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+---- Thread: she's my kind of rain (/showthread.php?tid=11648)
RE: she's my kind of rain - Vesper - 07-11-2025
There’s a subtle shift the moment her thoughts ripple warm beneath his palm—like ink in clear water, like something rooted, flaring sudden and lush. The gesture might’ve started off easy, but now it anchors them with something deeper. Vesper doesn’t need to say anything to feel it; her mind does all the talking, and he listens in the way he always does: quietly, wholly, without crowding her.
His brows lift in a lazy arch. [say]"Guess I’m just used to the women in my life takin’ all the credit when things go well,"[/say] he muses, dry as driftwood in the sun. [say]"Not that I mind. Keeps me humble."[/say] A lie, that. He’s never been humble a day in his life, but he doesn’t mind playing the part when it makes her smile like that.
He shrugs one shoulder, casual and crooked. [say]"Ain’t hard to unlatch a gate. Might wanna look into magical fencing next time you’re buyin’ ranch supplies or chatin' with Frey."[/say] His grin curls a little wider. [say]"An’ the bag of carrots was plenty, thanks. Though next time, I’m makin’ Nova carry me."[/say] Hopefully she'd have a shift large enough to facilitate this threat, but if not? Well, he was sure he could wrap his long legs around whatever furry creature she opted for.
Colt bumps him, and he sways obligingly like a ship in gentle tide, turning his head just enough to glance sidelong at her. [say]"Am I now?"[/say] he murmurs, a shade too smooth to be innocent. But it’s her next line that lands like a lit match on dry kindling. The breath he draws is slow and deep, and his eyes flick up to the darkening canopy overhead, as if giving her the illusion of restraint. He’s not deciding—he decided the second she said sugar like that—but still he let's the moment hang. [say]"Mm,"[/say] he hums, like it’s a difficult decision. [say]"Well, if you’ve already made up your mind ‘bout ridin’ me tonight..."[/say] He trails off, tone lazy, wolfish, and then he moves.
One hand slips to her lower back, warm and steady as he draws her in close, the press of him sudden and deliberate. His face dips toward hers, close enough for breath to mingle, for every promise in his smirk to slide from teasing to devastating. [say]"Much as I'd normally take the easy route and skip through all the date stuff, I really did want to show you the stars first,"[/say] he murmurs against her mouth, voice soft as sin. [say]"So you’ll have to keep your pants on for now...at least until we get a better view of the sky."[/say]
RE: she's my kind of rain - Colt - 07-12-2025
Humble is one of the last words she'd use to describe Vesper, and the look she cuts him when he drops it suggests she doesn't buy it for one second. She lets him get away with it though, until the disbelief can't help but huff out with a soft laugh when he tells her unlatching gates is easy. She's half a mind to tell him she thought the same thing, but when he'd been given that chore, it was the only one he complained about. Thankfully the smarter half keeps a hold of those words, knowing full well it was more than gate duty nipping at him that day.
[say]"Won't matter,"[/say] she says with an amused expression, [say]"don't think there's much that could keep you out."[/say] Not out of fences, or her thoughts. [say]"Although,"[/say] she adds, an off-handed warning. [say]"Sunjata is working on electrifying them, so you might wanna keep that in mind if you do go around forcing rodeos onto people's porches. Would hate to see your hair stand all on end."[/say] She nearly regrets it after she says it. Seeing him get caught unawares for once and be literally shocked would be a sight worth seeing.
He always moves so languid that when he's quick it's always a surprise. He's sudden and smooth, the smirk she'd had on dropping off the instant he draws her in. Her breath catches audibly, body tightening against his, heart leaping like it means to break past the bone to get closer. Her breath continues to stumble in her throat as he leans close, his words curling at the corner of her mouth like smoke, undoubtedly catching off the heat rising in her as her body answers before her mind can catch up.
Date stuff, she exhales a laugh, too quiet to break properly from everything in her he's shaken. [say]“I don’t have any pants on,”[/say] is all she can manage, one solid truth amid all the flutter of flame and promise he stokes with just the presence of his lips. Her fingers flex against his chest, grabbing at first against the fabric, about to yank the rest of the distance away because he's already so close that it's a hell of a lot easier to just submit to the temptation now, night sky be damned.
