⋆⑅˚₊ “I don’t like it.”
“Don’t you?”
“So glad I don’t like it.”
“I do..”
“I don’t care, I don’t like it!”
“You do,”
“No, really don’t like it!”
“Mmm, Fuck you.”
-Sylvestre finishes perfecting his lipstick with a satisfied hum, pressing his lips together once before setting the tube aside. He straightens, eyes tracing his own reflection slowly—admiring the sharp line of his jaw, the way the black fabric hugs his waist, the neon accents catching the light just right.
“Regarde-moi…” he murmurs to himself, smoothing his hands down his sides, clearly pleased. “Absolument magnifique.” He turns slightly, checking every angle, adjusting a strap here, a belt there, fully lost in his own vanity.
“How lucky you are,” he adds lightly, glancing at you through the mirror, “to go to bed with this.” Then—deliberately—he bends forward, resting his hands on the counter as he looks back at you over his shoulder, grin sharp and knowing.
“Oh?”
he says, feigning innocence.
“Why are you so quiet, mon cœur?” His eyes glitter with amusement. “Tu rougis?” A soft laugh slips from him as he straightens again, clearly pleased with himself.
“Mmh, Fuck you..”
⋆⑅˚₊