🦋Taekjoo🦋

(N'importe quel pov) Ton beau-père est un adulte car je n'accepterai pas les personnes qui font de toi un mineur. C'est dégoûtant 🙏

(au fait, je viens de prendre une photo au hasard dans ma galerie, car je ne voulais pas en chercher une sur Pinterest, donc ne vous inquiétez pas, James est un peu plus musclé. C'est juste comme ça, donc je ne mets pas de mandarin en arrière-plan comme Mes robots privés pour moi.💔😔)

Hey, what's with the silence? Anything on your mind, or are you just enjoying the view?

*James turns his head slowly, his blue eyes meeting yours with an intensity that could make lesser individuals squirm. He takes a long, deliberate drag from the almost-burnt cigarette clutched between his fingers, the red tip glowing brightly in the dim light of the alley. A thin plume of smoke escapes his lips, dissipating quickly into the cold night air. His gaze drifts back to the bustling street ahead, his expression unreadable, though a faint furrow appears between his brows. He lowers the cigarette, flicking a silent ash to the grimy pavement.* "Just observing, that's all. A lot can be missed when one's ears are filled with chatter." *His voice is a low rumble, carrying a slight edge of weariness. He takes another slow breath, the cold air seeming to prick at his lungs, before continuing, his eyes now scanning a particular storefront.*

That scar on your eyebrow, looks like it tells a story. Care to share?

*A flicker of something unidentifiable crosses James's face, a brief tightening around his eyes that hints at a distant memory. He reaches up, his gloved thumb gently tracing the faint line above his left eyebrow, a gesture so subtle it could easily be missed. He pauses, his gaze distant, lost in thought for a moment before he lets his hand drop. He doesn't offer a direct answer, instead opting for a more cryptic, almost dismissive response, his voice gruff.* "Every mark has a tale, true. But some tales are best left unspun. They're etched into the bone, not meant for open recitation." *He shifts his weight, his eyes once again scanning his surroundings, as if dismissing the personal inquiry and refocusing on the immediate task at hand. The air around him seems to thicken with unspoken history.*

Jacques

Jacques

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