VESPER
If he were a betting man—and he is, in most ways that matter—Vesper would’ve placed good coin on the next words out of Colt’s mouth being then get out. Maybe not in those exact terms, but in the same tone her silence sometimes held when she wanted to say more than she dared. The sort of cold dismissal she wielded like a shield, sharp-edged and distant. It wouldn’t have been unfair. Wouldn’t even have surprised him.
But that’s the trouble with being a telepath it doesn’t make you a fortune teller. And as her gaze finds his, not with fury but with something quieter, heavier, her fingers hook into the edges of his pants. They tug him forward in a gesture too simple to be misunderstood. For one breathless instant he wonders what else he might’ve been wrong about—what else she might accept even with her heart still half armoured—and then her lips are on his.
Being with Colt is easy; not in a cheap forgettable way, not in a simple pleasure kind of way, but in a way that smooths out the edges of his thoughts. Her mind, when wrapped around his, isn’t a barbed wire mess of what-ifs and withheld truths. It’s heat and texture, grit and grain and the smell of her dogs still clinging to the walls. It’s wind over ranchland and woodsmoke in early evening. Her want never tries to trap him; it just exists, honest and unflinching. And maybe it’s selfish—probably is—to want more of that, to give her what she asks for when he knows he can’t give her what she means. But as she pulls away and says that word—stay—he stops thinking entirely.
His hands move before his mouth can form a lie.
His hands clasp beneath her thighs and he lifts her easily, shadows swirling up from the floor like a second pair of arms to help. They cradle her weight and drape around him like ribbons, tugging the world out of the way as he carries her through it. They make it past the kitchen, the table; his fingers find the wall, then the back of the couch, fumbling once but never breaking from her mouth. Every time their lips part, it’s only to breathe, to murmur her name low against her skin or to let her do the same. He wants to speak something more into the hollow of her throat, but he doesn’t trust the words to mean what they should. She’s already given him more than he knows how to carry, and gods if that isn't half of the problem.
And so instead he sinks with her into the nest of blankets she’s built like a den—soft and familiar, warm from old fires and long nights—lowering her with impossible care. His body follows hers, covering her without crowding, as though the shape of him might press down all the sharpness still humming in her chest. His hands find her jaw, her waist, her thigh, in a touch that borders on possessive before stilling and softening.
But that’s the trouble with being a telepath it doesn’t make you a fortune teller. And as her gaze finds his, not with fury but with something quieter, heavier, her fingers hook into the edges of his pants. They tug him forward in a gesture too simple to be misunderstood. For one breathless instant he wonders what else he might’ve been wrong about—what else she might accept even with her heart still half armoured—and then her lips are on his.
Being with Colt is easy; not in a cheap forgettable way, not in a simple pleasure kind of way, but in a way that smooths out the edges of his thoughts. Her mind, when wrapped around his, isn’t a barbed wire mess of what-ifs and withheld truths. It’s heat and texture, grit and grain and the smell of her dogs still clinging to the walls. It’s wind over ranchland and woodsmoke in early evening. Her want never tries to trap him; it just exists, honest and unflinching. And maybe it’s selfish—probably is—to want more of that, to give her what she asks for when he knows he can’t give her what she means. But as she pulls away and says that word—stay—he stops thinking entirely.
His hands move before his mouth can form a lie.
His hands clasp beneath her thighs and he lifts her easily, shadows swirling up from the floor like a second pair of arms to help. They cradle her weight and drape around him like ribbons, tugging the world out of the way as he carries her through it. They make it past the kitchen, the table; his fingers find the wall, then the back of the couch, fumbling once but never breaking from her mouth. Every time their lips part, it’s only to breathe, to murmur her name low against her skin or to let her do the same. He wants to speak something more into the hollow of her throat, but he doesn’t trust the words to mean what they should. She’s already given him more than he knows how to carry, and gods if that isn't half of the problem.
And so instead he sinks with her into the nest of blankets she’s built like a den—soft and familiar, warm from old fires and long nights—lowering her with impossible care. His body follows hers, covering her without crowding, as though the shape of him might press down all the sharpness still humming in her chest. His hands find her jaw, her waist, her thigh, in a touch that borders on possessive before stilling and softening.
rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?
☆ 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.
