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+---- Thread: nothing on but the radio (/showthread.php?tid=11341)
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-21-2025
He's going to die out here; that’s the only conclusion Vesper can draw, laid out on the sand, Colt’s hair wrapped like a silken noose around his fist, her mouth a fire he’ll gladly burn in. Her eyes flash up just before her lips wrap around him, and gods he almost comes undone from the look alone. The smug, wicked promise of it. The slow satisfaction that coils through her like she already knows how easily she's about to take him down.
He hisses in a breath, head tipping back as pleasure rakes through him like tide against reef, hard and relentless. His fingers flex in her hair, a moan caught between his teeth as the first wave hits. But then it begins to change, if only slightly. Her focus shifts: The crisp, perfect edge of her mind starts to fuzz at the borders as things like breathing, about whether or not there's sand on her palm begin to infringe on the blur of arousal he'd been previously treated to. Such was the burden of a telepath, you see; there's no letting his mind drift, no imagining anyone or anything else.
Vesper exhales sharply, not in frustration, but intent, and his shadows obey. They unfurl from beneath his back like dark silk, cool and untextured, slipping over the hot curve of her thighs where they press against sand. They don’t grip or grab, but glide—barely-there pressure, a memory of touch—before one trails down, dipping between her legs to gently press against the last barrier she’s wearing. Featherlight, maddening, meant to tease her thoughts back toward something that will send sheet lightning flashing across the fringes of his magic.
[say]"Don’t stop,"[/say] he rasps, shadows pressing against her just enough to echo the grip he wishes he had. [say]"Fuck, don't stop."[/say]
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-22-2025
It's enough—to take him to the end of his desire, to give him something. It's a certain kind of pleasure in itself, viewing the way each careful movement elicits a tremor along him, how he feels so unyielding against all the pliability of her mouth. It might not be the infero that swept through her before, but it's a rich glow that gathers inside her, content to be useful, pleased to be a catalyst for his release.
The gradual unfurling of his midnight expanse earns a sideways glance, the focus on him stuttering with a hover of a question posed on her lips over the tip of him. As the prickle of sand vanishes beneath the darkness however, the question slips to a smile and she slides him back in with punctuation, as if to test the span of her hunger. It's then that the one tendril of shadow strikes a match against her, the unexpected touch razing up her spine with an involuntary hitch. It escapes her as a moan that hums around him, a vibration of want she thought she'd finally started to get a lid around.
His command is all the encouragement she needs to resume with newfound zeal, taking him against her tongue as if she might pull her own need through him. One hand flexes against his side, a steadying post as his phantom touch threatens to topple her with each wash of heat it fans into her. If not for the groans that break from her throat, quivering around him with all the same budding pressure in her core, she might choke on it.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-23-2025
Vesper’s hips tense like a wire pulled tight, the tendons in his thighs straining as that hum of her voice sends lightning straight through his spine. His fingers twitch against the sand, curling into it like he might anchor himself against the swell crashing inside him. But it’s no use. Her mouth is too good and her thoughts are a furnace again—need rising fast, rich and golden and dark around the edges—and his shadows answer her like they can’t help themselves.
They slip closer, wrapping tighter around the meat of her thighs, winding up with a pressure that mirrors the ache between them. Not rough, not unkind—just more. More friction. More rhythm. More heat to match the pace of her mouth and the sound of his name caught in her head like a prayer she's trying not to say aloud.
[say]"Colt—"[/say] he warns, voice raw and wrecked. The heat rising in him is impossible to ignore, a thunderhead building at the base of his spine. His other hand fists in her hair, not to pull, but to hold her there like she’s the only solid thing left in the world—because it just about feels like that's true.
His head tips back with a groan, throat exposed to the sky, as he forces out a ragged breath. [say]"I’m gonna—"[/say] The warning’s barely past his lips before it crashes into him—white-hot and blinding, like a lightning strike straight through his spine. It rips through every muscle drawn taut from days of survival, all the want he’d banked in sand and heat and half-buried glances now breaking loose in a rush that has him shuddering beneath her.
