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+---- Thread: nothing on but the radio (/showthread.php?tid=11341)
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-19-2025
Vesper laughs low and quiet, the sound rasping against her ear as she settles against his back. If he weren’t so deep in the honey-brown of her gaze, he might’ve barked something smug at the idea of kissing him being a favour. Instead, as she loops around him, he lets the thought melt like seafoam. One hand slips back to splay across the outside of her thigh, grounding her there, while the other finds her fingers clasped against his chest, his grip lazy but sure.
He wades forward, the tide pressing against him like it’s trying to take her back—but it doesn’t matter. He’s got her now. The water dips to chest height, the weight of her pressed along his spine, her breath against his neck a quiet brand. [say]"Y’know,"[/say] he says over his shoulder, grin curling slow and sharp, [say]"pretty sure if this was one of them romance novels, this is what would happen next.."[/say] He doesn’t finish the sentence, but instead immediately shifts beneath her.
The change rolls through him like surf against stone—sudden, fluid, powerful. Vesper's lean frame stretches, muscle and magic flooding through him as he becomes a sleek black stallion beneath her once ore, water sheeting off his sides as he surges forward.
The instant he feels her secure again, snug and locked around him, he flattens his ears and bolts.
Through the shallows he gallops like a shot fired from heaven itself—churning foam, the thunder of hooves against surf, a streak of vantablack against a mirror of sky. He doesn’t ask if she wants this; he knows she does. She’s earned it. He'd already had his little piece of paradise out in the ocean with her pressed up all warm against him, so she deserved to have hers: racing the wind, free and full of fire.
And if the ride turned velvet to sandpaper again, well—he’d be happy to make his apologies to the affected skin. Thoroughly.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-19-2025
The ease with which he holds her now makes her question why she ever held him at bay. The shape of his palm on her thigh, the tangle of his fingers in hers—it feels like a sigh she's been holding in, finally released. They could have traveled like this all along—it would’ve made everything infinitely better. Then again, maybe this simplicity was earned, melted into shape by time and heat. Surprisingly, the sky hasn’t cracked open and rained flaming pieces all around her. So, if her world isn't ending, then maybe...there's nothing to fault here. Maybe this isn't a mistake after all. It certainly feels right, to be swept along in the current of him, dazzled by the stars he keeps in his eyes.
They sparkled over his shoulder, that knife-edge of a grin cutting alongside the blue like something corrupt with glee. She tilts her head slightly, lips pursed with a question for that devious weapon of a smile, but the query dies to a shout as he's a rolling curtain of dusk beneath her. Her lazy sprawl snaps alert, but laughter cuts through the yell, an outcry against another surprise launched like battle against her. [say]"VES! Fucks sake."[/say] Her hands dive for his mane like it’s a lifeline, desperate for something familiar in the chaos. It spills like unlit stars through her fingers—slick with seawater, like the rest of him. Like her.
She slips into the spot behind his withers with little performance, the seat natural and well-known now. He doesn’t hesitate, when has he ever, and it’s all she can do to stay with him as he sprints down the sand like ink whisked into a poem. Along the beach it's not so warm, there's no dust, and the ground holds steadier under the drum of his hooves. His power is on full display, jolting beneath her—so wild, so fierce, she’s ashamed to think she ever knew what that meant before him. It pales in comparison to this midnight ride, and the thrill of it tingles from toe to mouth, a whoop cast free as she leans into his neck, into the surge of him. The wind he stirs lashes past, cold against her ears, hair whipping her shoulders like the world itself is urging them on.
She laughs, a choppy sound as she's half breathless with the rush of everything, a glow of joy unmistakable. Leaning up further on his neck, one hand slicks the remaining water from his hide with a long stroke. [say]"You're too good, Ves,"[/say] she says, heart full—for the first time in what feels like forever.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-19-2025
Vesper has to rely on the sounds alone now: the laughter she can't quite swallow, the whoop that rides the wind behind them like a banner, the way her breath catches and tumbles in time with the pounding of his hooves. It's music, all of it, but it’s not enough. Not compared to the golden curl of her thoughts, normally so present in the back of his mind like light through a canopy. Here, in this body, they’re locked away from him—just echoes now, muffled behind the thundering beat of their shared joy.
