VESPER
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. "Never said you were cheap," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper, roughened now. "Just said there’s better." 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.
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. "Never said you were cheap," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper, roughened now. "Just said there’s better." 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.
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.