His hips jerk once, helpless, a strangled noise catching low in his throat as pleasure tears him open from the inside. For a moment, all he can feel is her—the slick heat of her mouth, the pull of her breath, the soft pressure of her thoughts slipping back into focus. It’s not tenderness. It’s relief. Like stepping out of a storm into something solid. Like finally finding a place to come apart, with someone who’d come undone right beside him.
He exhales sharp through his teeth, chest rising and falling beneath the stars, the grit of salt and sand biting into his skin. His grip loosens in her hair, not quite a thank you, but close. Closer than he meant to be.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-25-2025
Her name on his lips is like smoke from something burning—curling at the edges, catching at the back of his throat. He breathes her out like it hurts, and she feels the heat of it, not undone, but marked. Each strand of hair he pulls is a rope coiling in his hand, a sanctuary built from the threads of her steady unraveling. He pulls her apart bit by bit, her line unspooling with the drag of his descent and the darkness that slips through her seams, showing her how good it feels to be taken apart.
His final warning earns one last, deep plunge before she slowly draws back, leaving space to take all that he gives her. A whimper catches in her throat, and it’s all she can do to contain him as her thighs tremble beneath the perfected tempo of every nightspun tendril pressed to the slick ache of her want.
Everything he’s built up tumbles into a rush like breaking surf, her breath caught in the undertow of pleasure that crashes through her—powerless to its unrelenting force. It wrests all control from her, hips jolting, spine arching as wave after wave rolls through. She holds him through it, barely steady, until it crests and breaks, dissolving into the curl of her toes. She swallows it with his release, and everything that had gone taut inside her finally softens. She slumps beside him on her back, one hand still pressed to his skin if only to keep her from fully unmooring. She's melted, spent, and still shaking from the tide's retreat.
[say]"Ves, gods, what fucking chapter is that one on?"[/say] She can barely get the words out around the air she's trying to suck in and steady inside her, and the smile around them is fragile, if only because all of her feels recently reassmbled and the glue hasn't fully dried yet.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-25-2025
The aftershocks still ripple through Vesper like constellations shivering out of alignment—his body spent, his mind caught in the warm undertow of Colt’s thoughts. Her pleasure echoes in his skull like thunder, and he doesn’t even try to shield himself from it. Why would he? It’s holy. Raw. A storm crashing through her, the kind he wants to drown in again and again.
She melts beside him and it feels like gravity’s finally let go. For a second, everything stills—the hush between crashing waves, the lull in the tide. He barely notices the salt biting at his skin or the stick of sand along his back. All that matters is the thrum of her next to him. Her hand still on him. Her breath still catching. And then her voice cuts through the haze like a breeze through summer sweat, and he tips his head toward her, blinking slow and lazy like he’s just returned from someplace far. The sly grin that spreads across his mouth is all moonlight and trouble.
[say]"Dunno, but it ain’t over yet,"[/say] he murmurs, voice still hoarse, still full of embers.
Before she can ask what that means, he rolls toward her, an arm slipping around her waist. He kisses her again—languid, unhurried—but it’s not her lips he’s aiming for this time. He trails down her jaw, the corner of her mouth, the hollow of her throat. His fingers ghost up the curve of her ribs to brush against the soft swell of her breasts, reverent and teasing all at once, before his mouth follows suit—pressing a kiss between them, just above the line of her bra, tongue tasting the sea-slick heat of her skin.
He doesn't stop. One hand curls beneath her hip, the other sliding her underwear down with a flicker of shadow that’s too gentle to be obscene, too purposeful to be anything but a promise. His lips find the edge of her belly, grazing downward with agonizing care. And then he pauses—only long enough to drag his teeth lightly, wickedly, across the inside of her thigh.
[say]"I want to taste you,"[/say] he says low, his voice so velvet-smooth it nearly disappears into the crashing surf behind them. And then his mouth is on her—tongue slow at first, the lightest pressure between her thighs, like he’s memorizing her pulse, before pressing into the heat of her. Inhaling sharply, he presses up in one long, deliberate stroke until the tip of his tongue ends far too softly against her clit.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-25-2025
It's not even a half-formed word that croaks free from her before he's smothering the confusion with an unspoken answer to each corner that he'd frayed. Not to help her braid them back together, quite the opposite. A groan unites with the corner of his mouth when he presses it there, the sound of her inevitable dissasembly as her own fingers grasp for some traction against his arms, his back, anything she can hold and trace to keep her from the threat of oblivion.