And still, gods, he’s starving for them.
The ache in his legs becomes an excuse, the burn welcome as it gives him cause to slow. The ocean’s rhythm begins to catch up again, and his pace falters—first to a canter, then to a trot, then to nothing at all. He doesn’t turn to head back though, just shifts without warning.
The change ripples through him like a crashing wave—magic peeling back his equine form until he’s flesh and breath and too much feeling once again. He sags to his knees in the surf, shadows curling reflexively around them to soften the landing as he instinctively reaches out to hold her thighs so she won't tumble.
Her mind hits him like the tide—warm, electric, real—and his breath hitches in a way that has nothing to do with the run he just finished. It seizes his chest, a hollow beat stretched wide, his pulse hammering like it’s trying to find the right tempo again. There’s no hesitation in his fingers as he turns and reaches for her, cupping her cheek with the same reverence he tucks his sister's in at night
And then he kisses her—slow, featherlight, breathless — like he might vanish if she pulls away. Like the only thing tethering him here is the way her mouth fits against his.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-19-2025
Voracious as she is for the euphoria of soaring with him, she doesn’t mind the slowing either. With even less protection than before, stripped for a dip in the sea instead of barebacking the cosmos, she is toing the line of a different sort of mistake. Skin hums with a warmth ready to break into fire where it adheres to the wet of his hair, and she can safely say she's never laid herself so bare for such a wild ride before.
As he halts, she leans into her arms as she presses them against his shoulders, stiffening with the shift of weight, ready to hop off—and suddenly those shoulders aren't there. A yelp breaks free as she drops, the moment utterly brief before he has her again, just long enough to turn her stomach. [say]"Gods damnit, Ves,"[/say] she chokes out, exasperated—and completely charmed off her ass as he swaddles her in darkness, the quiet kind on a summer evening that buzzes with fireflies and long talks on the porch with old friends. It's secure and soothing, empty of all the nefarious terrors one might normally find in the murk.
Still positioned to ride, she settles upon the wet sand on her knees too, held steady with the firm press of his hands. She's barely back in the grasp of the ground's gravity before his hand slips against her face, so tender she leans into it like it can carry all of her, all of this feeling that's building in her for him. It's nothing like the last time he reached for her head, just gentle and warm—trusted. Craved. The heat from the race pours off his palm like a stream, his pulse alive where their skin meets, a furious beat that he seems to contain when he claims her mouth again.
Instead of intensity, it's soft, a delicate brush that could break at any moment. Not timid—she doubts he even knows what that is—but waiting. She presses back into it, one hand flexing against his chest, the other sliding against his hair, so akin to threading into his mane. Where he's patient, she's insistent. Around them the sea slips up, would eventually creep higher and lick against her feet, but it could pull them under for all she cares in this moment. She'd drown with him, if that's what it took to not let go of this. [say]"I thought you told me not to fall head over heels,"[/say] she accuses softly, the edge of her nose pressed against his.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-19-2025
Vesper doesn’t stop kissing her until his lungs start clawing for air, and even then, it’s reluctant—like peeling himself back from something he knows he’ll never get enough of. When he finally does surface for breath, it’s ragged and hot against her skin, his forehead resting against hers as he twists, dragging them both sideways with him.
One hip hits the sand with a graceless thump, but it doesn’t matter. His arms are already wrapping tighter, making sure she comes with him, follows him down—not in surrender, but in that shared kind of falling that goes hand in hand with endless stretches of white-sand beaches and too little clothing.
He exhales as his back meets the sand, shadows curling beneath him like a pillow. Then his hands move; one carves up her thigh, slow and firm and greedy, fingers skating over the ridges of muscle built from years in a saddle and pulling her weight on the ranch. The other traces up the curve of her hip, slipping beneath the line of wet cotton with the care of a man learning every inch not for leverage—but worship.
