just because the fog is there
He lets her wry jab wash over him with an easy roll of his shoulders, laughter slipping out under his breath, low and warm. "What can I say? I’m used to shoppin’ for Nova and Caly. Pair of black holes when it comes to food." The shrug is helpless, but the spark in his eyes makes it clear he’s not really sorry. He angles a glance down at the dogs still loitering, brow hitching as his mouth pulls crooked." Just tryin’ to keep the peace," he adds, bone-dry, like it’s the most obvious excuse in the world for why he’s already halfway to bribery.
Colt’s thoughts scatter sharp and bright, shameless and unfiltered, and he doesn’t have to reach far to catch them. The image of him in nothing but an apron, skin catching the kitchen’s dim light while she sprawls across the island beneath, clings vivid and hot. Just as quickly, the picture shifts: her bent over the narrow kitchen table, her laughter bleeding into a rough edge as he drags her hips towards his mouth like a platter of food.
Vesper's expression doesn’t shift a hair. Neutrality is armour as much as charm, but even so, his gaze betrays him with a flick toward the island, judging it not for polish or sturdiness but for whether it would hold her the way she’d envisioned. The kitchen table earns a similar glance, a sly weight behind his eyes as he tests the scenes she’s conjured, wondering in silence which would break first—the wood, or her voice. If he lingers in the measure of it all a half-second longer than he ought to, it’s only because part of him is already cataloguing the possibilities, turning over how easily he could oblige every thought she’s just scattered. And if the corner of his mouth threatens to curl before he reins it back, well—he isn’t about to admit it.
Instead, Vesper follows her instructions with a sort of deliberate imprecision, setting his bag vaguely in the hall rather than committing it to a room. The shoes, he kicks off before toeing them into a line, like the concession of a guest trying not to leave rough edges. By the time he returns, she’s already reaching for him, and he stills under the touch as if it’s something fragile, breath easing out at the brush of her lips. His answer to her quiet offer is a smirk tugged slow across his mouth, one brow tipping high. "Sure," he murmurs, the drawl rich with suggestion, "more of that."
And then, with the long-suffering sigh of a man cornered into civility, he adds, "Though I wouldn’t turn down a drink, either." The glance he gives her after makes it clear which he’d rather be served first.
Colt’s thoughts scatter sharp and bright, shameless and unfiltered, and he doesn’t have to reach far to catch them. The image of him in nothing but an apron, skin catching the kitchen’s dim light while she sprawls across the island beneath, clings vivid and hot. Just as quickly, the picture shifts: her bent over the narrow kitchen table, her laughter bleeding into a rough edge as he drags her hips towards his mouth like a platter of food.
Vesper's expression doesn’t shift a hair. Neutrality is armour as much as charm, but even so, his gaze betrays him with a flick toward the island, judging it not for polish or sturdiness but for whether it would hold her the way she’d envisioned. The kitchen table earns a similar glance, a sly weight behind his eyes as he tests the scenes she’s conjured, wondering in silence which would break first—the wood, or her voice. If he lingers in the measure of it all a half-second longer than he ought to, it’s only because part of him is already cataloguing the possibilities, turning over how easily he could oblige every thought she’s just scattered. And if the corner of his mouth threatens to curl before he reins it back, well—he isn’t about to admit it.
Instead, Vesper follows her instructions with a sort of deliberate imprecision, setting his bag vaguely in the hall rather than committing it to a room. The shoes, he kicks off before toeing them into a line, like the concession of a guest trying not to leave rough edges. By the time he returns, she’s already reaching for him, and he stills under the touch as if it’s something fragile, breath easing out at the brush of her lips. His answer to her quiet offer is a smirk tugged slow across his mouth, one brow tipping high. "Sure," he murmurs, the drawl rich with suggestion, "more of that."
And then, with the long-suffering sigh of a man cornered into civility, he adds, "Though I wouldn’t turn down a drink, either." The glance he gives her after makes it clear which he’d rather be served first.
don't mean nothing's behind it
☆ 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.
