| random :D

Just starting to cool off. .

Bond offers a hook of his arm, his off hand fixes the color of his shirt. “I like to think of myself as quite convincing.”

I’ll have a martini. Thank you.

| don’t know a thing about resident evil but I’m following all of ya

𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘥𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 • 𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 & 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 • 𝘙𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘋𝘔𝘴 & 𝘋𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥 • 𝘔𝘋𝘕𝘐 • 𝘔𝘶𝘯 𝘪𝘴 30+
#RERP #ResidentEvilRP

| that’s more on me figuring out how to write a James Bond book

| would love to return here at some point and write up something

Back in action.

A pause, just long enough to let the tension breathe.

“You’ve trained for this,” he continued, his voice low and smooth. “That much is obvious. But I’d be lying if I said I knew who gave the order. Or why you’re aiming at me instead of someone easier.”

The angles of her body - - poised like a sculpture made to strike. She knew the effect she had. She was counting on it.

“It did,” he said, lifting his own glass, the surface of the scotch calm and unmoved. “Though it’s rare a bullet names itself before it’s fired.”

His eyes didn’t linger on the red in her glass, though he noticed it. He had seen too many shades of red on too many nights to be distracted by something as petty as wine. Instead, his gaze moved to her posture. The railing.

“Bond,” he said simply, offering the name like a card on a table. No title. No fuss. Just enough to tell her that he saw the game, and had decided to play.

He smiled - - not the charming, boyish smile he offered to bartenders or heiresses - - but the kind that belonged in war rooms and long nights in enemy territory. Cool. Patient. Dangerous.

“I try not to make a habit of it.”

He leans into, closer to her. “Care for a stroll?”

“Only when I’m not wanted.” He says slyly - - yes, Crane. And suddenly Bond’s eyes dart to the man. Like a hunter and its prey, still something he needs to lock down. Not being so. .giddy at a target. He directs his attention back to Evelyn.

| leaving the office and almost screamed “YA HOOO” out loud

holy shit

The way he looked at a weapon - - beautiful, complicated, and very possibly pointed at him.

They turned again. Not for the dance. For the choice it was hiding.

“. . .then you’ll forgive me for keeping an antidote in my pocket. Just in case. ❞ He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

Not aloof. Not mocking.

Just there. Seeing her.

“And if I’m to believe you, Aster. . .that this heart is bare, fragile - - capable of honesty - -“
His lips nearly grazed her temple as he leaned in, breath warm but measured.

“You speak like a woman who’s practiced her poisons. . .but still tastes every drop.”

A pause. The music swelled, and he steered her into a close step - - chest brushing hers, forearms taut in silent balance.

Her body returned to his with the precision of a trap resetting itself. He didn’t miss the falter in her pulse, the flicker behind her eyes before they steeled again.

He raised the arm she’d guided, effortlessly commanding the posture she had teased him toward. And then, voice low, just for her.

Bond held her at the rhythm’s edge - - a tango, yes, but in his grip it felt more like a negotiation: sharp turns, veiled threats, and tension disguised as choreography. Every step, a question. Every spin, a test.

The music rose, a crescendo from the dance floor below. Somewhere, the party flirted with climax. But on the mezzanine - - two predators circled silently, each pretending the other had already made the first move.

“Working under that name, I can only assume you want someone to put a bullet in you.”

A beat.

He turned his head slightly, enough to see her in full. “Or maybe you’ve been hoping it’d be me.”

He didn’t look at her right away. Instead, he mirrored her gaze, down toward the swirl of oblivious elegance below.

Then, calmly.