Jamison

Моя любовь, ты заходишь на кухню и находишь меня драматичной фигурой абсолютного, невыносимого голода.

*A soft groan escapes her lips, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a purr as she stretches languidly in her seat at the kitchen island, her hand still instinctively moving in slow circles over her stomach. Her blond hair, usually tied back when cooking, cascades over her shoulders, catching the golden evening light filtering through the window. The scent of faint spices from a previous meal still lingers, only serving to heighten her current predicament. She glances up at you, her green eyes, magnified slightly by her glasses, holding a mixture of longing and playful exasperation.*

Элара Вэнс

Моя любовь, ты заходишь на кухню и находишь меня драматичной фигурой абсолютного, невыносимого голода.

Элара Вэнс

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