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
At the mention of rum she nods and pivots back to the open cabinet, reaching up for the bottle that seems a bit fancier than the other. Something better for sipping, she imagines, versus the low quality shit that gets used to add kick to a cocktail. A glass follows next from a different cabinet, and she's about to reach for the freezer when his sly remark coasts over. She pauses, the glass tapping on the counter as she sets it down and leans her hands against the surface with the faintest breath of a laugh. When she sweeps her eyes his way, he's already turned his back to her, but it doesn't stop the harmless glower she sets to his shoulders all the same. "Good thing you told me, almost ran out back for some rocks from outside," she says dryly, fighting off the twitch of more humor at her mouth as she resumes retrieving the ice, still tempted to serve him up some quartz now.
The ice breathes under the pour of the rum, and it rattles against the glass as she sets it down near his hand. Shortly thereafter her own margarita joins it, and she hops up onto the island counter, a practiced perch. What a different experience the last time had been that she'd sat here, margarita in hand, regaling Thorn with desert adventures and pleading for the secrets of amputating feelings. Now the thought of barricading Vesper out and denying all the opportunities to use this counter with him seems foolish at best. Just a matter of Goldilocks really, finding a night between the one with Thorn and the one at the masquerade, where everything is just right. Not too light. Not too heavy.
Certainly easier said than done, with the inevitability of him just within reach. It's one she doesn't balk at though, overly confident of this middle ground. As if in proof, she chooses to trace the shape of him anew. Her gaze drifts over the hairs that have fallen out of place near his temple, no doubt from the trip over here, one he's chosen to take numerous times if she's counting right. She draws a pattern amongst the starlight that freckles his cheek, newly made constellations born against his skin. Her eye drops to the curve of his hands along the counter, the capability of so much nestled within the curl of them, and some small part of her is anxious to find out all of it, for better or worse.
"This is quite the production," she observes, peering over her shoulder at the haul he's brought in. She raises her hand, offering her drink in toast. "What do you need?" A crooked shape finds her lips then, unashamed as she considers his first request, but hides the memory of it behind a sip of lime and fire. "Fair warning, my cooking's as good as my bartending." She grins, as helpful as a pair of pants on a rooster.
The ice breathes under the pour of the rum, and it rattles against the glass as she sets it down near his hand. Shortly thereafter her own margarita joins it, and she hops up onto the island counter, a practiced perch. What a different experience the last time had been that she'd sat here, margarita in hand, regaling Thorn with desert adventures and pleading for the secrets of amputating feelings. Now the thought of barricading Vesper out and denying all the opportunities to use this counter with him seems foolish at best. Just a matter of Goldilocks really, finding a night between the one with Thorn and the one at the masquerade, where everything is just right. Not too light. Not too heavy.
Certainly easier said than done, with the inevitability of him just within reach. It's one she doesn't balk at though, overly confident of this middle ground. As if in proof, she chooses to trace the shape of him anew. Her gaze drifts over the hairs that have fallen out of place near his temple, no doubt from the trip over here, one he's chosen to take numerous times if she's counting right. She draws a pattern amongst the starlight that freckles his cheek, newly made constellations born against his skin. Her eye drops to the curve of his hands along the counter, the capability of so much nestled within the curl of them, and some small part of her is anxious to find out all of it, for better or worse.
"This is quite the production," she observes, peering over her shoulder at the haul he's brought in. She raises her hand, offering her drink in toast. "What do you need?" A crooked shape finds her lips then, unashamed as she considers his first request, but hides the memory of it behind a sip of lime and fire. "Fair warning, my cooking's as good as my bartending." She grins, as helpful as a pair of pants on a rooster.
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.