If she thought he was waiting, that hers was the only insistent mind between them, surely the press of his palms, the confident glide of his hands as they map her out like a coastline he means to memorize, says otherwise. Says he’s not just rising to her hunger—he’s matching it, feeding it, stoking it higher with every pass.
Against her lips, still breathless, he manages a low, curling smirk. [say]"Yeah, I said that, but you're too good of a rider to fall."[/say] He brushes his nose against hers, his grin half-feral and too full of want. [say]" ’Sides—"[/say] his fingers tighten on her thigh, drawing her in tighter, until there’s no distance left to spare— [say]"you don’t seem like the kind of woman who wears heels anyway."[/say]
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-19-2025
She glances up at him from under her lashes as their foreheads press together, grinning with something that's barely begun to be fed as they both struggle for breath. It's not enough. There's an incessant need to have more of him, all of him, anything less causes a palpable ache to blaze against her.
His grip keeps her close, sinking with him into the soft pat of sand, but it's not nearly close enough, not with the burn in her core that rivals the worst of the desert heat. He twists onto his back and she hooks a leg over him, pulling herself against his side, head tucked into the crook of his shoulder and arm as she remains on her side. Nestled amid beach and body heat, it echoes the burn within that threatens to consume every inch of her if he won't extinguish it with his touch. There's no thoughts now, only wanton abandon for this man and the feel of him descending into this madness with her, the one he created.
The heat is localized to where his hands slide against her and it's a wonder lava doesn't pool where his fingers leave pressure and dips in her skin. They coast with exploration, each new line he draws in such intimate regions sending a quiver to her feet. The leg still draped over him, hooked against the line of his hips, flexes her toes as he drags that edge of fabric away and slips under, warm where the cold has lingered.
Her most free hand stretches across the top of him, nails streaking lines and whirls against his chest and abdomen, tracing her own version of constellations amid his glimmer of freckles. She'd thought of doing this when he first took his shirt off all those days ago, and the reality of it is just as satisfying as she'd hoped. At the tilt of his head, she inclines hers to meet his lips, eager for that swipe of salt and peppermint. His words almost sound like nonsense amid the sensation of everything else, especially when he tugs her tighter, space she didn't even think was there vanishing and she gasps softly at the renewed press of him along her, that endless hunger satiated just briefly.
The hum of his words, the drift of his nose, it's a gentleness among the volcanic landscape of all the rest of the need, and it settles with a more magnificent bloom in her chest. [say]"Mmm, I clean up nice when I have to, heels and all,"[/say] she murmurs into the corner of his mouth, nipping faintly at the edge of him.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-20-2025
Vesper’s fingers slide slow and reverent along the length of Colt’s thigh, trailing up the leg she’s got slung over his hips like it’s right where it’s meant to be. One hand splays wide, tracing the curve of her ass with casual possession, his palm gliding up and over the firm swell before his fingers dip inward—just barely grazing the softer skin along the inside of her thigh. The reach of his arm denies him more, but the promise of it hums thick between them, heavy and unspoken.
Her thoughts batter against him like waves; heat, need, the dizzy rush of her arousal curling through the edges of his mind until it’s indistinguishable from his own. Every want she doesn’t say, every place she aches for him, Vesper feels it burning in his blood like wildfire. She'll feel the effect she's having on him pressed shamelessly between them as he drinks her in. He could drag her atop him now, could pull her into place and let her ride out every last drop of that heat until neither of them could walk—but godsdamn it, he doesn’t if only because of all the fucking sand.
Instead, he kisses her back with a low, frustrated growl, his mouth all tension and tongue and want that tastes of peppermint and sea salt. The hand still curled around her ribs pulls her flush, until the only space between them is her underwear and his—thin, damp, and doing absolutely nothing to hide how badly he wants her.
