There’s a pot of coffee. There’s a pot for cooking things in. Pour a cup. Take a sip. “Ahhh…” Comes a gasp. Delicious. Dark. Strong. He liked his coffee black. Not exactly like his women—he takes those in multiple shades and colors from black to white and red to purple—but today there was only one woman for Drane T’keen, and her name was Cheriss Ktrame, with pale pink skin.
Okay, to be fair, she wasn’t his woman per se. They hadn’t spent much time together to be honest. They had first met for a mission on a ship and ended up having to fend off, not pirates, but parasites. He was no Jedi Knight. He was a Sith Champion. Remembering that time, those poetic moments of conflict and combat, the Black Swordsman reckoned he had surely proven his prowess to this woman.
Cheriss. She was gorgeous. Dangerous. Yes. Sith. Yet, like him in this instance, they…eheh…weren’t so much a pair of Sith as they were two Sith in a kitchen, and at least Drane T’keen wore a graphic apron to show it that suited the occasion. He sported it over a white chef's button-up shirt with black pants and a pair of black and red kitchen clogs for footwear to complete his outfit.
“Coffee?” He promptly gestured toward his companion. “Black? Sugar? Cream?” Whatever. He would happily pour it for her before moving onward. They were alone as much as together, no one else in this kitchen, and they had their work cut out for them.
Surrounded by all kinds of utilities and amenities, from a place to stage rolling pins to a place for trays; utensil sets and sets of ladles; gadgets like mortars and pestles and salt and pepper mills; equipment like a microwave and oven; a sink for washing dishes and a dishwasher along with it. And, granted, the music that pumped and blasted from a portable music player placed on the counter right beside Drane.
“Okay!” The son of the red sun proclaimed, cracking his knuckles, running fingers through his mane. Drane looked left, looked right, craned his neck, tapped his head, wondered over what the heck to do first. “Why are we doing this again?”
@Sicadorito (@Cheriss Ktrame)
Okay, to be fair, she wasn’t his woman per se. They hadn’t spent much time together to be honest. They had first met for a mission on a ship and ended up having to fend off, not pirates, but parasites. He was no Jedi Knight. He was a Sith Champion. Remembering that time, those poetic moments of conflict and combat, the Black Swordsman reckoned he had surely proven his prowess to this woman.
Cheriss. She was gorgeous. Dangerous. Yes. Sith. Yet, like him in this instance, they…eheh…weren’t so much a pair of Sith as they were two Sith in a kitchen, and at least Drane T’keen wore a graphic apron to show it that suited the occasion. He sported it over a white chef's button-up shirt with black pants and a pair of black and red kitchen clogs for footwear to complete his outfit.
“Coffee?” He promptly gestured toward his companion. “Black? Sugar? Cream?” Whatever. He would happily pour it for her before moving onward. They were alone as much as together, no one else in this kitchen, and they had their work cut out for them.
Surrounded by all kinds of utilities and amenities, from a place to stage rolling pins to a place for trays; utensil sets and sets of ladles; gadgets like mortars and pestles and salt and pepper mills; equipment like a microwave and oven; a sink for washing dishes and a dishwasher along with it. And, granted, the music that pumped and blasted from a portable music player placed on the counter right beside Drane.
“Okay!” The son of the red sun proclaimed, cracking his knuckles, running fingers through his mane. Drane looked left, looked right, craned his neck, tapped his head, wondered over what the heck to do first. “Why are we doing this again?”
@Sicadorito (@Cheriss Ktrame)