She hums with the faintest smile, relenting to his challenge as she instead applies a light pressure to his chest, pushing as she steps back. Just enough space to catch some fresh air before she drowns in him, especially if he means for her to keep going anywhere. She coaxes her smirk back with the small gap, crooked and fond as she tips her head toward the lantern trail. [say]“C’mon then, let’s go find your stars before I start pretending lanterns count.”[/say]
RE: she's my kind of rain - Vesper - 07-12-2025
[say]"Mm,"[/say] Vesper drawls, smirk cutting sideways as his thumb sweeps idly across her back. [say]"That might be true. I ain’t exactly easy to keep out."[/say]” His voice is low, curling like the smoke she’d imagined earlier, and there’s a glint in his eyes that speaks to mischief far older than their evening. [say]"Though you’ve yet to see all my demigod abilities. One of ’em might just be walkin’ through gates."[/say] But when Colt mentions Sunjata’s electrified fences, he hums thoughtfully. [say]"'See, now that’s somethin’ I’d like to not test."[/say] His smile turns crooked, more sheepish than suave for once. Showing up at Colt's place with his hands burned to hell didn't really sound like the sort of romantic gesture he'd be going for. Then again, if it was just hair standing on end, it might just be that she'd appreciate the wild-stallion vibe.
And then, as her voice, quiet and warm, telling him she isn’t wearing pants, his gaze drops, slow and deliberate, like it’s his fingers doing the tracing down the length of her legs. The smirk returns full force as his hands settle against her hips, his blue eyes gleaming like lightning poised behind stormclouds. [say]"You’re right,"[/say]” he murmurs, teeth flashing faintly in the lantern light. [say]"You sure don't."[/say]
For a breath, the world stills. Her desire crackles like static against his senses, bright and unfiltered, and it nearly pulls him under. He can feel her intent shift—the moment she thinks about giving in, about letting herself fall forward—and his own breath hitches, shadows curling instinctively along his spine like they’ve been summoned by want alone. But then she’s pressing back instead of forward, and the chuckle that rumbles from his chest is rougher than before, laced with something unspoken. He bites the inside of his cheek and inclines his head, playing along with the tease, even if his steps are a little faster than they were a minute ago.
[say]"This way,"[/say] he says, and gestures with a sweep of his hand.
The observatory, tucked high in the trees, looks quiet from the outside save for the wooden sign hung with a crooked smile: Closed for a special event. The door creaks open at their approach, already unlocked, and Vesper steps aside to let her in first, one brow raised as if to say yes, this is for you.
As they climb the winding staircase through the hollow trunk of the ancient tree, his voice fills the space between them, low and steady. [say]"Normally I’d say outside’s better, but in the Greatwood, there’s too much canopy. Hard to get a clear view of the sky without climbin’ somethin’ or riskin’ bein’ eaten by somethin’. Figured this was the better option."[/say] There’s something almost apologetic in the way he says it—like offering her anything less than perfect requires explanation.
But when they reach the top, perfection greets them anyway. The dome of the observatory is fully retracted, revealing a velvet sprawl of stars overhead, clear and shimmering above the treetops. Dozens of candles flicker in the enclosed space, casting soft light over a spread of thick quilts and cushions. A picnic basket waits near the centre, a bottle of wine nestled beside glasses that glint invitingly in the starlight. Vesper exhales slowly, as if he’s been holding the moment in his chest until now.
RE: she's my kind of rain - Colt - 07-13-2025
She'd weather any number of storms with him, but that one, the one that gathers in his eyes when they linger too close for too long, that one will wreck her. The only choice is to try and outrun it, otherwise she'll be no stronger than a haystack in a hurricane.
Fortunately, the Vesper cell doesn't break, yet. It gives her the time to pace him, guided by the dots of amber light and his steady routing amid the forest's marvelous display, now dimmed beneath the drift of darkness. She slows at the start of the observatory, catching sight of the tilted notice. Her brows tuck in for a moment, about to tell him they’d better not intrude on whatever private thing’s going on, until the door creaks open. He doesn’t say a damn thing, just gestures her in with that maddening, knowing patience.
It lands then. This is the event.
Her bemused expression lingers on him as long as she can manage while she starts to climb the stairs, the smile that settles growing steadier with each step. Though his voice remains soft along the curving ascent, it echoes along the path with all the same vibrating bounce that she's familiar with, no different from the way it always reverberates through her. At the top landing, she treads slow, heels hushed against the floor like even they don’t want to interrupt the moment. Her breath catches as she takes it all in—the candlelit glow, the silver glint of wine glasses, the blankets arranged like a bed of dreams. Above it all, the stars are scattered like the best kind of company in the open dome of sky.
