COLT
Usually, I ain't the type to stay up all damn night
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
Every playful thought curling through her mind, adding a teasing wind to her body, is immediately seared away beneath the brand of his hands. The heat of them sinks into the building fire in her belly, licking up higher as she's suddenly yanked and hoisted, his strength wrenching the breath straight from her chest and out. A cry breaks free, sharp and wrecked, as the only purchase she finds for a moment is her seat upon him. The immediate fill is overwhelmingly perfect, so ready for him that his immediate depth is eagerly claimed, the hot slide of him into her core sending ripples of satisfaction up through her spine.
Her legs lock on either side of him, nails clawing against his nape, forehead pressing to his shoulder in an open-mouthed pant that's desperate to regain breath over the disbelief of how fucking good he feels. A hopeless endeavor as he drives into her, burying his cock even further in one staggering thrust. The cabinets shudder nearly as much as she does with the relentless nature of it, another wild noise sundering from her as he stretches her unapologetically. He steals part of it with his mouth, and she moans low and greedy into that mess of his lips. She’s both clinging and chasing, body arching to drag him closer still, the way he's coming apart so ruinous and rare that it makes her frantic.
“Ves—fuck—I want you so bad,” the words break ragged against his chest, her breath caught between moan and beg. She's a glutton for the feel of him, needing more even still. “It's like I’ll never get enough of you.” Her need throbs like its own heartbeat around him, aching for the friction that barely comes with every shift as he moves them. Near delirious with a violent flush, practically running a fever for him, she's dimly aware that he's striding through the kitchen. "Wrong way—" she starts to say, because the kitchen table is the other direction, and this is the screen door he's staggering through. His warning lands like a joke, because she's already clutching him like lungs do air—she's been holding onto him nonstop.
And then the world vanishes.
One second it’s the heat of the kitchen—lamplight, wood grain, liquor glasses—and the next it’s gone, dissolved into shadow mist. Her stomach somersaults, body still locked around his, and then air bites in cold and contrasting against their bare, sweat-slick skin. The rush of it all gasps out of her as they hit the field in a sprawl of moonlit grass and distant dog barking. She only has a moment before he sends them down, but she uses it to lean back slightly and stare up at him, wide eyes capturing his while her heart gallops away. The suddenness, the wild magic of it, rattles her as much as the carefully rough way he still holds her, buried deep like a promise to wreck them both.
“Ves—what the hell,” she breathes, awe and want tangling hopelessly together. She hadn't meant carry her to the field now, just instead of the bed after he fucked her too well to stand. So much for the blankets she had collected for them to lie out here with, and the brownies were liable to burn at this rate, and—she doesn't care. Gods, this is where he belongs, crowned with the starlight that always leans in closer for him, turning all the edges of him sterling, deepening the shadows that wreathe the other parts of him the night's light can't quite reach.
“Fuck. Me.” She demands, want rising like an infestation inside her. As they slam down, her undone braid fans out like a halo in the moonlit plain, knees rising to her chest off of his sides, not wanting any obstruction keeping him from sinking into her completely.
Her legs lock on either side of him, nails clawing against his nape, forehead pressing to his shoulder in an open-mouthed pant that's desperate to regain breath over the disbelief of how fucking good he feels. A hopeless endeavor as he drives into her, burying his cock even further in one staggering thrust. The cabinets shudder nearly as much as she does with the relentless nature of it, another wild noise sundering from her as he stretches her unapologetically. He steals part of it with his mouth, and she moans low and greedy into that mess of his lips. She’s both clinging and chasing, body arching to drag him closer still, the way he's coming apart so ruinous and rare that it makes her frantic.
“Ves—fuck—I want you so bad,” the words break ragged against his chest, her breath caught between moan and beg. She's a glutton for the feel of him, needing more even still. “It's like I’ll never get enough of you.” Her need throbs like its own heartbeat around him, aching for the friction that barely comes with every shift as he moves them. Near delirious with a violent flush, practically running a fever for him, she's dimly aware that he's striding through the kitchen. "Wrong way—" she starts to say, because the kitchen table is the other direction, and this is the screen door he's staggering through. His warning lands like a joke, because she's already clutching him like lungs do air—she's been holding onto him nonstop.
And then the world vanishes.
One second it’s the heat of the kitchen—lamplight, wood grain, liquor glasses—and the next it’s gone, dissolved into shadow mist. Her stomach somersaults, body still locked around his, and then air bites in cold and contrasting against their bare, sweat-slick skin. The rush of it all gasps out of her as they hit the field in a sprawl of moonlit grass and distant dog barking. She only has a moment before he sends them down, but she uses it to lean back slightly and stare up at him, wide eyes capturing his while her heart gallops away. The suddenness, the wild magic of it, rattles her as much as the carefully rough way he still holds her, buried deep like a promise to wreck them both.
“Ves—what the hell,” she breathes, awe and want tangling hopelessly together. She hadn't meant carry her to the field now, just instead of the bed after he fucked her too well to stand. So much for the blankets she had collected for them to lie out here with, and the brownies were liable to burn at this rate, and—she doesn't care. Gods, this is where he belongs, crowned with the starlight that always leans in closer for him, turning all the edges of him sterling, deepening the shadows that wreathe the other parts of him the night's light can't quite reach.
“Fuck. Me.” She demands, want rising like an infestation inside her. As they slam down, her undone braid fans out like a halo in the moonlit plain, knees rising to her chest off of his sides, not wanting any obstruction keeping him from sinking into her completely.
I keep it dark, I keep it quiet
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
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.