When he breaks the kiss, it’s with a huff against her lips, breath hot and ragged. [say]"Fuck,"[/say] he mutters, voice rough with restraint. [say]"I’d trade just about anything for a damn bed right now. Hell, even a blanket."[/say]
He grins into the corner of her mouth, eyes glittering with wicked delight as he catches her lower lip between his teeth in a playful nip. [say]"But if you really do clean up nice,"[/say] he drawls low and dangerous, [say]"I wouldn’t mind seein’ it sometime."[/say] His thumb brushes over the line of her thigh again—teasing, promising, wanting. [say]"So long as you don't expect me to keep my hands to myself."[/say]
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-20-2025
Reason has long since melted into something slick that slides right off her, leaving nothing except the feeling of his hands and all the places he puts them, all the places she wishes he would too. The potential of it all is like a vibration that sings in her blood, its pitch changing with every teasing stroke of his fingers playing across her skin.
The promise of it tangles up in her throat as he pulls her closer still, a harsh breath panting free as she feels every bit of him against her anew. The ache to have him drives her leg further over his hip, reaching instinctively for the seat her body knows is waiting. The swell of his want sliding against her is a pulse she feels in its absence, throbbing in the space he hasn’t yet filled. It causes her hips to tilt along his side as she stifles a groan for that emptiness.
His growl hums against her lips with a need she can taste, the pressure of withheld want like a bruise he'd press into her with his mouth, one she'd gladly take from him if only he wouldn't stop. The lazy trail of her hand against him has sunken into something more taut, more urgent as she grips him like he's the only thing anchoring her here and she might be stolen by the sea otherwise.
It all breaks with a rush, like surfacing from cold water. Colt pulls in a sharp breath between them, wild and flushed, as she tilts her head back against his shoulder. A short, pained laugh cuts free at his plea for comfort amid this wild landscape that has given them everything but this one freedom. Colt might’ve found pleasure in a roll in the hay—sweat-stained, dust-coated, pressed to straw and pestered by flies—but this isn't a hard day of work being cast off in the shade of a shed. This is sand and salt and bone-biting exhaustion that might leave them burning in all the wrong ways for days to come if they submit. She knows it, but every bit of her resists it like the possessed do the preacher.
Gods he's pulling her back in with that damn mouth of his though, be it kisses or murmured sentiments she's utterly powerless against it. Her tongue runs against the linger of the bite he left, the sting delectable and echoing in the hollow places of her like a bell being rung. [say]"Gotta have a reason,"[/say] she barely manages to say against the hitching of her breath with the draw of his thumb. [say]"If you didn't undress me afterwards I'd consider it a complete failure,"[/say] she laughs gently, shivering into him, the idea of committing to a better evening with him like the only respite she can have among this hell where he's so close but still too far from her.
But that means stopping. That means the long return across the wastelands to the skyship—an unthinkable task when every part of her is still reaching for him.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-20-2025
The heat of her thoughts floods him, and gods—Vesper drinks it in like water after a drought, every flicker of want in her mind igniting a matching hunger in his blood. It's not just the curve of her leg dragging higher along his hip, or the gasp that breaks against his lips like something stolen—it’s the way her desire clings to his thoughts like a storm cloud refusing to break, saturating every nerve ending until he's nearly shaking with restraint.
His name in her mind—his name on her tongue—shouldn't make him this dizzy.
She tilts her head back, wild and flushed, and he wants to press his mouth against every single inch of her exposed throat. Her laughter slides like honey between them, but the tension that coils in his spine is anything but sweet; it’s sharp and raw. The low thrum of her voice—telling him she’d consider it a failure if he didn’t undress her if and when she got all dolled up—rakes down his composure like claws.
[say]"Gods, Colt,"[/say] he mutters against her jaw, voice frayed, almost ruined. Turning, one hand braces beside her shoulder, arm taut with the effort of control, but it’s slipping, god, he’s slipping. His other hand smooths along the small of her back, up the curve of her waist, until it finds the wind-tangled mess of her hair and his fingers sink into the strands like he's trying to grasp at sunlight.
He shifts, rolling carefully, leg angling so he doesn’t crush her beneath him—but he’s on her now, surrounding her, the weight of him pressing into all the right places. Their hips align too well, too close, too much. The fabric between them is soaked and thin and does absolutely nothing to dull the heat where they meet, where his restraint is rapidly disintegrating. His hips press just slightly, instinctive and involuntary, chasing the friction like he can’t help it—and gods, he can’t.
