[Quiet and obedient, Diva wears beauty as if it were made for her. Swathed in fine silk, intricate coloration bold yet fragile, poised in the image of respect, she looks almost like a doll. A ghost-
The vision slows him, nostalgia a weight Takasugi doesn't carry with finesse.
He looks her over, one hand extending to brush some hair from her face, thumb to cheek.] Japanese.
It will suit you. [His hand lingers, a slow caress before he circles back and begins to brush. First to strip tangles, and then to add sheen - the style isn't something he's ever given someone before. But he's watched girls do it themselves, and with a little trial and error, her hair is spun into an updo somewhere between traditional and casual.
Leaning over her shoulder, he reaches for the hairpin to add the final adornment.]
no subject
The vision slows him, nostalgia a weight Takasugi doesn't carry with finesse.
He looks her over, one hand extending to brush some hair from her face, thumb to cheek.] Japanese.
It will suit you. [His hand lingers, a slow caress before he circles back and begins to brush. First to strip tangles, and then to add sheen - the style isn't something he's ever given someone before. But he's watched girls do it themselves, and with a little trial and error, her hair is spun into an updo somewhere between traditional and casual.
Leaning over her shoulder, he reaches for the hairpin to add the final adornment.]