COLT
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. "Ves," 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. "You first," 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.
"Fuck, Ves—have mercy—I can't," 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.
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. "Ves," 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. "You first," 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.
"Fuck, Ves—have mercy—I can't," 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.
Baby, don't fall for me, I'll tell you right now
You're gonna hate me when we hit the ground
Think you're gonna fix me, think we're making progress
You'll be broken with me somewhere in the process
You're gonna hate me when we hit the ground
Think you're gonna fix me, think we're making progress
You'll be broken with me somewhere in the process
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