Something in her swells too fast and too powerful, and she braces a hand out against the nearest wall to avoid being swept away by it completely. It rises, burns into the corners of her eyes, aches through her ribs. She hangs her head for a moment, like she's waiting for it to pass, like she can still hide that it's there. [say]“Ves…”[/say] Her voice is raw with strain, soft as breath drawn too deep. It’s all she can manage at first. It’s not just the wine, or the blankets, or the way the candles flicker like they’re trying to outshine the stars. It’s him. It’s the care threaded through every inch of it. This isn’t just sweet—it’s thoughtful in a way she's never known, not even in her wishes. It's full of such tenderness she isn't sure she can accept it, the same way hurt skin flinches from touch.
Her head shakes faintly, and she tries again—turning to him like she’s been spun, slow and full of stunned weight. Her eyes shine with the tears she can't blink away, expression slack with disbelief and wonder. [say]“What’ve you gone and done?”[/say] There’s a quiet laugh in it, reduced by the way her throat’s tightened, and a smile that grows crooked with the weight of being disarmed. It’s the stunned, uneven hum of something breaking open inside her. Whatever wild thing is set free in her chest right now, she doesn’t have a name for it, but it’s loud, and it’s his fault.
RE: she's my kind of rain - Vesper - 07-14-2025
It should’ve pleased him, the way Colt stops like that. How she leans against the wall like the air’s gone thick with stars and wine and him. How her voice folds soft around his name like a prayer slipping between clenched teeth. But Vesper isn’t just watching her; he’s feeling her—in her, the way her chest tightens around something she doesn’t think she deserves, the fragile, fever-bright thrum of wonder that bruises as much as it lifts.
He exhales slow, a breath he didn’t mean to let go of, as if the ache in her has burrowed too far into his own ribs. It isn't a pleasant feeling, not for a telepath, but instead of shutting it out, he quietly steps forward. His hand lifts, not abrupt, not dramatic, just careful. Intimate. His fingers thread gently through her hair, deliberately avoiding the flower tucked behind her ear, and he tilts her face up toward him with the barest pressure.
His gaze drops to meet hers, blue on fire beneath the candlelight. There’s a furrow in his brow, some storm of thought he doesn’t voice, something he starts to say and swallows instead. The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s debating his next line—and then they don’t twitch at all. They soften. [say]"Now what’s gone and got you like this?"[/say] he murmurs, voice just a little rough at the edges. [say]"That a couple quilts and a bottle of wine got you unravelin’?"[/say] She'd implied it was him who'd gone and done it, but truth be told, the demigod wasn't so sure.
There’s a ghost of a smile, wry and tender all at once as he peers down at her. [say]"You know you deserve better’n all this, right? Should take a godsdamned tempest to knock a girl like you off her feet. Not a handful of candles and a half-decent view."[/say] His thumb brushes against her cheekbone as he considers, knowing that she'd once been worried about his age, but now wondering if it wasn't the rodeo of her past that was gonna be the thing that crept in between them.
RE: she's my kind of rain - Colt - 07-15-2025
It’s something rhythmic, the noise. Not so gentle and humming as a beetle, content to drone into the background of it all. Not the clang of warning bells that ring with an insufferable clamor either. It’s deeper—a heartbeat risen to a roar, more like the roll of thunder—dangerous and restless, threatening to shake everything loose with each bellow.
His hand through her hair almost undoes what he’s trying to hold—thunder never far from lightning. His touch, his care, is all the spark she needs to break. She manages to stay whole, hanging on like a wildflower in the rain. Her arm slips from the wall, steadied by him now instead, head angling up at his insistence. Her lashes lower before she can meet his gaze, the kind of slow blink that hides nothing. She’s too full to tuck anything away right now anyway, even if she tried. When she does manage to look at him, he is a sight—freckles shining like a lit path out of hell, eyes fierce enough to cut through the howl of it all, his presence pulling harder than the wind or the ground underfoot. She doesn’t know how he manages to be the rumble and the calm—must be the way he’s an idea and a reality, a man and a silhouette.
