handsome in a way that rivalled old hollywood : cheekbones precise, high and cut clear. ( the autopsy claimed the right was shattered to 'putty', run a tempted finger along and the puckered edges still bite. bone welded piece by piece by piece clutch cracks. ) the square meander of his jawbone juts down supporting the thick structure rooting up toward a broader face shadowed under heavy set brows that crescent over deep, rich oaken brown eyes, the kind that's been felled with care and lacquered gently. ( dr. kassa noted [1] the laceration from his left brow over his eye was 'five inches deep & two wide'. it casts a pink line when he blinks, enough for her to wonder if it bothers him when it rains. )
tall in a way that splits crowds, dwarfs the rooms he stands in, touches the feet of clouds, demands attention despite him baulking at it. all eyes stalk a long stride til' it meets its destination ; hypnotised, paralysed by his gait. ( photo's [2] [3] pre - murder place jason solidly under 5'6, if fate had called on him a month or two later a growth spurt would have given the joker another half an hours worth of inches to break in his legs. )
fissure from frame to door, left ajar with only himself to blame, allows a lean watchpoint for glimpses and gasps of him. an image of a vaunted namesake, broad in wingspan and in strength, the depiction of impregnability. tides couldn't take him, every step or stance is resolutely rooted ; winds can't bat him loose, nothing so small as nature phases him, even with all her attempts to take him, laudable and laughable how many times petty thief alludes himself to believe he can. she's witnessed men bounce as if repelled by an invisible force the moment they meet him, all the energy forced into an offensive charge is useless against an inimitable object.
impressive in the way only the untouchable can be, a vision scraped from screen or myth, a view best observed from the sidelines lest it ends up blinding you to reason. the kind of reason that would advise against peeking too long, too often, too swiftly when he abandons one shirt for the next. his back to her, unknown that an audience holds its breath rapt and intent, that her fingers twitch to test if his skin is as soft as it seems ; if she can help to count the scars he's forgotten or misplaced.
caution turns her away, shame biting at the back of her head, temptation tickles at thoughts to swift to rationalise creaking through the opening to touch, trail, trace every part she could. thumb to a rib, sliding up the trail left by well earned muscle, a plume left patched and scratched across ( photo[ 4] id : finalised autopsy stitched together. ) collarbone still fragile to the touch, she thinks he'd shiver under her, that he'd blush if she made him. her hands could make him breathless if she could touch him. handsome or scarred, tall or imposing, strength or walls, none of it would matter at all if her fantasies had their way.
eve wouldn't have needed convincing, if he was her forbidden fruit.
within moments, it'll be wrapped up in the armour of a three piece suit he despises, layers between him to her ; guarded, button by button, to perfectly parade around a " civilised society " that he despises.
[ 𝙿𝙻𝚄𝚂 𝙾𝙽𝙴 ] : the sender and receiver put on their glad rags and attend a very fancy and prestigious event together. / @redvived
HE WON'T BE ALONE. a charming crutch she'll be, smoothing conversation in a dress that slinks over her skin, lapping up attention donned in golden silk with her curls coiffed and lips red, defusing intrusive curiosity that eats every rumour of him, as if she could offset the sight of him against the need for answers.
the crowd tonight will coo every tabloid headline back. a carrion chorus drunk on the chance to seize rumour or innuendo, pecking each wound for their chum. dead men walk & talk who wouldn't want a front row seat? her role is to protect him. the irony strikes her deep as here she stands, a sneak on his privacy.
worse : no one in that crowd had seen the files on him. pushed into her hands by an overseer, perhaps, but she read his life like he were hers for consumption.
sin rankles at her stomach, bitter taste embalming her tongue. spinning away halts a private showing ( mercifully, thankfully ) before it went to far. & though sense would tell her a peek into the box, a glance at the apple, lasts seconds her stewing on the mistake choice takes her minutes.
enough self - admonishment passes for him to slip the gap seclusion unnecessary when he's donned a suit fit for kings, hair slick back, smirk baited. handsome in the way that takes your breath away, tall in the way that forces your eyes to crawl up, up and up to meet his, broad in a way that encompasses her entire view. that's his speciality, up close & personal. furrow in his long brows the longer she won't meet his gaze. on any other night, she wouldn't have him any other way now, she's already taken too much of him.
playing at the smiling, innocuous guest, playing a significant part of him to the crowd ; pretending a confidant, pretending to be a friend to him. knowing the entire time -
the cat among the pigeons is her. a night next to him is all she could have wanted. she wants for more, & the guilt of it crushes.