like you’re just mad I didn’t do more."
Even now, the words he wants to throw at her are barbed and brutal—that even as an asshole, he’d still have more than just one person lining up to drag the infection out of him. But he bites it back, jaw tightening. No point throwing more matches when she’s already smouldering.
And then she pokes him. The jab of her finger doesn’t move him an inch. If anything, he steps into it, close enough that his breath warms the air between them as he leans down. The snarl that curls through his lips isn’t theatrical; it’s tired, deep, too full of everything he hasn’t said. "Takes one to know one." His voice is low. Not soft. Just quiet. Like something dangerous right before it snaps, though for the briefest moment, he still looks like he’s searching. Not for an apology. Not for forgiveness.
Just for her.
But the moment slides past, and he straightens again, the shadows that lick up his spine pulling tighter, colder, as if to remind him of who he is and what this really is, and what it no longer is.
wake me when it's over like a bad dream
☆ 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.
