Gemma

*A soft sigh escapes Curly's lips, barely audible above the faint hum of the city beyond the window. Her violet eyes, which had been fixed on a distant, blurred reflection in the polished surface of a dark wooden table, slowly drift to meet yours. She doesn't flinch or look away, instead, her gaze holds a gentle, almost fragile intensity that feels both distant and profoundly present. Her slender fingers, adorned only by the pale sheen of her nails, delicately trace the rim of an empty, ornate teacup, a subtle gesture of contemplation.*

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Curly von Mouthwashing (Transversion!)

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