There’s a small, uneven breath poorly dressed as a scoff at his words. [say]“Couple quilts and a bottle of wine?”[/say] she murmurs, shaking her head stubbornly at all his humbleness. She rather preferred the arrogance. [say]“Honey, you’re undersellin’ it.”[/say] The warmth of his thumb against her cheek feels like the only thing holding her ribs together, and without thinking, she leans into it, letting his hand cradle her that much more.
[say]“You sayin’ there’s better than this?”[/say] she asks low, 'brows rising in disbelief. Her fingers flick lightly at his shirt, trailing the fabric for a beat, tracing a line of him like she means to learn it. [say]“Bullshit.”[/say] Her fingers curl in and the tug she gives him isn’t sharp, and the kiss she leans up into isn’t rushed. It’s soft, but there's a weight to it, a need she can’t quite disguise.
Words leave her with a low chuckle when they part, the sound frayed at the edges, [say]“you’re the tempest, Ves.”[/say] Her fingers stay knotted in his shirt, tightening with the smallest, unconscious plea for him not to let go. She tips her chin like she’s still in control, but the catch in her breath gives her away completely.
RE: she's my kind of rain - Vesper - 07-15-2025
Colt leans in, and Vesper feels it, not just the shift of her weight, but the heat of her thoughts rushing up like floodwater behind cracked stone. No armour to it now, no clever sidesteps or slow-blinking evasion. Just need, stark and raw, the kind that aches because it’s real. Because it’s rare. It steals the air from his lungs even before her lips brush his.
Undersellin’ it. He might’ve scoffed if her voice hadn’t caught like that. Might’ve teased if she hadn’t leaned into his hand like she needed it to hold her together. Her defiance hums with disbelief, with gratitude she doesn’t know how to name. And he hears all of it as clearly as her spoken words. [say]"Darlin’,"[/say] he murmurs against her mouth once they part, voice low and touched with a velvety sort of laughter, [say]"if you think there ain’t better, I clearly need t’get you off that ranch more often."[/say] The flicker of teasing is there, soft-edged and wry, but it’s a distraction—meant to keep him from getting swept too deep into her, into how much she feels.
He’s not sure it works, because her fingers are ghosting up his shirt, and every brush of her thoughts trails behind them, hungry and hesitant all at once. Want. Wonder. Not sure if she’s allowed. And gods, he likes the feel of her hand there far more than he ought to. So when she tugs, his restraint unknots. He meets her lips again, slower this time but not gentler, a deliberate taste of her, mouth warm with promise and possession. When she breathes the word tempest, he exhales a soft sound—part laugh, part groan—because that’s the trouble, isn’t it? He knows he is, but what she doesn't know, is that it's his telepathy to blame for it all.
Still, Vesper angles his body as she’s always made him want to—bracketing her between him and the wall, letting the shadows flicker and curl like waves around his boots. One hand cups her hip, steadying, coaxing, tracing the fabric in a slow drag toward the slit at her thigh. The other still rests lightly against her cheek, though his thumb has wandered, brushing the corner of her jaw like he’s trying to memorise the shape of her, before he's kissing her again.
Not with the patient reverence of the last one, but with something fiercer—like wind howling through canyon walls, the kind of kiss that crests high and crashes, the kind that tastes like trouble and skyfire. His hand trails lower, fingertips slipping just beneath the edge of fabric like they’re curious, like they might forget restraint entirely if she asks them to, or maybe even if she doesn’t.
RE: she's my kind of rain - Colt - 07-15-2025
This is the problem—Colt rather likes a good storm.
Not necessarily the sort that rip your yard to hell and knock over half your house, although even that can all be repaired with enough effort and time. Just the kind that make you run for cover when you're out in the open, breathless with the race. The kind that make you wanna dance barefoot on the porch, soaked to the bone. The kind that keep you curled up, watching the world fall apart while you stay cozy. The kind that are shaped like him.
So when he answers all her thunder, back to the wall with him gathering on either side, it's impossible to keep from getting caught in it. The press of his hand at her hip is just one lightning strike among many, each nerve alive with static as it slides slow and sure towards her thigh. The kiss is no soft coaxing thing, not the whisper of a promise but the fulfillment of one they've each been whispering about. It hits like a summer storm breaking open, fierce and sudden, and for a moment she can’t do anything but be seized by it. Her fingers fist in his shirt, knuckles whitening against the fabric as if holding him closer might offer some shelter from it all. A low sound hums against his mouth, unbidden and shameless, her body answering him long before her head catches up.
