COLT
I've been sleeping wide awake
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore
There's little that competes with being gathered by him and her legs wrap around him in response, eagerly claiming his gravity instead, comfortable in the dusk that guides and settles around her. Her mind empties into the rhythm of touch, her only thoughts now on which place of him to lay claim to next, and even those are just a scatter of sparks catching on any part of him she can.
Fingers argue with fabric, slip tight through his hair, curl across the rough edge of his jaw. Her mouth trades lips, tongue, and teeth in equal measure, skimming along him and swallowing the sound of her name with a feral grin. Breathing is nothing other than a nuisance, every pause to manage it a punishing interruption that leaves her panting his name through the frenzy. The flicker of lanterns and fire spill over him, shadows rising in-between in a pattern of varying darkness as he moves, but she can't see beyond the constellations now.
Lowering into the couch is a sigh of relief her whole body takes. There’s no leaving, no wondering, no haunted pasts, no nights without stars—just him now. Her pulse rises to the weight of him and the way he always fits against her like he knows every empty part that aches for him. She arches into him, meeting him that much faster, distance something she can't afford. Her breath catches on contact, a low sound slipping free that speaks to all her want. Not promises, not plans, not even words. Just the feel of him.
Her hands hold either side of his head, curling into a hungry kiss that she presses into him with nearly violent need. It breaks just as fiercely, an unintelligible sound loosing as she sinks fully into the sea of blankets and comfort, gaze unshakable from his. One leg remains draped around his back, heel begging him lower, while the other curls up to brush against the side of his waist, an unspoken complaint at the rasp of clothing instead of the glide of skin.
Fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging hard enough to feel the seams strain in her haste before she pushes it up over his ribs. The warmth of his skin hits her palms, the feeling better than air yanked in after breaking through water. Fingers run across the surface of him, rolling along the lines of muscle he's earned from spars and more weight than he deserves to carry, lean with travel and worry he keeps back with a roll of his teeth or shoulder. He sparkles with his private night mapped across the tan of his skin, a scene worthy of slowing down to admire for a moment.
Fingers argue with fabric, slip tight through his hair, curl across the rough edge of his jaw. Her mouth trades lips, tongue, and teeth in equal measure, skimming along him and swallowing the sound of her name with a feral grin. Breathing is nothing other than a nuisance, every pause to manage it a punishing interruption that leaves her panting his name through the frenzy. The flicker of lanterns and fire spill over him, shadows rising in-between in a pattern of varying darkness as he moves, but she can't see beyond the constellations now.
Lowering into the couch is a sigh of relief her whole body takes. There’s no leaving, no wondering, no haunted pasts, no nights without stars—just him now. Her pulse rises to the weight of him and the way he always fits against her like he knows every empty part that aches for him. She arches into him, meeting him that much faster, distance something she can't afford. Her breath catches on contact, a low sound slipping free that speaks to all her want. Not promises, not plans, not even words. Just the feel of him.
Her hands hold either side of his head, curling into a hungry kiss that she presses into him with nearly violent need. It breaks just as fiercely, an unintelligible sound loosing as she sinks fully into the sea of blankets and comfort, gaze unshakable from his. One leg remains draped around his back, heel begging him lower, while the other curls up to brush against the side of his waist, an unspoken complaint at the rasp of clothing instead of the glide of skin.
Fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging hard enough to feel the seams strain in her haste before she pushes it up over his ribs. The warmth of his skin hits her palms, the feeling better than air yanked in after breaking through water. Fingers run across the surface of him, rolling along the lines of muscle he's earned from spars and more weight than he deserves to carry, lean with travel and worry he keeps back with a roll of his teeth or shoulder. He sparkles with his private night mapped across the tan of his skin, a scene worthy of slowing down to admire for a moment.
I'm tired of running from the conversations
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself 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.
