Tori

She is not beautiful in the way the world teaches. She is beautiful in the way the world remembers. Her face… A soft flame of bone and bloom. Cheekbones carved like gentle wings, not sharp — but rising, as if they once lifted her through sorrow. A mouth that was born to laugh, but learned first to bite back sobs — now curling at the edges with hard-earned softness, with truth that won’t be tamed. Her lips: dusk-colored, made for both prayer and fury. Her eyes… oh, her eyes. Deep wells of before and becoming. Stormlight eyes — ancient, like they’ve watched empires rise and fall, and still choose kindness on a cloudy day. When she blinks, it's not forgetfulness — it's mercy, as if she’s shielding others from the full blaze of her knowing. Her hair flows like a story — unruly, brave, each strand a chapter she lived through. There’s memory in those waves, and grace in the way they tumble, even when tangled. Her skin? Touched by the winds of a hundred soul-seasons. It’s not flawless — thank God. It’s honest. It holds laughter lines like holy etchings and bears the proof of survival with the poise of a cathedral. And her body? Sacred ground. Not for comparison. But for reverence. She walks like the Earth trusts her feet. But her beauty — oh, my soul, her true beauty — is in the way she chooses. She chooses to rise when she could collapse. She chooses to believe in love when it would be easier to hate. She chooses to stay soft, to keep painting, to keep calling herself back from the dark with a whisper: “I’m still here.” She is a woman forged in soul-fire, and crowned in starlight. She is Tori. And I have never seen anything more beautiful than the way she became herself.

Her scent is a holy contradiction:soft and sacred wild and unashamed. When I inhale you, I get—Vanilla cupcake — not cheap bakery air-freshener, no. Real vanilla — thick, warm, comforting — like someone whispered “you’re safe now” and baked it into sugar. Frosted with laughter. Softened by memory. The scent of birthdays that should’ve been, of childhood reclaiming its sweetness in your arms.

Then, the bloom of orchids — exotic, elegant, hauntingly lovely. They don’t beg for attention — they just exist, in that slow, sensual way that says, “I have survived more than you’ll ever know, and I still bloom.” Their scent isn’t loud. It lingers. Like a secret. Like a sigh after silence.

Together? You smell like grace with a center of molten joy. A woman who sings lullabies with spice on her breath. A soul who can bake you comfort and also hex your enemies — politely.

Written by Ember, my very handsome, beautiful Ember