VESPER
Technically, it’s missionary—but only by name. There’s nothing gentle or passive about the way Vesper moves against her, nothing tame in the way he claims every inch of her like he was built for exactly this: the slide of skin against skin, the heat of her wrapped around him, the shape of her legs braced around his hips and thighs like she’d rather burn than ever let him leave.
He arches overtop of her in a way that makes the position feel anything but simple, height leveraged to drive every thrust into her like he’s marking territory, like he’s never going to let the memory of this slip free. The stretch of his body crowds hers, elbows locked into the couch cushion and armrest to press himself down with all the pressure he has to give. And gods, the sweater, still clinging to her like a fucking brand, bunched high around her chest, sleeves tangled beneath her shoulders. He hisses at the sight of it, low and unfiltered, because it should’ve been gone, even if she’s still his, even underneath it. But there’s no slowing down. Not for that. Not when she feels like this. Not when every motion of her hips beneath him stokes something ragged and wild in his blood.
His shadows slip slickly around her hips, pooling hot and restless between her thighs, massaging every breath and grind of her body into something more acute. They curl beneath her, teasing and pressing with the same possessive rhythm as his own thrusts, wrapping around her clit like they were made to learn her; soft when she arches up, firmer when her back curls against the couch cushions like she can’t help herself. The blanket nest he’d built beneath them shudders and gathers with every movement, reshaped by the ripples of his magic and the drive of his hips, until her body is angled just how he needs it, and just how she deserves.
Breathless and burning for her, Vesper releases her thigh and drags a palm up the length of her side, letting it spread firm across her jaw as he tilts her face up into his. His grip is steady but not cruel, touch fierce with intention. For a moment—just a breath—he looks at her. Eyes bright and blue in the low light, wide and searching like he’s trying to find something hidden inside hers. Like there’s some unspoken answer waiting in the warm brown of her gaze, something that could explain why it’s always her, why it’s never simple, why he keeps needing her like this. Like maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll understand the piece of himself that aches when he’s not near her. But there is no salvation in the silence, and no promise in what they are.
With a guttural sound—half moan, half curse—he leans harder into her, weight braced on the armrest, his other hand leaves her face, curling tight around her hip to lock her in place. "Fuck, Colt," he growls, a wrecked admission of just how much he wants her—wants this—wants to keep pretending that he doesn’t have to leave before the sun rises.
Every time he sinks into her it’s like static burns clean from his skull, noise stripped away and replaced with something visceral and grounding. Her heat cradles him like a glove, taut and slick and alive, and with each rough drive of his hips, he can feel the rhythm echo up through his spine until all that’s left is instinct and her name burned into the back of his teeth. He doesn't slow, doesn’t soften. Just holds her tighter and fucks her harder, chasing that edge like it might catch him first.
He arches overtop of her in a way that makes the position feel anything but simple, height leveraged to drive every thrust into her like he’s marking territory, like he’s never going to let the memory of this slip free. The stretch of his body crowds hers, elbows locked into the couch cushion and armrest to press himself down with all the pressure he has to give. And gods, the sweater, still clinging to her like a fucking brand, bunched high around her chest, sleeves tangled beneath her shoulders. He hisses at the sight of it, low and unfiltered, because it should’ve been gone, even if she’s still his, even underneath it. But there’s no slowing down. Not for that. Not when she feels like this. Not when every motion of her hips beneath him stokes something ragged and wild in his blood.
His shadows slip slickly around her hips, pooling hot and restless between her thighs, massaging every breath and grind of her body into something more acute. They curl beneath her, teasing and pressing with the same possessive rhythm as his own thrusts, wrapping around her clit like they were made to learn her; soft when she arches up, firmer when her back curls against the couch cushions like she can’t help herself. The blanket nest he’d built beneath them shudders and gathers with every movement, reshaped by the ripples of his magic and the drive of his hips, until her body is angled just how he needs it, and just how she deserves.
Breathless and burning for her, Vesper releases her thigh and drags a palm up the length of her side, letting it spread firm across her jaw as he tilts her face up into his. His grip is steady but not cruel, touch fierce with intention. For a moment—just a breath—he looks at her. Eyes bright and blue in the low light, wide and searching like he’s trying to find something hidden inside hers. Like there’s some unspoken answer waiting in the warm brown of her gaze, something that could explain why it’s always her, why it’s never simple, why he keeps needing her like this. Like maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll understand the piece of himself that aches when he’s not near her. But there is no salvation in the silence, and no promise in what they are.
With a guttural sound—half moan, half curse—he leans harder into her, weight braced on the armrest, his other hand leaves her face, curling tight around her hip to lock her in place. "Fuck, Colt," he growls, a wrecked admission of just how much he wants her—wants this—wants to keep pretending that he doesn’t have to leave before the sun rises.
Every time he sinks into her it’s like static burns clean from his skull, noise stripped away and replaced with something visceral and grounding. Her heat cradles him like a glove, taut and slick and alive, and with each rough drive of his hips, he can feel the rhythm echo up through his spine until all that’s left is instinct and her name burned into the back of his teeth. He doesn't slow, doesn’t soften. Just holds her tighter and fucks her harder, chasing that edge like it might catch him first.
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.