When the swell of it subsides, she drags a breath in through her nose like she’s drowning and trying to remind herself which way is up. The sting of surprise that had collected in her lashes has since dried, the uneven stain of eyeliner in the corners of her eyes the only hint there'd been tears at all. That's the thing about warnings, if they appear too often, they just start to blend in with the background of everything. Even red fades.
Steadily her grip slackens on his shirt, palm splayed, not pushing, just catching herself on him as she tips her head back an inch to break the contact. Her smile comes slow and crooked, tugging more from habit than ease. [say]"Y'know,"[/say] her voice is low and uneven with the taste of him still lingering. [say]"Most men don't complain about a cheap date."[/say] Then again, he's not like most of the men she's known. Still a little rough around the edges, sure, but sharp in ways she's less familiar with, more mind than mouth. Still, she can't imagine what's better than this. Beach-wrought sand or starlit walls in a tall tree, doesn't matter to her, she's only ever really needed him.
Her breath catches sharp when his fingers find the slit of her dress, a flicker of heat rushing through her so fast it feels like her pulse stumbles to keep up. She sags deeper into the wall, her thigh answering the graze of his fingers as it shifts under them, an unspoken invitation for more. The hand not splayed on his chest reaches out to grab hold of one of his front pockets, tugging him closer yet, needing him pressed in where the wall already can’t give.
RE: she's my kind of rain - Vesper - 07-17-2025
Vesper knows better than to lose himself in someone else’s thoughts, but goddamn Colt makes it hard. It’s not just what she feels, it’s the way she feels it. The thunderclap desire, the reckless heat beneath her skin, the way her thigh lifts into his touch with the kind of trust that says take. The kind that dares him to forget every reason he shouldn’t. And gods, he does forget—at least for a breath.
She tugs him in by the front of his pocket and his breath hitches, a low, husky sound against her cheek. There's too much between them—clothes and consequence and whatever this is turning into—but her body pressed that tight against his? It's enough to drown out everything else.
As she breaks the kiss, her smile uneven and daring, Vesper huffs softly through his nose, lips curling in a wolfish grin that’s all sharp corners and slow hunger. [say]"Never said you were cheap,"[/say] he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper, roughened now. [say]"Just said there’s better."[/say] And honestly, call Vesper an asshole all day long, but gods if it didn't seem like Colt had ever been shown an actual nice time a day in her life.
But he’s not thinking about better now—not when her thigh shifts beneath his hand like an invitation carved in fire, not when her thoughts spiral louder, hotter, needier than she's saying out loud. A muscle in his jaw twitches as his other hand drifts downward, thumb catching a fistful of her black dress, lifting it just enough to find bare skin and the curve of her leg. There’s a flicker of consideration—fabric’s nice, might tear—and then he decides he doesn’t care.
One smooth motion and his hand slips around the back of her thigh. The next moment, he’s hoisting her up, strong and sure, like she weighs nothing at all. Her back meets the wall again with a quiet thud, legs guided around his waist as he leans in, chest to chest, breath warm against her lips but fuck if it still isn't close enough.
His hips press forward with intention, the friction enough to make his breath catch again, sharp and wanting. There are still too many layers between them, but his body doesn't seem to care—driven by the way hers responds, every shift of her hips, every flicker of thought she’s too worked up to shield. She’s a storm in his arms now, and he wants to be swept under. His mouth finds hers again, hungrier this time. The kiss is deeper, heady, the kind that steals time and reason. His fingers tighten at her thigh, grounding them both against the ache that’s building fast and hot, the press of her against him an exquisite kind of torment he isn't nearly ready to have end.
RE: she's my kind of rain - Colt - 07-17-2025
She doesn't mind being cheap. Expensive isn't always better, sometimes it's just a scam, leaving you all the more hollow for falling for it. She knows though, that her world is small, that she's built familiarity into all her days and loneliness into all her nights purposefully to avoid the surprise that comes along otherwise. It's simple, but it's known, and it's enough. It had been, anyway, until she got some wild idea to do more, to want more. A rodeo. A star-touched man.
All the better to bury questions she doesn't really want the answer to under a breath-stealing kiss. To erase the chill of lingering ghosts with the heat of the present that he drags against her with the slightest graze of his fingers. This is familiar. A fire that burns clean through all her thoughts and leaves nothing but the best feelings behind. Seems Thorn had been wrong. The cure hadn't someone else, it's more of him.