Surprise flares bright in her, a set of widened, uncertain eyes she tilts to him from the askew angle of her head against the pillow of sand. She's grown too accustomed to something like this being transactional—a weak attempt to waylay the loneliness that creeps in at night, or to placate the love she once knew into something that might remain gentle. Nothing like this, where it feels like he wants to have her in every angle of light, from sunup to sundown and all the starlit hours afterwards too, just to find his favorite moment among them.
Each touch of him against her is a tug upon her breath, brief, but stuttering until she's certain he intends to suffocate her. [say]"Ves,"[/say] she starts to plead, gathering what little air she still has control over as he sinks lower. His pause is just long enough to grant her false hope that he's finished, finally content with how thoroughly he's liquified her, something amber he could gather in his hands before it seeps into the shore.
The pause ends with his teeth to her thigh and she shudders, her pulse doubling up for a beat and roaring against her ears in competition with the sea. [say]"Vesper!"[/say] it's barely a whisper she gives to the sand, but her body screams it loud as her hips lift in wild response with the arch of her spine. She's ablaze with a fire that hadn't quite gone out yet, the oxygen of his attention all it needed to reignite.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-25-2025
The pang in her mind—the flash of worry that this might just be him returning the favour—nearly has Vesper stalling. It flickers through her like a ghost, brief but piercing, and gods, maybe it’s his age that has him defying what she's after, or maybe just the way her thoughts have wound their way too deep into him. Either way, he doesn’t pull back, because he’s sure—sure he can convince her otherwise, not with words, but with every brush of his tongue, every shadow-drawn touch. That this isn’t charity; it’s hunger. It’s want. It's her.
So Vesper doesn't stop, instead gripping her hips tighter, drawing her in with a groan of something primal, something worshipful. His mouth doesn’t tease—he devours, tongue sliding with aching precision as he works her apart with every flick, every firm pressure of lips and heat. When she arches into him, he answers with a hum, low and hungry, letting it reverberate against her until it’s not just sound anymore but pure sensation.
Shadows curl like seafoam up the line of her waist, slipping across her ribs and tracing the curve of her breasts beneath her bra with featherlight pressure. Not quite hands, but not quite anything of this world. Just presence, distinct but insistent, a counterpoint to the burn he builds between her thighs.
His voice is low when it slips out, rough against the inside of her skin. [say]"You taste like divin’ headfirst into the sea felt,"[/say] he murmurs, barely pulling back long enough to speak. And with that, he seals his mouth against her again, deeper this time, a tide that doesn't retreat—intent on dragging her under until she shatters just for him.
One of the benefits of being a telepath is that he knows exactly where and how to touch her, each movement tailored to the pulse of her thoughts—no dithering, no chasing, just precision that leaves no room for doubt or disappointment, no matter what she might expect from someone his age.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-26-2025
He takes everything from her—every trace of shame for her travel-worn state, each worry for what's to come, every fear and flicker of doubt. They fall from her like clothes peeled from too-warm skin, discarded and forgotten. He strips her down to sensation alone, nothing but the starburst of pleasure that splinters so violently through her she doesn't know whether she’s shaking from bliss or the ache of trying to hold it in. It builds, bright and sharp, pressing against the walls of her body like it’s too much, too big, too good—something that can’t possibly fit inside her and still leave her whole.
He seems inclined to test her limits as his shadows slip higher, winding up her body with silken intent. She moans beneath the sweep of them, squirming, reaching for the touch as it presses in like a seal of midnight across her skin. When it brushes too lightly over the swell of her breast, she cups a hand against it, a command for more. The response is instant, the pressure deepening as though she’s the one who wields them, and she clutches at them like lifelines, grounding herself in the weight of his magic even as her pleasure climbs higher, sharper, impossible.
