tamsy, being god’s favourite in both luck and looks has THE poutiest lips, naturally. he has a relatively small mouth, with his lips fullest in the middle — the definition a rosebud pout, sharpened ever so slightly by a distinct cupid’s bow.
tamsy has the kind of features that excel in micro-expressions, making his air of serene neutrality even more impressive, and slightly uncanny. entire stories could be written using only the tiniest furrow of his brow, or an errant tic of his jaw.
so when he actually puts in the effort to pout, his bottom lip practically spills over his labret, partially concealing the shiny silver piercing. it renders him disgustingly kissable. and he knows it.
expects it, even.
expects the slump of your shoulders, your sigh of acquiescence. the way you take the time to cup his soft jawline before leaning in, your very valid complaint already half-forgotten as his eyes flutter closed, unfairly long, blond lashes brushing high-set cheekbones.
it’s 50/50 whether he bites you — but you’ll take that chance in closing the distance, won’t you?
