slow burn

❝ He has balls, eccentricity, and a "real problem" somewhere in his guts. I don't know what or where. ❞ Vincent Shaw. Thirty. Shaw Auto Repair. IMG Models.

[vincentxshaw-blog]

—SOFIE & vincent,

It was a shameless game of chicken, how far did the average person have to be pushed before color flushed their cheeks and shame took over their body. A game of denying baser urges and the truth. Sofie thought she was skilled at this game, that her shame had tipped over the edge a long time ago. Perhaps it got washed down river when her mother thought it best to baptize her. As if that would slow her down, make her small, make her demure.  As he spoke honestly Sofie couldn’t help but smile, real genuine smile, a flicker of a second before her mother’s voice echoed; girls are meant to be seen not heard; why can’t it be both? The stubborn thought assaulted over an old memory. 

Taking a curt step forwards while meeting his gaze with a mirrored expression Sofie raised a shoulder and turned slowly before facing him again; shameless, at least about her body, about what she could control. “Yeah-” She repeated her lashes fluttering against the curve of her cheek as her gaze lowered slowly and lifted back up towards his face, “Did you plan on just staring or saying something?” There was a hint of challenge in her voice as she spoke, playful, and teasing.

            It seemed a pair of baited breaths were held for a handful of seconds following his bluntness, two sets of eyes, one of ocean and one of earth, fastened and held. One, two, three–– and there it was. Response. The slow upturn at the corners of a full mouth was the brighter face of a two-sided coin; this one earning him a smile, whereas the other could have earned him a slap. The statuesque male had garnered either in the past, both provoking the hungered dampening of his lips either way.

           She stepped forward and he remained, the mischief of her smirk not returned by the same curve of a mouth, but with the flare in his gaze instead: tacit, miniscule, but charged like ozone. It wasn’t until she endowed him with a taste of his own medicine and did a shameless up and down of his person, did he turn stone malleable and make any movement–– all was fair, and with it, was a towering step closer, the lusty part of lips, and the darkening in hazel hues.

          “If I say what I’m thinkin’–,” He began with his step, a velvet drawl as deep as the south, gaze never leaving hers, “Any claim I got to callin’ myself a gentleman is gone.” Another step; another pulse, “So that makes it your call. You want manners, or you want the truth? ‘Cause you can’t have both.”

[vincentxshaw-blog]

—OLIVER & vincent,

As a manager, Oliver hated being above his employees but it has to go that way. Still, when there’s the chance, he wanted to be equal with them whenever he can. So, being late today, he gave himself the punishment to restock the shelves at the store. Seeing the troubled customer on the corner of his eye, he figured he’d go over there and offer his assistance. “Anything I can do to help?”

             Vincent Shaw had never been good at hiding. Not his thoughts, his feelings, his pyretic temper. Honesty, in both its season of virtue and of sin, was embedded deep in marrow, rendering him offbeat in most social situations–– and fuck, did it ever get him in trouble. Today was no exception. When the deep voice sounded beside him in his rummage through shelves, annoyance wounded broad shoulders high as hazel eyes rolled, harsh and to the heavens; a deep, guttural sigh parting his full lips. The brunette preferred to be left alone, simple. And that desire branched out to everything–– legume shopping included. “You’re the third person to come up to me, askin’ that,” His tone lacked the cordial warmth the other had, icy instead, and the side-eyed narrow of acknowledgment Vincent flashed was one powerful look of irritation, if there ever was one, “And for the third goddamn time, I’m fine.”

[vincentxshaw-blog]

—COSETTE & vincent,

          Cosette had been struggling today, admittedly, and though she had always enjoyed owning her own place, it was dealing with certain negative aspects of Customer Service that lead her to question her sanity. Turning on her feet, there was an incredibly fake smile pressed against her features as she walked away from the intolerant and obnoxious gentleman at his seat, complaining that the eggs weren’t cooked to his satisfaction. “I know it’s frowned upon,” she began, as she shuffled slightly and pressed her back against the dining bar “but, I really want to spit in his food.” The young woman admitted, rolling her eyes before placing the plate onto the side, sliding it towards her kitchen staff, asking to re-do the eggs to his satisfaction.

                 He watched her, carefully, from the bar stool he nursed his coffee at, with whiskey eyes low under lids and fastened in their stare. Whether she was specifically talking to him or herself was balanced on a pique of inclination and that tip alone, and like most casual conversation coaxed his way, he either took his time answering or not at all. She was confusing. Why would she, a member of staff, tell him, a paying patron, that she wanted to spit in another’s food? Who did that? Bold to the bone she seemed, hidden behind a disposition of tender beauty, and the swell of a smile made its way carefully onto Vincent’s chiseled mien when an uncomfortable amount of time had passed, “That’s disgusting,” He parried, but no vex drove his tone, “––but if you gotta do what you gotta do, I ain’t lookin’.”

[vincentxshaw-blog]

—SOFIE & vincent,

Her echoing steps stopped short; a thunder and a half tap as Sofie came to a halt, slowly she turned her head back to look behind her. Pulling her skirt over the curve just above her thighs Sofie lowered her gaze. “Were you just checking out my ass?”

               Of course he was–– sable pupils in a whiskey gaze practically burned through the uprising of a tight skirt, fastened shamelessly on the alluring focal point ahead. He was a man, after all; all red blood and virile pulsating, bedroom eyes and dampened lips. His father’s son. Not a good thing to be; enough to puncture self-hatred through a vein and resist, but old habits died hard, and all he could do was be honest about it, “... Yeah,” He said, deadpan and painstaking, letting his gaze linger southward for a moment, before it rose, austere and scorching, to an even fasten on hers, “Yeah, I was.”

[ofnikkcs]

casey deidrick + body parts 👀

[thislongingforyou]

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i’m on fire – bruce springsteen

[quietflorilegium]

There it is. That temper you try to hide. You know what fascinates me about you? You’re a hungry person sitting in front of a banquet, refusing to eat.

Locke, Holly Black, “The Lost Sisters” (via quietflorilegium)