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
A laugh slips free at his question, caught off guard by the challenge in it. "'Cause there's never any left and people are askin' for seconds while they still got hold of their first." One 'brow lifts, and a hand sits on her hip for a moment like she means to abandon the entire idea of dinner for the sake of baking, if only to have something to force on him right now as proof.
His admission about witnessing that sort of pain, but not truly enduring it is one that slips into her with a cold prickle. It runs like ice water down her spine, and all the heat of summer wouldn't be able to turn it into relief. She looks at him at that, but not her usual way, where she's appreciating something lovely trying hard to hide in the dark. This glance is sharper, and she realizes the cut it might give a beat too late. One of her fears being given shape by his voice of all things—a truth that he is too young, if he doesn't even know what loss is, and the unfortunate inevitability that he will one day. It makes his echoed sentiments that life's a bitch fall a bit flatter, the sound of it dying out quick. The chill fades for now, broken apart by warmer words and ideas, but it's sunken in somewhere that she'll look at again, when she's restocked her nerves.
Fortunately there's work to be done, something that always has a way of easing worry, or maybe just sheltering it for the time being. The sound of commotion outside rises like a familiar song, and though she pauses for a moment, especially at the fuck that precedes the yelp, she does not interfere, although she does peek out at the offending Smooches that scurries away. Not surprised, she returns to her vegetables, certain he can manage a small pack of dogs, though it sets amusement tugging at the corner of her lips.
It blossoms into a runaway smile in response to his reentry, grumbling about the storm of noses and paws that he gathered up like a wind. "Better be nice to him," she tuts, "that's Frey's dog." She would concede however, that he's proven to be tremendously troublesome, which seems fitting for a hound kissed by a god who tends not to bother with things that aren't fun, such as obedience.
"No faith," she laughs back at his praise, lavished like he expected her to have already mangled and burned the food in the small time he's been gone. "Wouldn't reassess too soon though, you haven't eaten any of it yet." Although the sparkle of butter seems promising enough. She leans her hip on the counter, finding support under the hang of his smirk. "This mean I'm trusted with more?"
His admission about witnessing that sort of pain, but not truly enduring it is one that slips into her with a cold prickle. It runs like ice water down her spine, and all the heat of summer wouldn't be able to turn it into relief. She looks at him at that, but not her usual way, where she's appreciating something lovely trying hard to hide in the dark. This glance is sharper, and she realizes the cut it might give a beat too late. One of her fears being given shape by his voice of all things—a truth that he is too young, if he doesn't even know what loss is, and the unfortunate inevitability that he will one day. It makes his echoed sentiments that life's a bitch fall a bit flatter, the sound of it dying out quick. The chill fades for now, broken apart by warmer words and ideas, but it's sunken in somewhere that she'll look at again, when she's restocked her nerves.
Fortunately there's work to be done, something that always has a way of easing worry, or maybe just sheltering it for the time being. The sound of commotion outside rises like a familiar song, and though she pauses for a moment, especially at the fuck that precedes the yelp, she does not interfere, although she does peek out at the offending Smooches that scurries away. Not surprised, she returns to her vegetables, certain he can manage a small pack of dogs, though it sets amusement tugging at the corner of her lips.
It blossoms into a runaway smile in response to his reentry, grumbling about the storm of noses and paws that he gathered up like a wind. "Better be nice to him," she tuts, "that's Frey's dog." She would concede however, that he's proven to be tremendously troublesome, which seems fitting for a hound kissed by a god who tends not to bother with things that aren't fun, such as obedience.
"No faith," she laughs back at his praise, lavished like he expected her to have already mangled and burned the food in the small time he's been gone. "Wouldn't reassess too soon though, you haven't eaten any of it yet." Although the sparkle of butter seems promising enough. She leans her hip on the counter, finding support under the hang of his smirk. "This mean I'm trusted with more?"
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.
