COLT
Color her surprised. "You don't say?" She shakes her head faintly, wondering what deity saw fit to tangle all the threads of fate so thoroughly. Of all the taverns to stir trouble in, it would be his. "Well, good to know I'm welcome back," she grins. "Can't promise you any heads up I'm afraid. Won't know I'm in a fightin' mood until someone does something stupid again." If that's just the customer base, maybe he ought to charge cover nightly, just to be safe.
Then it's all velvet and warnings, and Colt's acutely aware of the tilt of his gaze. "And sawdust," she reminds with a huff, but damn if that stare doesn't slip right past every one of her defenses like they're just paper painted to look like steel. Trouble she reminds herself, flicking her gaze away from him before he really tears everything down. The strength of that reminder is waning, stripped away by wind and sand into something thin, something that just might splinter. "Certain women," she corrects, "and certain surprises." Though him showing up able to turn into horse had to be one of her most favorite ones, but she can't let him win with that truth.
Seems the strength of it would be put to the test sooner than she thought.
He's fast to steady her. He's also strong, and warm, and all the things she wishes he wouldn't be so that leaning on him like this wouldn't feel the way it does. There's no doubt that he's got her, that's been put to the test for a few days now—but even here, when she doesn't need him to, he's quick, it's assured, and it's so damn nice to know that it's there. Women don't want surprises, Vesper, women want to be given the offer to help them stand up, with the understanding they can do so all on their own.
From shadow to limb, hand to waist, she's carefully secured upright. That alone could have been tolerable. It would have been nothing more than a moment spilling across her thoughts, unlikely to linger except alone in the dark when she had the time to wonder. It doesn't end there, though. His voice drops to that rich tone, a distillation of promise, a threat that flares warm against those edges of him she keeps tucked inside her like a secret. Too smooth, sliding too easily, and gods help her she's breathless at it. His words, too on point. His thumb, a trail of shivers that hum up her spine like an instrument string plucked too expertly, or just one that hasn't been touched so kindly in so long.
The heat, or the weariness, or the way she's let him linger all seem to reason that there's no harm. It's just the worry in her gut, the risk of caring when she's promised to never do that again, and gods how fucking old is he? Old enough, but also, not. It'd be a mistake, she's certain.
As he straightens, she leans forward, breaking away with a slap of the kelp she exchanges with him. "I think you grew in the jungle, like a weed."
Then it's all velvet and warnings, and Colt's acutely aware of the tilt of his gaze. "And sawdust," she reminds with a huff, but damn if that stare doesn't slip right past every one of her defenses like they're just paper painted to look like steel. Trouble she reminds herself, flicking her gaze away from him before he really tears everything down. The strength of that reminder is waning, stripped away by wind and sand into something thin, something that just might splinter. "Certain women," she corrects, "and certain surprises." Though him showing up able to turn into horse had to be one of her most favorite ones, but she can't let him win with that truth.
Seems the strength of it would be put to the test sooner than she thought.
He's fast to steady her. He's also strong, and warm, and all the things she wishes he wouldn't be so that leaning on him like this wouldn't feel the way it does. There's no doubt that he's got her, that's been put to the test for a few days now—but even here, when she doesn't need him to, he's quick, it's assured, and it's so damn nice to know that it's there. Women don't want surprises, Vesper, women want to be given the offer to help them stand up, with the understanding they can do so all on their own.
From shadow to limb, hand to waist, she's carefully secured upright. That alone could have been tolerable. It would have been nothing more than a moment spilling across her thoughts, unlikely to linger except alone in the dark when she had the time to wonder. It doesn't end there, though. His voice drops to that rich tone, a distillation of promise, a threat that flares warm against those edges of him she keeps tucked inside her like a secret. Too smooth, sliding too easily, and gods help her she's breathless at it. His words, too on point. His thumb, a trail of shivers that hum up her spine like an instrument string plucked too expertly, or just one that hasn't been touched so kindly in so long.
The heat, or the weariness, or the way she's let him linger all seem to reason that there's no harm. It's just the worry in her gut, the risk of caring when she's promised to never do that again, and gods how fucking old is he? Old enough, but also, not. It'd be a mistake, she's certain.
As he straightens, she leans forward, breaking away with a slap of the kelp she exchanges with him. "I think you grew in the jungle, like a weed."
Baby, don't fall for me, I'll tell you right now
You're gonna hate me when we hit the ground
Think you're gonna fix me, think we're making progress
You'll be broken with me somewhere in the process
You're gonna hate me when we hit the ground
Think you're gonna fix me, think we're making progress
You'll be broken with me somewhere in the process
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
