amortentia!
send me amortentia and i’ll say what your muse smells like to mine
Graves smells, plainly put, like magic. It's electrifying and it strikes chords in him, resonates with his own magic. He smells like the ground after rain, earthy and steady. Alluring, like a drug; Aaron can't help but be interested and want more. More than he deserves-- more than is safe. This is juvenile rebellion.
You can’t have this.
Watch me.
It's offset by the thick fabric scent of his scarf ( would it be scratchy? Woolen? It is built with twofold purpose; warmth and protection from those who forgo wands . ) His hands smell like the soft kidskin of his gloves. ( And he's had those hands on his face before, gripping just shy of bruising on his jaw-- well-learned to avoid his teeth ). His cloak had smelled like pine that time he'd torn through the forest after him; thick and heady.
There's something strangely imposing about it.
