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
Everything he says always manages to drag through her with barbs. Not sharp enough to hurt—just enough to catch, to linger like something that means to stay a while. It tugs leisurely against her now, each slow drawl and quiet chuckle, saturated with their mutual satisfaction and persistent cravings, lodging themselves wonderfully into the corners of her mind and the lines of her smile.
She'd been wrong, before. It's not him leaning on rails she could never tire of, it's the way he looks now—lazy and smug with afterglow, coiled against her legs like there's comfort in keeping them nearby. The skip of his rings against her skin, the indication of more layered into his voice, the heat of his gaze, it all sparks against her like a fire that doesn't intend on going out any time soon.
The basket slides into her command freely, triumph found in the package of crackers that fit into her grasp among the wicker, a feat in and of itself honestly given all the assorted goods he'd stuffed into it. It's too easy, which is the first hint that he's angling for something worse, but the thrill of immediate success blots out such thoughts for the moment. The absolute menace of his shadows sweep in though, gliding with an all too familiar pattern as they wind against her thighs. The scavenged sleeve of crackers are at risk of turning to dust resulting an involuntary clench of her hands. With the added harness against her shoulders, the weight of his warning fully settles. She leans back against the dark embrace though, pulling at the binds, testing them, the press of her edging the basket further away.
Mischief cradles her resistance, a toe lifting off the ground to press into his side with her own dose of caution to him. An empty gun can still turn a situation around. "I think you can try," she draws the words out between her grin, full of false confidence given that she nearly buckles under the heavy look of his admiration. One hand curls protectively against the handle, while the other holds her prize against her teeth as she tears the pack open, shaking the broken pieces into her mouth like it'd been intentional all along.
She'd been wrong, before. It's not him leaning on rails she could never tire of, it's the way he looks now—lazy and smug with afterglow, coiled against her legs like there's comfort in keeping them nearby. The skip of his rings against her skin, the indication of more layered into his voice, the heat of his gaze, it all sparks against her like a fire that doesn't intend on going out any time soon.
The basket slides into her command freely, triumph found in the package of crackers that fit into her grasp among the wicker, a feat in and of itself honestly given all the assorted goods he'd stuffed into it. It's too easy, which is the first hint that he's angling for something worse, but the thrill of immediate success blots out such thoughts for the moment. The absolute menace of his shadows sweep in though, gliding with an all too familiar pattern as they wind against her thighs. The scavenged sleeve of crackers are at risk of turning to dust resulting an involuntary clench of her hands. With the added harness against her shoulders, the weight of his warning fully settles. She leans back against the dark embrace though, pulling at the binds, testing them, the press of her edging the basket further away.
Mischief cradles her resistance, a toe lifting off the ground to press into his side with her own dose of caution to him. An empty gun can still turn a situation around. "I think you can try," she draws the words out between her grin, full of false confidence given that she nearly buckles under the heavy look of his admiration. One hand curls protectively against the handle, while the other holds her prize against her teeth as she tears the pack open, shaking the broken pieces into her mouth like it'd been intentional all along.
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.
