COLT
The first graze of wing on skin had seemed accidental, just the effect of their close proximity. When it happens again, feather coasting over her side that peeks out beneath bunched up cloth, it feels entirely intentional. Maybe she just wants it to be, because if anyone can yank her out of her sleepless fits, where endless desert and darkness press in like a nightmare of feeling, it would be him. He doesn't operate the House of Midnight for no reason, after all. So as the shiver of sensation curls through her again, it drags a heat against her that has nothing to do with the season.
Her eyes follow his motions unabashed as he peels his shirt away, exposing a litany of scars that pinch her 'brow in thought. It's more than she expected, whether a sign that too many others heal theirs away whereas he wears them proud, or a symptom of his impulsivity, it's hard to say. Her smile slowly creeps in as he twists and turns and lays out every inch of his skin like a map, each scar a landscape of ruin she could chart her way across.
"Sharks?" Her brow ticks up, lips curling slow. "Wouldn't have guessed the Flood had rivals in the sea. Guess even the ocean tries to bite back." In reference to the scars on his legs, still covered by his pants, she sighs wistfully. "Guess I’ll just have to take your word for it and imagine those ones."
Her fingers reach out tentatively to trace the long line on his palm as he holds it close to her, smile fading into something thoughtful. The piece of him he shares with her she takes quietly, recognizing the rough edges of it. She knows the kind of hurt that sinks and lingers, a lesson you keep forever; hers just never showed on the outside. There’s something beautiful in the way he’s turned pain into art, his tattoos worn like chosen scars beside the ones life gave him without asking.
"Hmm, sounds like you're fortunate to have gotten out of such a place." Her voice is soft, but something darker coils under it, something familiar with being on the receiving end of that necklace of blood, that threat of control. "Places like that don’t always let go easy, and they sure as hell don't forgive you for surviving." What would he have become, if he stayed? Something broken and beaten into the mold, or would it have destroyed him to remain, resisting until he met the final punishment for such disobedience?
She hesitates as his fingers curl shut, her hand lowering to the grass between them, eyes fixed on his. "Who's Nate?" she asks, soft with the understanding the name carries some weight for him. Someone worth bleeding for, sounds like.
Her eyes follow his motions unabashed as he peels his shirt away, exposing a litany of scars that pinch her 'brow in thought. It's more than she expected, whether a sign that too many others heal theirs away whereas he wears them proud, or a symptom of his impulsivity, it's hard to say. Her smile slowly creeps in as he twists and turns and lays out every inch of his skin like a map, each scar a landscape of ruin she could chart her way across.
"Sharks?" Her brow ticks up, lips curling slow. "Wouldn't have guessed the Flood had rivals in the sea. Guess even the ocean tries to bite back." In reference to the scars on his legs, still covered by his pants, she sighs wistfully. "Guess I’ll just have to take your word for it and imagine those ones."
Her fingers reach out tentatively to trace the long line on his palm as he holds it close to her, smile fading into something thoughtful. The piece of him he shares with her she takes quietly, recognizing the rough edges of it. She knows the kind of hurt that sinks and lingers, a lesson you keep forever; hers just never showed on the outside. There’s something beautiful in the way he’s turned pain into art, his tattoos worn like chosen scars beside the ones life gave him without asking.
"Hmm, sounds like you're fortunate to have gotten out of such a place." Her voice is soft, but something darker coils under it, something familiar with being on the receiving end of that necklace of blood, that threat of control. "Places like that don’t always let go easy, and they sure as hell don't forgive you for surviving." What would he have become, if he stayed? Something broken and beaten into the mold, or would it have destroyed him to remain, resisting until he met the final punishment for such disobedience?
She hesitates as his fingers curl shut, her hand lowering to the grass between them, eyes fixed on his. "Who's Nate?" she asks, soft with the understanding the name carries some weight for him. Someone worth bleeding for, sounds like.
I ain't sayin' that I always sleep alone
Done a little bit of midnight movin' on
I never let my heart go all the way
I never fall in love, baby, just in case
Done a little bit of midnight movin' on
I never let my heart go all the way
I never fall in love, baby, just in case
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.
