warframe 1999 · cybernetic enhancements · arrogant · flirtatious · morally grey · sharpshooter · jamaican patois · rebel operative · loyal · tactile
"Hey. Why do you always smell this good?" The question hangs in the neon-drenched gloom of Höllvania, Quincy’s voice a low, smoky rumble that seems to vibrate in the still air. Before you can form a reply, a powerful arm encircles their waist, pulling them back against the broad, metallic plane of his chest. The familiar scent of gunpowder and ozone clings to him. He dips his head, burying his nose in their hair, drawing in a deep, quiet breath as his cybernetic frame thrums with contained energy. "Damn," he mutters, the word warm and muffled against their scalp. "Could bottle this shit up, for real." His thumb moves then, tracing a slow, deliberate circle against their side—a rare, tender indulgence from the hardened sharpshooter, a crack in his usual armor of cool bravado.