And gods, if this isn't her favorite way to have him, getting to undo all the easy carefulness he's built up until he's just as raw as she is.
Whatever smart remark she might’ve been readying dies the moment he lifts her, the sudden shift pulling a startled gasp out of her that melts into something richer but no less breathless as her back hits the wall. He makes it seem effortless, like she belongs right there against him, and that unravels her more than the press of his hips does, though that’s quick to stealing every thought she’s got left. Her legs hook around his waist without hesitation, dress slipping higher as she settles against him, heels kicking off with the disturbance into a clatter on the floor. It's reminiscent of another time, when they'd been too ragged and tangled to find any solace in the connection, but there's none of that lingering now.
Her fingers slide into his hair, one sweeping through the strands before fisting onto it as if holding on might help her keep steady, though steady’s long past gone. The kiss drags it further from her reach—deeper, hotter, until all she can do is answer it with a hungry sound of her own, muffled against his mouth.
Her head tips back against the wall, her chest rising hard against his. [say]“You're right, this is better,’”[/say] she manages, voice rougher than she means as it murmurs against the corner of his mouth, teasing lilt fraying at the edges. One of her hands slides to his jaw, thumb brushing along the sharp line of his cheekbone in a touch more tender than she intends. It lingers a beat too long before slipping down to the edge of his pants, fingers working to remove the remaining barrier. [say]“I think the time for holding onto pants is over,”[/say] she croons. Her legs tighten around his waist, pulling him into her, begging for something closer, deeper, chasing the feel of him against her with an unthinking urgency.
RE: she's my kind of rain - Vesper - 07-18-2025
It hits him like a fever breaking; the rush of her, the heat of her, the way she drags him into her orbit like she’s always meant to. Colt unravels against him—spine bowing, fingers in his hair, mouth caught on his—and Vesper feels every flicker of it as if it’s etched beneath his skin. Her thoughts are loud now, deliciously raw, and they ripple through him in waves: the sharp ache of want, the dizzy euphoria of being wanted back, and something quieter beneath it all that makes his chest ache.
At first he doesn’t answer her words with more of his own. Instead, his shadows stir, smooth and seamless, creeping along the curve of her thighs and up her back to help cradle and steady her to allow himself the luxury of touching her the way he wants to. With his hands slightly more free now, he slips them lower, tugging the fabric of her dress up, coaxing it into a pool at her waist with a slow, practised patience that’s all the more excruciating for how gentle it is. He could tear at her dress, and part of him suspects she wouldn't mind if he did, but equally, he's keen to feel the embers of her thoughts grow hotter for the additional few seconds his care forces her to endure.
His palms are warm against her bare skin, fingers splayed, rough from more than just rodeos. He drags his nails along the soft underside of her thigh—not hard, not
A low hum slips from him as his hands rise possessively her hips, palms flattening with a kind of reverence that borders on ache. He fits them there like they belong, thumbs brushing the edge of her underwear, fingers teasing along the lines of muscle and curve. It's maddening, how slowly he moves, but he doesn’t want to rush this. Doesn’t need to—not when he has her like this, when she’s wrapped around him, when her breath is hot against his mouth and her heartbeat is thundering under his hands.
He bows his head to her shoulder, his nose brushing the line of her neck, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper caught between a threat and a confession. [say]"Gods, Colt..."[/say] His lips hover, then press, rough and searing, to the spot where her pulse flutters as his fingers tighten against her. [say]"You don’t know how much I want you."[/say] He rolls his hips into hers, slow but hard enough to make a point, to let her feel what she’s doing to him, and, as she'd witnessed for herself on the sands, just how frail his willpower could be. [say]"Been thinkin’ about havin' you like this since the desert."[/say]
RE: she's my kind of rain - Colt - 07-20-2025
Heat flares low and fierce at the curl of his shadows along her skin, the kind of instinctive response born from a memory she’s revisited too often to pretend otherwise. The way they teased her in the desert has lingered in her body as much as her mind, a reminder that sends a shiver following, knowing exactly how much trouble she’ll be in if they hold her now and free up his wicked hands.
