when rome's in ruins, we are the lions
They’re a sight, the two of them—sweat-slicked and dust-caked, hair wind-wild, skin flushed from heat and exertion. Like they’ve clawed their way out of a wildfire and didn’t have the good sense to stop running after.
But what breaks Vesper’s focus isn’t the breeze teasing his skin now that he’s unshifted, it’s her. The moment Colt’s thoughts slip back into his reach, tumbling with concern and grit and that persistent, half-exasperated fondness he’s starting to recognize as her default with him, his shoulders sag slightly. Not dramatically, not enough to admit anything. Just enough to ease.
Her fussing earns a slow smirk, even as she shoves the apple into his hands and chides him like a half-dead horse she found limping out of a barn fire. "Didn’t stop sooner ‘cause it seemed like you were enjoying yourself," he drawls, dry and wry all at once. The long-suffering stare he gives her as she offers him the apple is softened by the gleam in his eyes and the sigh that forces itself past his lips. He rubs it against the edge of his shirt, pausing just long enough to accept the wet cloth. His head bows forward as he presses it to the back of his neck, the cold shocking and exquisite. Another sigh ghosts past his lips as he arches slightly, water trickling down the notches of his spine like starlight on stone.
But then her fingers are pushing into his hair the same way she'd done through his mane, and he finds himself stilling. "Little?" he echoes, mock-offended as his head tilts up toward her touch. "That what we’re callin’ six-two, sweat-drenched demigods now?"
With no spare shirt, Vesper shrugs out of the one he’s wearing, peeling it slow off his damp skin and tossing it over a nearby rock. The fabric lands with a slap, already half-stiff with salt. The stars that fleck his skin like roving constellations are shadowy, subtle, but more visible now than just the ones on the bridge of his nose and arms. He knows damn well she’s only called a break for his sake. He can taste the thought in her head, wrapped in wild pride and sacrifice. But he’s not the noble sort—not here, not now, not ever—and he’s more than happy to let her shoulder the blame if it means resting.
Offering the cloth back with a grateful nod, he lifts the apple to his mouth, taking a long, noisy bite. Juice runs down his thumb. He chews, swallows, and then says around the next bite, tone amused and dry as kindling, "If you so much as give me a pat and call me good boy, I’m leavin’ you in the sand."
But what breaks Vesper’s focus isn’t the breeze teasing his skin now that he’s unshifted, it’s her. The moment Colt’s thoughts slip back into his reach, tumbling with concern and grit and that persistent, half-exasperated fondness he’s starting to recognize as her default with him, his shoulders sag slightly. Not dramatically, not enough to admit anything. Just enough to ease.
Her fussing earns a slow smirk, even as she shoves the apple into his hands and chides him like a half-dead horse she found limping out of a barn fire. "Didn’t stop sooner ‘cause it seemed like you were enjoying yourself," he drawls, dry and wry all at once. The long-suffering stare he gives her as she offers him the apple is softened by the gleam in his eyes and the sigh that forces itself past his lips. He rubs it against the edge of his shirt, pausing just long enough to accept the wet cloth. His head bows forward as he presses it to the back of his neck, the cold shocking and exquisite. Another sigh ghosts past his lips as he arches slightly, water trickling down the notches of his spine like starlight on stone.
But then her fingers are pushing into his hair the same way she'd done through his mane, and he finds himself stilling. "Little?" he echoes, mock-offended as his head tilts up toward her touch. "That what we’re callin’ six-two, sweat-drenched demigods now?"
With no spare shirt, Vesper shrugs out of the one he’s wearing, peeling it slow off his damp skin and tossing it over a nearby rock. The fabric lands with a slap, already half-stiff with salt. The stars that fleck his skin like roving constellations are shadowy, subtle, but more visible now than just the ones on the bridge of his nose and arms. He knows damn well she’s only called a break for his sake. He can taste the thought in her head, wrapped in wild pride and sacrifice. But he’s not the noble sort—not here, not now, not ever—and he’s more than happy to let her shoulder the blame if it means resting.
Offering the cloth back with a grateful nod, he lifts the apple to his mouth, taking a long, noisy bite. Juice runs down his thumb. He chews, swallows, and then says around the next bite, tone amused and dry as kindling, "If you so much as give me a pat and call me good boy, I’m leavin’ you in the sand."
free of the colosseums
☆ has a pale star tattoo beneath his left eye, and freckle-sized constellations move across his skin
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
