Squalo dances like he fights; his arms are haphazard things, flying outwards in short sharp jabs as if he is disembowelling a man, or simply stabbing them through the heart. He stamps on the floor like he is dancing in a rave, throwing his head back and sweeping his hair out like a shimmering silver waterfall, curving around his body and framing his face. He stops at points, his eyes piercing and intense as he looks through you, daring you to take a picture but before you can even press on the shutter, he is moving again.
no subject
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Squalo dances like he fights; his arms are haphazard things, flying outwards in short sharp jabs as if he is disembowelling a man, or simply stabbing them through the heart. He stamps on the floor like he is dancing in a rave, throwing his head back and sweeping his hair out like a shimmering silver waterfall, curving around his body and framing his face. He stops at points, his eyes piercing and intense as he looks through you, daring you to take a picture but before you can even press on the shutter, he is moving again.
Thwarting you.