COLT
Usually, I ain't the type to stay up all damn night
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
"Dinner?" she repeats with a wry twist of her lips, "or the entire market?" His laugh tells her that he's well aware of what he's done, as if he's prone to doing anything unintentionally, so she's just left shaking her head after him. It might be worth remembering that dinner for Colt usually consists of just the alcohol and only one of the many things he's brought, usually something bready or cheesy, eating like a lazy and drunken carbivorous bird.
Her hand is hardly needed when he's got more than an octopus, so it falls to her hip as both their gazes turn towards her fleet of hounds. Some have already settled, the commotion of arrival short lived, but a few of the younger ones, Smooches among them, linger at the threshold of the entrance. Their tails still wave slowly, eyes turned up in complete guilt-encouraging puppydog fashion. "You just arrived and you're already trying to spoil them?" Her head tilts back with the force of the laugh, closing the door shut on the pleading mongrels like it might break the spell they've woven. "They've got your number early," she teases, attention drifting back to him with a swell of adoration for his inclusion of her small, four-legged family.
As it always seems to, the worries that had been so prevalent and loud scatter, like the breath from his tilted lips is all the wind she needs to clear out the dust that manages to settle inbetween. It seems to be residue from old heartaches and problems drifting around, the result of trying to burn and bury something that flakes off too easily. For now, the breeze is better than polish.
She'd pictured him here a time or two before, albeit far less domestic and clothed, but the present sight does not undo old fantasies easily when new ones get suggested instead, inspired by the reality of him framed in her home. She'd not considered him in the kitchen before, an easily forgotten portion of her home to be honest, best for chilling liquor and managing her baking energy where restlessness can be turned into production of treats. She certainly has a new use for it in mind though—him in nothing but an apron, serving up plenty of meat with her scattered over the island like a dish in need. Or, bent over her rarely used kitchen table, all of her hunger being fed. Her gaze flicks there briefly, a sly grin sprouting up where nerves had been.
"You can put your bag in either room. Shoes off," she instructs, crossing to where he stands, a bit more surefooted than usual in her own home, and the tequila on the counter that'd been her partner in crime for mixing up dessert. She means to return to the kitchen and her batter, but she can't pass him without stopping, without turning a little portion of her thought into life. Lifting up on her toes, her hands reach to each edge of his jaw, delivering a soft, careful kiss. She keeps it light, fleeting, full of promise for more. "Can I get you anything?" she asks, quiet beneath the heat of him still lingering while she forces herself to withdraw, not wanting to lose her footing so soon.
Her hand is hardly needed when he's got more than an octopus, so it falls to her hip as both their gazes turn towards her fleet of hounds. Some have already settled, the commotion of arrival short lived, but a few of the younger ones, Smooches among them, linger at the threshold of the entrance. Their tails still wave slowly, eyes turned up in complete guilt-encouraging puppydog fashion. "You just arrived and you're already trying to spoil them?" Her head tilts back with the force of the laugh, closing the door shut on the pleading mongrels like it might break the spell they've woven. "They've got your number early," she teases, attention drifting back to him with a swell of adoration for his inclusion of her small, four-legged family.
As it always seems to, the worries that had been so prevalent and loud scatter, like the breath from his tilted lips is all the wind she needs to clear out the dust that manages to settle inbetween. It seems to be residue from old heartaches and problems drifting around, the result of trying to burn and bury something that flakes off too easily. For now, the breeze is better than polish.
She'd pictured him here a time or two before, albeit far less domestic and clothed, but the present sight does not undo old fantasies easily when new ones get suggested instead, inspired by the reality of him framed in her home. She'd not considered him in the kitchen before, an easily forgotten portion of her home to be honest, best for chilling liquor and managing her baking energy where restlessness can be turned into production of treats. She certainly has a new use for it in mind though—him in nothing but an apron, serving up plenty of meat with her scattered over the island like a dish in need. Or, bent over her rarely used kitchen table, all of her hunger being fed. Her gaze flicks there briefly, a sly grin sprouting up where nerves had been.
"You can put your bag in either room. Shoes off," she instructs, crossing to where he stands, a bit more surefooted than usual in her own home, and the tequila on the counter that'd been her partner in crime for mixing up dessert. She means to return to the kitchen and her batter, but she can't pass him without stopping, without turning a little portion of her thought into life. Lifting up on her toes, her hands reach to each edge of his jaw, delivering a soft, careful kiss. She keeps it light, fleeting, full of promise for more. "Can I get you anything?" she asks, quiet beneath the heat of him still lingering while she forces herself to withdraw, not wanting to lose her footing so soon.
I keep it dark, I keep it quiet
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
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.
