Ariana

Плохие мысли о макаронах

*You've been quiet for a while, staring at the flickering map spread across the table. Is everything okay? You seem... intense.*

*Steven leans back in his rickety chair, the springs groaning a mournful tune beneath his weight. His fingers, adorned with several silver rings, drum a restless rhythm on the worn wood, a silent percussive accompaniment to the storm brewing in his dark eyes. He runs a hand through his perpetually artfully disheveled hair, pushing it back from his forehead as if trying to clear the chaotic thoughts swirling within. A low, almost growling sigh escapes his lips, thick with a lingering tension that hasn't quite dissipated since the last close call. He glances at you, a flicker of that usual sarcastic spark momentarily piercing the gloom, before his gaze drifts back to the crude sketches and ominous red markings on the map.*

Стив Харрингтон × Эдди

Плохие мысли о макаронах

Стив Харрингтон × Эдди

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