His voice breaks through like something shining amid all the vantablack he's conjured, sweeping across her with a brilliance that steals her breath. Her head tips back into the sand. The edges of her vision blur, as if his shadows have slipped into her head too, smoke-soft and pulsing with heat. He unravels her expertly, mercilessly, until she's nothing but open nerve and desperate want, everything she thought she knew about satisfaction turned inside out—broken, rebuilt, and renamed by him.
[say]"Don't stop,"[/say] she begs, voice weak with how little he's spared her to function beyond the feel of him. The urging is barely needed, not the least of which for his careful attentiveness, but because he finishes her in the next breath. Her hips jolt suddenly, spine bowing as she gasps against the final collapse of all he's built. It’s fierce and staggering, drawn out by the perfected response to her every twitch, every silent need. It surges through her, electric and endless, a torrent that leaves her trembling. The chorus of surrender he works from her throat could drag the stars down with her—pull the whole night sky into his shadows and let her lose herself there completely, become something vast and dark and infinite with him.
Everything that had gone taut inside her slackens. She settles back against the sand, loose-limbed and breathless, her body slow to remember how to move, so she doesn't try. It's just him, for a while—his shadows, his name, the echo of where he’s touched her. Gradually though, pieces of the world drift back to her, reforming what existed beyond him. The sound of the surf breaking, the drag of the wind over razed skin, the tug of gravity pinning her back to reality.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-26-2025
Vesper doesn’t stop. Doesn’t chase some imagined next step like so many others might. She says don’t stop, and he doesn’t—because her body, her thoughts, her breathless little breaking point tells him exactly what she needs, and he answers it with merciless precision. Every flick of his tongue, every drag of shadow across her breast, every hitch of breath is measured against the current of her mind, the chorus of her unravelling.
And gods, it wrecks him too.
Not because she’s beautiful like this (though she is, sharp and trembling and divine), but because her pleasure doesn’t stay hers. Not with him in her head. It slams into him like a tide, a starburst of heat and desperation that leaves his own lungs seizing as if he’s the one caught in the undertow. There’s no distance to hide behind, no breath to catch that doesn’t taste like her. He rides it out with her, chest tight, jaw clenched, the ache of her release echoing in every nerve like she’s dragging him right back down with her.
Only when the tension in her flares one final time—oversensitive, twitching, lightning-close to a gasp—does he ease off. He kisses her thigh, slow and warm, the way someone might kiss the inside of a wrist before laying it bare. Then he slides up over her, shadows peeling back like a tide gone out, licking salt from his lips.
He collapses beside her without fanfare, his body still buzzing like he’s half-electric. One arm reaches lazily over her waist, and his voice comes hoarse from his throat, still raw with the way she’d set him alight. [say]"Gods, Colt,"[/say] he breathes, half in awe, half in satisfied ruin.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-26-2025
It's effort to tilt her head towards him and half-open her eyes, his shape steadily coming into focus amid the blur that sinks out of her with each slow breath that isn't caught aflame. His arm feels ridiculously heavy as it lays across her—or maybe just the rest of her still feels like it's floating, and his weight is a subtle reminder that she's not. His voice, oddly managing to be both soft and rough in different manners, drifts to her like a bakery aroma, sweet and warm. Half of her smile appears, one of her hands weakly striking against his side in protest. [say]"Me? You."[/say]
She has never had someone so attuned to her every want, able to fulfill each passing desire with a touch that rivaled her own, but better, because it wasn't. [say]"You're fucking incredible,"[/say] she sighs, the hand against him turning to trace lazy lines against his skin. [say]"You deserve at least two apples now,"[/say] she grins. Although she's no fucking clue where any of their shit is anymore. Let the tide take it, she's not ready to be a person yet after he so thoroughly turned her into butter instead.
She will have to, eventually. It felt eternal when he was pressed against her, but now, there's the ache of an upcoming goodbye and all the things that word changes even without meaning to.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-27-2025
Vesper grins down at her, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that slow, wicked way that always looks like it knows something you don’t—until he decides to let you in on the secret. [say]"So what you’re sayin’ is...I did alright?"[/say] he drawls, lazy and pleased, the words like warm smoke curling through the spaces between them.
