VESPER
Vesper shakes his head slowly, disbelieving, the corner of his mouth pulling into something that’s more weary than cruel. "The first day I knew about it was in the Climb," he says, voice low and level. "And I didn’t mock you. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t do a damn thing except stand there while you snapped at me for noticin' that somethin' was different." His eyes narrow just slightly, a subtle gleam catching in the firelight. "The next time I saw you, you told me to jump down a fuckin’ well. Third time, you were baring teeth in the hedge maze like I’d stolen something from you." He clicks his tongue softly, a gesture more tired than scornful. "So no, I ain’t gonna apologise for telling you the truth. And if it came out cold, Thalassa, that’s because you were ice first. Every time."
Her thoughts simmer, half-regret and half-pride, but there’s no need to poke at them. He feels them the way a sailor feels the pull of a tide; present and inescapable, but not always worth the effort of swimming against. He lets them tug at his mind without comment, lets the guilt wash through her while he stays dry. And when she claims he abandoned her, something colder flickers behind his eyes. "You keep sayin’ that," he murmurs, head tipping just enough to suggest the weight of incredulity, "but I didn’t abandon you to a damn thing. You chose it. " The disdain in his tone is faint but unmistakable. Not jealous—never that—but still rankled by the implication that he should’ve known better, should’ve done better, when she hadn’t left a single door open for him to step through.
"You can’t have it both ways. Can’t tell me you don’t need a soul, wear that sharp little armour and spit fire every time I get too close, then act like I’m some kind of bastard for not climbin’ in after you once you set yourself on fire." His arms fold, not in defensiveness but with a studied patience, like he’s willing to let the silence stretch as long as it takes for her to really hear him.
Her thoughts begin to shift, softening in corners she doesn’t mean to expose, and he lets them unfurl inside his mind with a faint, bitter curiosity. There’s disappointment there, and hurt, and all the confusion she’s tried to hide behind sharp smiles and raised voices. For once, it’s not about who’s right. It’s about what’s left.
His posture eases as hers does. Some of the bite drains from his expression, though it never quite becomes warmth. "You never let me in," he says at last, quiet and almost regretful. "Not really." There’s no accusation in the words—just a tired truth, flat and unembellished. "That day in the Celestine, when we were trading secrets? When I brought you up there to do somethin' nice for you?" His gaze drifts, recalling it with a faint curl of his mouth that doesn’t resemble a smile. "You told me your daggers were blessed by Dygra. And that you had a lyvern shift." He glances back at her, brow raised. "That ain’t a secret, Thal. That’s a fun fact. Ones I coulda probably guessed at."
Another shrug, more reluctant than flippant. "Maybe you would’ve told me the real shit in time. Maybe we would’ve got there." But he shakes his head slowly, resigned now, the tension in his shoulders long since abandoned. " But you’re the one who cut that path off. You made your choices." His gaze steadies on her face, the chill in his tone returned, but quieter now, tempered by something heavier. "You wanna be mad at me, go on. But don’t rewrite it like I failed you, when you never once made it seem like you wanted me for anything but the fuckin’."
Her thoughts simmer, half-regret and half-pride, but there’s no need to poke at them. He feels them the way a sailor feels the pull of a tide; present and inescapable, but not always worth the effort of swimming against. He lets them tug at his mind without comment, lets the guilt wash through her while he stays dry. And when she claims he abandoned her, something colder flickers behind his eyes. "You keep sayin’ that," he murmurs, head tipping just enough to suggest the weight of incredulity, "but I didn’t abandon you to a damn thing. You chose it. " The disdain in his tone is faint but unmistakable. Not jealous—never that—but still rankled by the implication that he should’ve known better, should’ve done better, when she hadn’t left a single door open for him to step through.
"You can’t have it both ways. Can’t tell me you don’t need a soul, wear that sharp little armour and spit fire every time I get too close, then act like I’m some kind of bastard for not climbin’ in after you once you set yourself on fire." His arms fold, not in defensiveness but with a studied patience, like he’s willing to let the silence stretch as long as it takes for her to really hear him.
Her thoughts begin to shift, softening in corners she doesn’t mean to expose, and he lets them unfurl inside his mind with a faint, bitter curiosity. There’s disappointment there, and hurt, and all the confusion she’s tried to hide behind sharp smiles and raised voices. For once, it’s not about who’s right. It’s about what’s left.
His posture eases as hers does. Some of the bite drains from his expression, though it never quite becomes warmth. "You never let me in," he says at last, quiet and almost regretful. "Not really." There’s no accusation in the words—just a tired truth, flat and unembellished. "That day in the Celestine, when we were trading secrets? When I brought you up there to do somethin' nice for you?" His gaze drifts, recalling it with a faint curl of his mouth that doesn’t resemble a smile. "You told me your daggers were blessed by Dygra. And that you had a lyvern shift." He glances back at her, brow raised. "That ain’t a secret, Thal. That’s a fun fact. Ones I coulda probably guessed at."
Another shrug, more reluctant than flippant. "Maybe you would’ve told me the real shit in time. Maybe we would’ve got there." But he shakes his head slowly, resigned now, the tension in his shoulders long since abandoned. " But you’re the one who cut that path off. You made your choices." His gaze steadies on her face, the chill in his tone returned, but quieter now, tempered by something heavier. "You wanna be mad at me, go on. But don’t rewrite it like I failed you, when you never once made it seem like you wanted me for anything but the fuckin’."
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.
