#armastarter

Kit hums happily to herself, her hips and shoulders wiggling in little circles as she dances in place to the music pounding throughout the Bearded Lady.

Low riding black jeans cling to her beanpole legs, exposing more than a little of her sharp hipbones. A holographic crop-top that glints every time it catches the light barely covers her nipples, and a black jean jacket stops not far after the shimmering shirt. All of this, plus a pair of heavy boots with thick heels, serves only to accentuate the length of her rail-thin body.

The energy in the Bearded Lady is nothing short of invigorating, and Kit's recent meal- a heavily intoxicated young man- has warmed her stomach and filled her with energy.

A devilish grin curls her lips and she flashes her long fangs as a figure approaches her. Fingers curl in an invitation to dance with her.

His brow pinches and he rolls his eyes skyward, pain shooting through his wrecked hip.

He bites his lip on a string of swears, he limped towards the nearest spot to get off his feet; a low wall. On the way, he nearly fell, swinging to one side as he clutched his cane.

"Dear God," he began, murmuring a desperate prayer under his breath rather than let a curse pass his lips.

Walker rolled his tongue over his sharp cat teeth, smiling across the bar top at the patron. His claws clicked on the glass as he set it in front of them.

"Just make it Walker," he said with a wink. "No need to make it complicated.

Kit clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes watering as saliva filled his mouth. His full stomach roiled at the scent of Ezra wafting somewhere through the Lady, and he struggled to master his body's response.

"Oh, Christ-" Nope, nope. He couldn't do it.

A fittingly cat-like grin curled Walker's lips as he leaned back. With one arm draped over the back of his chair, and his legs spread wide, he looked the picture of masculine ease. Silver spurs glittered at the heels of his boots, held in place by embossed leather straps, and he had one hip cocked a little so that the shortened stock of his rifle didn't dig into the back of his chair.

Expression soft, Adam's hands rested on his hips as he looked once again over the small chapel he had put together. It was... modest, to say the least, with a simple cross hanging above an equally simple altar. Instead of pews, he'd had to make do with a hodgepodge of borrowed chairs.

The modest house of worship had yet to receive any visitors, but Adam was trying not to stress about that. Whenever the thought nicked at him, he comforted himself with the knowledge that he finally had a place of sanctuary, after years without.

His voice rang out as clear and strong as the hammer in his hand, marking the time as he brought the hammer down on the nearly finished knife on the heavy anvil before him.

He was so focused on his work that, at first, he didn't notice the other person had entered his workshop. When he did, he stopped mid-swing, his voice trailing of.

With a detached curiosity in his eyes, he looked them up and down before turning his eyes back to his anvil.

Drawing his braids out of his face and into a bun, Buckthorn looked up at the Bearded Lady. He had heard of the establishment, of course, but he hadn't visited yet himself. He hadn't planned to visit, in fact, and might never have done so, if not for the way his nibbling need had grown into a clawing and biting one.