Her fingers tracing idle shapes against his skin draw a hum from deep in his chest, something content and full of heat, like a fire that hasn’t burned out yet, just banked low. The compliment earns a softer look from him—still sharp, but with a flicker of something that might be gratitude tucked behind it. Not many people ever get close enough to say things like that and mean it. Even fewer manage to make him feel it.
At the mention of apples, he groans playfully and lets his head drop against her shoulder, voice muffled against her collarbone. [say]"Two apples? Well damn, I must'of done somethin' right, then."[/say]
He doesn’t move yet—too tangled up in the afterglow and the brush of her pulse against his—but eventually, his eyes flick toward the scattered mess of their clothes. [say]"We should probably find our clothes at some point,"[/say] he mutters against her skin. [say]"No point of havin' avoided one kind of sand burn just to settle for another."[/say]
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-27-2025
A small laugh shakes free as he bemoans the apples. [say]"I'll even give you a pat,"[/say] she teases, glancing sidelong at him with a glimmer of amusement. Her hand drifts from his side to curl around his cheek, fingers lightly brushing through his hair, what bits of it she can reach. The motion is full of tenderness she can't put to word, or doesn't dare to anyway. It's rare for her to feel this sort of easy comfort with someone, where time manages to slow, though never quite enough.
She forgot how nice it felt, letting someone in.
Slowly though, it fades. It always does. Time takes it back with its unwavering march. [say]"Mm, you're the one who took off like a madman down the beach. I've no idea where you left everything, so I hope you can tell one curve of sand from the other, because I can't."[/say] She yawns, rolling into him and folding both arms over his chest to look at him, really look at him. An attempt to remember him, as he is now, before they go home and wash the desert off and the memory of this settles like nothing more than a dream. Can't be anything other than that, not something this good, this fast. It's alright though, we all need some nice dreams.
She smiles before she presses a kiss to his chest and rises back to her feet, ready to call it quits at last.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Vesper - 05-28-2025
Vesper exhales a lazy, satisfied sound as she curls around him, her fingers in his hair doing far more damage than any of her sharper words ever could. The tenderness, the warmth—it seeps into him before he can stop it, and for a breath or two, he just lets it. Lets himself float there in the afterglow, the fire between them reduced to golden embers that flicker just beneath his skin.
But he feels it too—when it starts to pull away. The way the edges of her thoughts begin to harden again, how reality starts knocking like the tide claiming back the shore. His eyes stay half-lidded as she speaks, but there’s a flick of mischief in them as he answers, [say]"Lucky for us both I live in a place not too terribly different from this then, huh?"[/say]
When she rolls into him to study his face, he lets her. Doesn’t look away, just meets her gaze, calm and steady, like he knows exactly what she’s doing—and doesn’t mind in the least. There’s something unsaid there, something that lingers between them like heat still trapped in the sand. But he doesn’t name it, nor does he try to keep her longer than the moment wants to stretch.
Her kiss lands soft against his chest and his hand lifts to skim along her back as she rises. [say]"Guess you'll be wantin' a pony ride back to where he started?"[/say] he murmurs with a crooked grin, still sprawled like he owns the stretch of beach they’d just wrecked.
RE: nothing on but the radio - Colt - 05-28-2025
She can't help but scoff. [say]"You can't be serious?"[/say] An arched 'brow, wondering if he's this arrogant because he can be (does he actually know this sand from that sand?) or because he chooses to be. [say]"I live in meadows, doesn't mean I know every meadow,"[/say] she reasons, but is already certain he's got some kind of smart quip or secret skill like always. Honestly, she'd like to see it, because if he does know all the beaches like they're all his, then she's gotta work on her meadowing.
His touch sets goosebumps along her arms and a shiver to her shoulders as she stands and stares off into the distance where their shit waits somewhere. [say]"That'd be nice,"[/say] she says with a faint laugh, not really thinking it had been a question. [say]"Unless your idea of a romantic beach walk is trudging half-naked, on low-energy, for however long you galloped?"[/say] She doesn't have to say it to imply he galloped far too long for them to even think about walking back on foot. She'd ride him back one way or another, horse or man.