VESPER
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. "Darlin’," he murmurs against her mouth once they part, voice low and touched with a velvety sort of laughter, "if you think there ain’t better, I clearly need t’get you off that ranch more often." 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.
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. "Darlin’," he murmurs against her mouth once they part, voice low and touched with a velvety sort of laughter, "if you think there ain’t better, I clearly need t’get you off that ranch more often." 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.
Will I ever quit playing with matches?
Why am I making angels in the ashes?
Why am I making angels in the ashes?
☆ 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.
