COLT
You put the cool in the breeze
You put the weak here in my knees
You put me right where I'm supposed to be
In your blue-eyed sea, and I wanna sail away
You put the weak here in my knees
You put me right where I'm supposed to be
In your blue-eyed sea, and I wanna sail away
It’s something rhythmic, the noise. Not so gentle and humming as a beetle, content to drone into the background of it all. Not the clang of warning bells that ring with an insufferable clamor either. It’s deeper—a heartbeat risen to a roar, more like the roll of thunder—dangerous and restless, threatening to shake everything loose with each bellow.
His hand through her hair almost undoes what he’s trying to hold—thunder never far from lightning. His touch, his care, is all the spark she needs to break. She manages to stay whole, hanging on like a wildflower in the rain. Her arm slips from the wall, steadied by him now instead, head angling up at his insistence. Her lashes lower before she can meet his gaze, the kind of slow blink that hides nothing. She’s too full to tuck anything away right now anyway, even if she tried. When she does manage to look at him, he is a sight—freckles shining like a lit path out of hell, eyes fierce enough to cut through the howl of it all, his presence pulling harder than the wind or the ground underfoot. She doesn’t know how he manages to be the rumble and the calm—must be the way he’s an idea and a reality, a man and a silhouette.
There’s a small, uneven breath poorly dressed as a scoff at his words. “Couple quilts and a bottle of wine?” she murmurs, shaking her head stubbornly at all his humbleness. She rather preferred the arrogance. “Honey, you’re undersellin’ it.” The warmth of his thumb against her cheek feels like the only thing holding her ribs together, and without thinking, she leans into it, letting his hand cradle her that much more.
“You sayin’ there’s better than this?” she asks low, 'brows rising in disbelief. Her fingers flick lightly at his shirt, trailing the fabric for a beat, tracing a line of him like she means to learn it. “Bullshit.” Her fingers curl in and the tug she gives him isn’t sharp, and the kiss she leans up into isn’t rushed. It’s soft, but there's a weight to it, a need she can’t quite disguise.
Words leave her with a low chuckle when they part, the sound frayed at the edges, “you’re the tempest, Ves.” Her fingers stay knotted in his shirt, tightening with the smallest, unconscious plea for him not to let go. She tips her chin like she’s still in control, but the catch in her breath gives her away completely.
His hand through her hair almost undoes what he’s trying to hold—thunder never far from lightning. His touch, his care, is all the spark she needs to break. She manages to stay whole, hanging on like a wildflower in the rain. Her arm slips from the wall, steadied by him now instead, head angling up at his insistence. Her lashes lower before she can meet his gaze, the kind of slow blink that hides nothing. She’s too full to tuck anything away right now anyway, even if she tried. When she does manage to look at him, he is a sight—freckles shining like a lit path out of hell, eyes fierce enough to cut through the howl of it all, his presence pulling harder than the wind or the ground underfoot. She doesn’t know how he manages to be the rumble and the calm—must be the way he’s an idea and a reality, a man and a silhouette.
There’s a small, uneven breath poorly dressed as a scoff at his words. “Couple quilts and a bottle of wine?” she murmurs, shaking her head stubbornly at all his humbleness. She rather preferred the arrogance. “Honey, you’re undersellin’ it.” The warmth of his thumb against her cheek feels like the only thing holding her ribs together, and without thinking, she leans into it, letting his hand cradle her that much more.
“You sayin’ there’s better than this?” she asks low, 'brows rising in disbelief. Her fingers flick lightly at his shirt, trailing the fabric for a beat, tracing a line of him like she means to learn it. “Bullshit.” Her fingers curl in and the tug she gives him isn’t sharp, and the kiss she leans up into isn’t rushed. It’s soft, but there's a weight to it, a need she can’t quite disguise.
Words leave her with a low chuckle when they part, the sound frayed at the edges, “you’re the tempest, Ves.” Her fingers stay knotted in his shirt, tightening with the smallest, unconscious plea for him not to let go. She tips her chin like she’s still in control, but the catch in her breath gives her away completely.
You knock me out kiss by kiss
I need you baby, sip by sip
Sit back and let me drink you in
I'm fallin' for you, over and over and over again
I need you baby, sip by sip
Sit back and let me drink you in
I'm fallin' for you, over and over and over again
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.