His breath shudders against her cheek as he leans in again, voice rough and ragged. [say]"You keep lookin’ at me like that,"[/say] he warns, low and hoarse, [say]" and I'm never gonna be in a state to leave this beach."[/say] And this time when he kisses her, it’s not delicate; it’s full of everything he’s been holding back.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-20-2025
There's a hum of satisfaction as she smiles against the press of her name that he sets into her jaw, and she tilts subtly into the snare of his lip on the edge of her face. One hazy glance is afforded to witness the effect of him nearing unraveling. Not because she wants him wound differently, but because it's nice to know he's suffering as much as she is, that she isn't the only one that's set to burn into oblivion from this contact, as if she's never been touched before—never by him. His control, which has always seemed so smug with its absolution, is something she would set between her teeth and yank free if only to have him like this more often. She wants all of him, even the parts where he's too weak to resist any more—especially those parts, because those are hers.
The spark of his hand somewhere fresh shuts her eyes again, unable to afford any distractions that might dampen the full appreciation of his reverence for her shape. Everything he does feeds her in a way she has no idea she's starving for. Tender but wild, he holds her with a certainty that should stifle—but somehow, it only lets her breathe deeper. He's the storm and the shelter, the sprint and the collapse, the night and the starlight that cuts through it. [say]"Ves,"[/say] is all she can manage to get out before he's on her, a prayer before the whimper.
The sand spreads around her under his rolling motion—falsely plush, inviting. A vow of regret pretending otherwise, dusting their skin with the memory of where they’ve just been. It's something wicked that almost feels worth listening to though when she feels the sink of him against her, too right, too much and not enough. He settles like lightning, a whipcord of want snarling through her with a lecherous jolt. Her hands drive against the beach above her head, like she can grasp it and spin it into silk with just the fever pitch of her desire. She arches faintly into him, greedy for the molten need he’s forged just for her—pressing against her like she’s fireproof. An anguished moan curls against the toss of her head, lips taut with a grimace for this unthinkable torture he's laying upon her.
He bows over her, exhales like the last bit of warmth she needs to combust. [say]"You first,"[/say] she pleads, breath straining just to form the words. His kiss—gods, it'll be the death of her. It's like the first time she's felt him, this one, and she can't keep any sense straight now. Her legs lift over his back, hooking against each other there, yanking him down into her. The wet of their clothing is a cold reminder among the mess of warmth he makes, and gods she hates him for this now, for bringing her to this edge just to pull her back when all she wants is to fall into it.
[say]"Fuck, Ves—have mercy—I can't,"[/say] she begs him, his lips, his touch. A terrible thing to place all her control in a man equally stripped, tumbling in the riptide of destruction she blames entirely on him. If they have any hope of getting out, one of them needs to find what's at the bottom of the cliff, and damn if he doesn't deserve it.
Her hands slip from the ground with purpose, pressing against his shorts, tugging for them to release what he's got bound there. Her mouth will be kind, even here, ir doesnt need the slick of sheets. Whatever grit is no different from what's been on their rations all this time, and she can lick it off bit by bit.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-20-2025
Vesper's breath punches out of him as her hips rise to meet his, the friction sudden and searing. The damp fabric between them might as well be gone for how little it spares him—her heat blazes through, and the way she pulls him in with her legs has his body answering before his mind can catch up. He grinds against her once, twice, chasing the slick press of her through every soaked inch of cloth between them, and the groan that slips from him is rough, ragged, and real.
[say]"Colt,"[/say] he mutters, voice shaking with restraint that’s fast becoming purely performative. Her thoughts don’t just flare—they detonate—vivid and electric, flooding through him with such hunger he can barely breathe. Gods, it feels as though she wants to take him apart, and fuck if he doesn’t want to hand her the pieces.
