COLT
He's got blue eyes, crooked smile
Knows that he drives me wild
Sarcastic and witty, drives like he owns the city
Assertive in the best way, no sleep we stay up playin'
Knows that he drives me wild
Sarcastic and witty, drives like he owns the city
Assertive in the best way, no sleep we stay up playin'
The way he leans into her kiss rattles her more than she expects. It’s not just the brush of his mouth—that always manages to do her in—it’s the want tucked behind it, enough to leave her buzzing like she’s chewing a live wire. It sets butterflies to life in her chest, each wingbeat on her ribs echoing that desire, and it damn near knocks her breath loose, because this isn't the usual heat. This is what she keeps trying to cover up with the fire, thinking maybe if she burned enough for him she could bury it in ash and choke it out. It normally rises up when she's alone, when he's not close enough for her to catch on, and it's just the thoughts and memories to keep her company. That it's surfacing from the soot spooks her from her spot.
When he turns away to the table she slips off toward the bar. “Double of your house reposado,” she orders sharp and rushed. “A round for everyone!” she calls out after catching Wyatt's eye. It’s half excuse, half gratitude for her favorite dive bar, but it'll do as enough distraction to keep the worry from her hand. Amid the cheers of nearby patrons, she grabs her double and tips it back. At least this is a familiar burn, tipping it down smooth and fast, swallowing before the butterflies can crawl too high in her throat, figuring that if she drenches all those fluttering wings, they'll be too heavy to fly. She sets the glass back on the counter, hoping she left the feeling in it too.
Grabbing three shots in hand she saunters back just as Vesper’s left the boys slumped over their false hope, looking like a cat in cream. Her grin sweeps into place at the sight, wide and dangerous as she divvies out the liquor. “It's no fun if they don't try,” she says with a syrup song too at odds with the wolf's smile she's wearing. “No rum, sorry honey,” she laments for Vesper as she trades the cue for the shot. The faint touch he delivers to her wrist stirs one damp wing back to life.
Gripping the pool cue tight, she turns with a flourish of rhinestone sparkle and loose hair, cocking a hip into the table as she surveys the felt battlefield, preferring to conquer this over others. Chalk dusts her fingers as she strategizes, the end of the stick kissing against the cube before she moves to line up her aim. She leans low, the green fuzz pressing close under her, then cracks the shot home with a clean motion that kicks the errant '4' ball where it belongs—right down a hole. Straightening, a glint in her eyes as they coasts over the boys, she hands the cue back to Vesper. “Y'know, you can always give in if you're tired of being shamed,” she suggests sweetly to the cowboys.
When he turns away to the table she slips off toward the bar. “Double of your house reposado,” she orders sharp and rushed. “A round for everyone!” she calls out after catching Wyatt's eye. It’s half excuse, half gratitude for her favorite dive bar, but it'll do as enough distraction to keep the worry from her hand. Amid the cheers of nearby patrons, she grabs her double and tips it back. At least this is a familiar burn, tipping it down smooth and fast, swallowing before the butterflies can crawl too high in her throat, figuring that if she drenches all those fluttering wings, they'll be too heavy to fly. She sets the glass back on the counter, hoping she left the feeling in it too.
Grabbing three shots in hand she saunters back just as Vesper’s left the boys slumped over their false hope, looking like a cat in cream. Her grin sweeps into place at the sight, wide and dangerous as she divvies out the liquor. “It's no fun if they don't try,” she says with a syrup song too at odds with the wolf's smile she's wearing. “No rum, sorry honey,” she laments for Vesper as she trades the cue for the shot. The faint touch he delivers to her wrist stirs one damp wing back to life.
Gripping the pool cue tight, she turns with a flourish of rhinestone sparkle and loose hair, cocking a hip into the table as she surveys the felt battlefield, preferring to conquer this over others. Chalk dusts her fingers as she strategizes, the end of the stick kissing against the cube before she moves to line up her aim. She leans low, the green fuzz pressing close under her, then cracks the shot home with a clean motion that kicks the errant '4' ball where it belongs—right down a hole. Straightening, a glint in her eyes as they coasts over the boys, she hands the cue back to Vesper. “Y'know, you can always give in if you're tired of being shamed,” she suggests sweetly to the cowboys.
All the things that he says, go straight to my head
Worships me slowly, tells me I'm his only
They say he's morally grey
What can I say? Grey's my favorite color
Worships me slowly, tells me I'm his only
They say he's morally grey
What can I say? Grey's my favorite color
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.
