VESPER
It hits him like a fever breaking; the rush of her, the heat of her, the way she drags him into her orbit like she’s always meant to. Colt unravels against him—spine bowing, fingers in his hair, mouth caught on his—and Vesper feels every flicker of it as if it’s etched beneath his skin. Her thoughts are loud now, deliciously raw, and they ripple through him in waves: the sharp ache of want, the dizzy euphoria of being wanted back, and something quieter beneath it all that makes his chest ache.
At first he doesn’t answer her words with more of his own. Instead, his shadows stir, smooth and seamless, creeping along the curve of her thighs and up her back to help cradle and steady her to allow himself the luxury of touching her the way he wants to. With his hands slightly more free now, he slips them lower, tugging the fabric of her dress up, coaxing it into a pool at her waist with a slow, practised patience that’s all the more excruciating for how gentle it is. He could tear at her dress, and part of him suspects she wouldn't mind if he did, but equally, he's keen to feel the embers of her thoughts grow hotter for the additional few seconds his care forces her to endure.
His palms are warm against her bare skin, fingers splayed, rough from more than just rodeos. He drags his nails along the soft underside of her thigh—not hard, notyet, just enough to earn that ripple of tension in her muscles. His mind brushes hers in tandem, tasting her response, learning her the way he always has—through a mix of instinct and intimacy, as if her body and thoughts are a language only he speaks fluently, waiting to find the shadow just before the bite of his nails became too much.
A low hum slips from him as his hands rise possessively her hips, palms flattening with a kind of reverence that borders on ache. He fits them there like they belong, thumbs brushing the edge of her underwear, fingers teasing along the lines of muscle and curve. It's maddening, how slowly he moves, but he doesn’t want to rush this. Doesn’t need to—not when he has her like this, when she’s wrapped around him, when her breath is hot against his mouth and her heartbeat is thundering under his hands.
He bows his head to her shoulder, his nose brushing the line of her neck, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper caught between a threat and a confession. "Gods, Colt..." His lips hover, then press, rough and searing, to the spot where her pulse flutters as his fingers tighten against her. "You don’t know how much I want you." He rolls his hips into hers, slow but hard enough to make a point, to let her feel what she’s doing to him, and, as she'd witnessed for herself on the sands, just how frail his willpower could be. "Been thinkin’ about havin' you like this since the desert."
At first he doesn’t answer her words with more of his own. Instead, his shadows stir, smooth and seamless, creeping along the curve of her thighs and up her back to help cradle and steady her to allow himself the luxury of touching her the way he wants to. With his hands slightly more free now, he slips them lower, tugging the fabric of her dress up, coaxing it into a pool at her waist with a slow, practised patience that’s all the more excruciating for how gentle it is. He could tear at her dress, and part of him suspects she wouldn't mind if he did, but equally, he's keen to feel the embers of her thoughts grow hotter for the additional few seconds his care forces her to endure.
His palms are warm against her bare skin, fingers splayed, rough from more than just rodeos. He drags his nails along the soft underside of her thigh—not hard, not
A low hum slips from him as his hands rise possessively her hips, palms flattening with a kind of reverence that borders on ache. He fits them there like they belong, thumbs brushing the edge of her underwear, fingers teasing along the lines of muscle and curve. It's maddening, how slowly he moves, but he doesn’t want to rush this. Doesn’t need to—not when he has her like this, when she’s wrapped around him, when her breath is hot against his mouth and her heartbeat is thundering under his hands.
He bows his head to her shoulder, his nose brushing the line of her neck, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper caught between a threat and a confession. "Gods, Colt..." His lips hover, then press, rough and searing, to the spot where her pulse flutters as his fingers tighten against her. "You don’t know how much I want you." He rolls his hips into hers, slow but hard enough to make a point, to let her feel what she’s doing to him, and, as she'd witnessed for herself on the sands, just how frail his willpower could be. "Been thinkin’ about havin' you like this since the desert."
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.
