LANGUAGE/S : english, french, & a little bit of italian .
SEXUAL ORIENTATION : heterosexual .
ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : heteromantic .
RELATIONSHIP STATUS : verse dependent .
CLASS : upper middle class .
HOME TOWN / AREA : topeka, kansas .
CURRENT HOME : los angeles, california .
PROFESSION : factotum / bar tender at the hotel cortez, previously a medical representative for eli lilly .
PHYSICAL.
HAIR : why
EYES : hazel .
NOSE : pointy ? idfk .
FACE : aged .
LIPS : thin .
COMPLEXION : fair .
BLEMISHES : sparse freckles decorating her back & shoulder blades .
SCARS : a very small scratch on her inner left wrist .
TATTOOS : none .
HEIGHT : 5′8″ .
WEIGHT : 110 - 120 lbs .
BUILD : slender, with the addition of her height, borderline scrawny .
ALLERGIES : pets .
USUAL FACE LOOK : expressionless, probably resting bitch face .
USUAL CLOTHING : dresses / one - pieces, usually to or below the knee. ring on her pinky finger, scarves, large earrings. turbans to match the outfit, reading glasses .
sounds of her laughter had him tracing her features with careful green eyes, childish bashfulness flushing his cheeks. head dropping forward, a flash of tongue wets his lips before he managed to grin as well. ❛ bullshit. ❜ managing to stifle a similar sound, fingers extend to apply another shaky stroke of blue. ❛ you want a flower or something next? ❜
free hand comes up to a light hold of her cheek, elbow used as a prop. teasing, a nude mouth thinning in faux contemplation, she hums, a soft resonation of amusement. gaze breaks away from tristan’s, & instead drifts to his handiwork, brows lifting in slight. ❛ mm, i don’t know. . . ❜ cloying are her tones, smile tainting the expression of sincereness she’s attempting to convey. ❛ you sure you’re up for the challenge? ❜
WORDLESS –– quiet contempt shrouded in features drawn nonchalant –– the usual is set before the countess : the sharp noise of glass against marble ringing out like thunder in the tense atmosphere. purposely slowed, stilettoed steps waver back to her own stool, back turned as soon as duty as bartender is completed. the intention to speak is null; with nothing but angry lashes lacing her tongue (& the other’s shimmering glove, fraught with death,not going unnoticed ), she deems it wise to keep her mouth shut. de profundis is reopened, spine resting on the curve of her palm, but pages remained unturned –– if only to avoid the other’s gaze. //@timelesscreature(sc. )