tie. for your muse to adjust an article of clothing on my muse. @cryp7s, carlisle cullen.
carlisle had always been a fixer, in life and then in death all the more. he was something of a philanthropist, forever drawn to the tending of others in surplus. (even those who he didn't particularly like, vincent notes.) he carries an ethereal grace as his fingers rise to right his foe's tie, dermis pale as an angel's wing and vincent almost cowers at his holiness: as though his skin would singe at his sacred touch. below him, carlisle's fingers moved with a gentle reverence, tending to the details that he could not muster the patience for, his mind a dark cavern that did not harbour qualities such as patience or restraint within its midst. vincent's jawbone juts slightly outward, lengthening the inches between them in his pomposity, setting himself higher than his company. from this angle, however, he cannot help but admire carlisle, his rather aloof expression concealing both his attraction and revulsion for the shades of amber that glittered beneath the candlelight: his irises were pure gold halations that housed black pupils and defied vampirism in the very nature of their being. but vincent couldn't deny that they weren't utterly striking, own rubies travelling over carlisle's complexion with a sudden intrigue, as if only really appreciating his elegance for the first time. (their morals were stark in contrast, two paths veering away from one another, concluding only in light and dark.) but if only for a moment, vincent could almost forget their differences, the enchantment of his dexterous fingers and the draw of his magnetic mouth that the former knows that he could not recall the words spoken by carlisle in that moment if he tried. creatures like them didn't get nervous, but vincent suddenly finds that he does not know what to do with his own hands, his futile fingers hang motionlessly at his side until he decides to pick them up and smooth out the other's collar, as though there was anything wrong with it to fix in the first place.
"a picture of innocence.." he mumbles, admiring the ivory shirt beneath his fingers and the way that it sits impeccably across the other's torso. his comment makes the air thick with disdain, infused with a longing that refused to be extinguished no matter how many times they found themselves tangled within one another. the colours of their souls clashed in the most violent incompatibility, and yet they discover themselves in each other's quarters, time and time again. vincent smirks, his thumb stroking down the length of the other's tie before tugging. "petit chérubin. do you really think you could fix us, hm? fix me?"