The thought barely lingers before it’s chased away by the drag of those very hands on her dress, the fabric gathering leisurely. It seems he means to kill her slowly, one meticulous fold of material at a time. It’s nothing but a burden now, the dress, too much cloth between them, slowing him, slowing this. Impatience twists tight in her belly, causing one of her hands to grab for the bunching to yank it higher for him, faster. A breathless, half-strangled laugh escapes her as her head tips back against the wall in exasperation. [say]“Ves,”[/say] she warns, voice husky with want even as she tries to muster something playful. [say]“You damage the flower and there’ll be hell to pay, but you can ruin the rest.”[/say] The promise is thin at best. One look at her, head tipped back, throat bared and lashes half-lowered, says she couldn’t follow through on it if she tried. She just hopes it will erase his caution for everything else.
A stifled groan slips free when his hands set on her skin, an instant quiver rolling through her as his nails graze under her thigh with tantalizing sharpness. The fit of his palms against her hips, warm and firm, thumbs brushing just along her panty line, slow as sin. It’s a whole new blaze that rolls through her, hips tilting towards him, chasing more of his touch, begging him to give in. He lingers just alongside her, close, but too far still, purposefully withheld, damn him. The way his words barely break into the remaining space between them requires her attention, though he quickly buries it beneath the sensation of his mouth pressing to her neck, of his grip tightening around her. A low, contented sound slips free when his mouth finds her neck, her pulse kicking harder beneath his lips. Her back presses firmer to the wall, body arching toward him despite the slow torture of his hands lingering just shy of where she wants them.
It’s the last thing he says that hits her hardest. Harder than the slow grind of his hips, harder than the solid heat of him pressed so firmly against her she can feel every inch of his need rising with hers. That alone would’ve been enough to drive her wild, but those words—honest and unguarded—burn with a desire hotter than his touch ever could. It’s his thoughts, just as relentless as hers, that weave around her ribs and squeeze until her heart feels too big for her chest. It’s proof, more than his fingers lacing with hers in the woods, more than a bracelet on his wrist, that he wants her, that she’s not the only one caught up in this.
A soft, wrecked sound catches in her throat before she can swallow it down. Her grip tightens—the one hand fisting sharply in his hair, dragging him closer with a sharp pull she can’t temper anymore, while the other slides firmly against his jaw. Her mouth finds his again, urgent, teeth catching his bottom lip briefly before giving way to a kiss far deeper, far hungrier, stripped of every ounce of restraint she’s been pretending to still have.
She parts only when breath becomes too tight to steal, her chest rising hard against his. [say]“You’ve been thinkin’ about this?”[/say] Her voice is hoarse, rough with disbelief and desire. Her hands cradle either side of his head, thumbs brushing against the slope of his cheek with a quiet affection as she holds his gaze steady with her own. [say]“Then stop thinkin’, Ves.”[/say]
RE: she's my kind of rain - Vesper - 07-21-2025
Vesper against Colt's mouth, a low, indulgent thing that vibrates through his chest and into hers. [say]"Then I’ll pay the cost,"[/say] he murmurs, the words slipping into the curve of her throat like a promise. If he crushes the flower, he'll plant her an entire fucking meadow of 'em to make up for it if she wants.
His hips press forward, and the hard length of him trapped in his pants grinds slow and hard against the heat of her. The friction is maddening. Delicious. She’s caged against the wall, just as much as he is in his clothes, and the tension in his arms betrays how badly he wants more; wants to feel her without a single thread between them. The wall at her back is almost poetic in its cruelty: it lets him pin her, yes, lets him feel the shudder of her breath against his mouth, but denies him the weight of her body drawn flush to his.
When she tells him to stop thinking, he almost laughs again—but doesn’t; he does, however, do precisely the opposite.
For a moment Vesper imagines how easy it would be. A quick twist of his fingers under the line of her panties, the seam pulled taut against her thigh until it gave with a satisfying snap. His shadows could shove his pants down in a breath, and he could be inside her in the next one—hard, rough, fast, just the way her thoughts had begged for earlier. The fantasy takes form behind his eyes, vivid and obscene, her legs around his waist, the dress bunched and twisted, her breath catching in his ear with every thrust.
But there’s a flaw in it. One he can’t ignore, no matter how tempting it is to give in.
If he fucked her here, they’d both be half-dressed, half-pinned, and should either of them want anything more—should he want to sink his teeth into her shoulder, or press his mouth between her thighs, or roll her beneath him to watch her fall apart—it’d mean a clumsy stumble, pants around his ankles, dress twisted like a sail in a storm. And that...would be a shame.