Her hands work his waistband and he stills—just for a heartbeat—and then with a flicker of thought, his shadows slip beneath them both. Cool, clever tendrils curl into the fabric clinging to his hips, peeling it downward with an ease that belies the desperation pooling low in his spine.
The air hits him hard, and he exhales against her temple like he’s been holding his breath since the first time she said his name. Now he’s pressed bare against her, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t lose the last of his restraint right then and there. His hips twitch once, his erection now pressed between her thighs, and the moan that slips into her hair is utterly involuntary.
His hand fists into the sand beside her, the other lost in her hair, clutching like a drowning man. [say]"Gods I want you."[/say]
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-20-2025
She lied, earlier. She has one defense left. Just a thin hug of cotton doing its best to stand against the pummel of Vesper's arousal. It doesn't keep him from driving her mad, doesn't stop the gasoline he ignites from razing through every inch of her core like he wants to watch her be reduced to ash. Like all the rest of her last stands thus far, it's just a prop pretending to be strong enough to stop him.
It's everything in her not to beckon the shadows he summons to also peel away her own meager shield—it's done her little good, after all. It's better than it remains though, the only sensible thing left between them where regret might otherwise take hold, sandpaper certain then. Though, any thoguht becomes no more than a fading wisp the moment he's released entirely. Everything she thought she knew about wanting him feels little more than pretend as his cock sets against her thighs, the skin on skin drag a brand that feels fresh from the fire. The entirety of her body throbs with need of him, the tempo set with her pulse, like he's the one in control of her heartbeat now.
His outcry is her favorite drink. His voice, a feast.
[say]"Another day, honey,"[/say] she croons in response, her mind set on the course of expending him now, a point to focus upon instead of just drowning in him. [say]"Now, let me have you for once."[/say] Her smile coasts against his neck as she starts to shimmy lower, her hair like reins in his hands that she needs him to release so she can get low enough to guide him against her tongue, warm and wanting.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-21-2025
Vesper’s whole body trembles with the effort it takes to stay still. Colt's words lash through him with a heat sharper than any kiss. His shadows twitch in response, curling beneath her like they’re ready to lift, to help, to drag that last scrap of cotton from her hips so he can claim everything she’s offering because gods damn if it wouldn't be the easiest thing in the world. Though his instincts burn for it and his body aches to have her completely, he forces himself to stay. But only just.
His jaw feathers as he grits his teeth, biceps drawn tight as if holding himself back is the only thing keeping the stars from falling. She's slinking down his body like smoke, like sin made flesh, and he’s shaking with the want of her; hips jerking subtly as he forces himself to fall back, spine kissing the sand. [say]"Far be it from me to deny you a damn thing,"[/say] he mutters, voice cracked open and hoarse, half-humour, half-confession.
His hands slide into her hair before he thinks better of it—she doesn't strike him as the type to appreciate any sort of assistance when this clearly ain't her first rodeo—instead, cradling the damp tangle, reverent and restrained, as he looks down the line of his body at her. The sight of her framed by salt-tangled curls, by the twilight blue of the sea and her own firelight smile, nearly unravels him on the spot, and it's all he can do to brace himself that she might not undo him too quickly.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-21-2025
The promise of something more, of later, she holds onto like a wish she has to contain or it'll vanish for good. Fortunately, the image of him in her bed is easy to cling to—not the least of which being a place where they can reclaim simple comforts she misses desperately, like a shower.
Laid out in the sand like a feast made just for her, she lets her gaze linger, admiring the cut of muscle beneath freckles of starlight and sun-warmed skin. She leans down to strike a kiss here and there as she goes, a lick, a nip, given in-between, hungry for him. Her journey ends at the V of his pelvis, marked with a final flourish of nail.
She drapes her arm across him, tucking herself in at his hip, her long hair wound in his hand like a tether that keeps him from drifting. Her hand cups him gently, fingers cradling as her tongue slides from base to tip, lingering at the crown with a devious smile. She presses the warmth of his need against the edge of her lips with quiet promise, savoring the twitch of expectation before she sinks the entirety of him into her mouth, slow and full, finding a rhythm against her tongue as she works to taste him.