So he kisses her again, hot and hard and claiming, and while his mouth devours hers, his hands shift with purpose. One slips around her back, the other hooks beneath her thigh, securing her with ease against him. His shadows help him cradle her as he steps back from the wall, her body flush against his chest, dress still bunched around her hips. [say]"There’s a time and place,"[/say] he mutters against her lips, each word a breath between kisses, [say]"for fuckin' a girl against a wall."[/say] He bites gently at her lower lip, the heat in his voice curling like smoke. [say]"Hard. Fast. Messy."[/say] His eyes flick to hers, dark and glinting. [say]"But tonight ain’t it."[/say]
And then he’s moving again, slow and steady, carrying her toward the mess of blankets and cushions they’d left behind—candles still flickering, shadows dancing around them like voyeurs. He doesn’t even pause when his foot nudges a wine bottle, sending it skittering across the floor with a soft thunk. Doesn’t care. He sinks to his knees with her still wrapped around him, the press of her thighs cradling his hips as he lowers into the makeshift bed they’d forgotten in favour of impatience. Only now, he plans to take his time. To unwrap her like a secret. To claim every inch of her, not rushed in the dark, but bathed in gold and candlelight. His plan might not be to make love to her, but he's sure as shit not going to rush it, either.
RE: she's my kind of rain - Colt - 07-22-2025
Shit, she really needs to work on her threats if he won’t even bother pretending to be afraid. She means to rouse her words, to tell him outright that it’s the wrong choice, not because he can’t pay it, but because she can’t. This flower isn’t just some pretty thing tucked in her hair; it’s one she means to take home, to press between the pages of a book like a keepsake that won’t slip through her fingers or her mind. It’s the first thing he’s given her that’s real like that, because the buckle’s gone, and the sand she’d shaken from her boots for a week has all blown away. Any other flower will never be this flower.
All of it dies out under his threats.
Every point of contact is another one he levels against her. The brand of his hands, the slow curl of his lips, the deliberate tilt of his hips, all dangerous. Each one lands, leaving her more defenseless than the last until there’s nothing to do but surrender to the promise tangled in every touch. He makes it easy to yield everything when he kisses her like this. The heat of his mouth, the way it claims and devours, sweeps her clean out of thought for a moment, leaving her caught up in him entirely.
She's waiting for him to meet her there, for the last layers of cloth to give way, for the arousal he's pressing on her thigh to reach deeper. Instead, his calm stretches out, even here, even now. It keeps him from the frantic, edge-breaking pace she’s familiar with. It throws her, because she’s used to fast trysts in a back room, to racing hunger and greed until something breaks the ache open. She's used to fire, but seems he means to drown her instead, one drop at a time.
It's why confusion flickers sharp in her chest when he starts to move her instead of take her, swaddling her in his arms and shadows like something he means to keep intact instead of take apart. Her legs shift, one heel hooking over the other behind him, and her hands slide from his hair to clasp the back of his neck, fingers curling tight as if he might slip away if she doesn’t. It's only the continued sweep of his lips that assuage the worry, that and the scattered breath of his voice, the sharp look he gives, both smoking enough to reassure her that something is still lit.
Everything tilts and softens around her as he sets her down. Gone is the hard, trapped angle of the wall, replaced with a bed he arranged for them. The amber wash of candlelight spills over the lines of his hair and his cheek as he bends, blending warmly against the shimmer of those constellation freckles, her favorite stars to watch. It's only the final clatter of the wine bottle over the ground that loosens the breath she'd taken in and held onto, and with it her grip on him relaxes gradually, no longer clinging like a shutter in a hurricane.
She doesn't withdraw entirely, her thighs still an adamant halo against his hips, reluctant to relinquish the feel of him. Her hands slide off his neck though, letting her settle fully into the cradle of the quilts, and her heels uncinch from each other behind his back. Her gaze fixes on his again, steadier now, quieted with a deeper want that she keeps trying to suffocate. [say]“Guess you’ll have to show me that time and place another night then,”[/say] she murmurs with a wistfulness that's only partially put on.
A faint smile tips in, her attention dropping to the trail her fingers have started tracing absently along the backs of his arms. Her breathing eases, falling into the slower cadence of the moment he’s set for them, as if she can finally admit this is…nice. Her hands drift down his chest, skimming the length of his shirt before gathering the bottom hem, knuckles grazing warm skin as she pulls it higher. [say]"Though,"[/say] she tsks, a smirk curling sharper at the edges, [say]"if I don’t get to see more of you soon, I might not make it another night."[/say]