- NATE -
but who am I to say?
let's all just run away
let's all just run away
Normally when he does this, Nate tries to live vicariously through the other person, keeps his eyes open, his hands moving, so he can feed a little off the reactions he elicits as well as what the bite gives him. It’s different this time though, different with Sunjata now. There’s barely a thought spared for himself, every bit of him keyed into the attuned, to making this just for him.
Of course, that doesn’t mean Nate doesn’t appreciate the reciprocation. The hands in his hair, roaming down his back, and lower, eliciting a soft hum from him, nearly inaudible but rumbling against the attuned’s neck. His hips roll, muscle memory and instinct and that insistent need to be close, to be closer in every way. It drives his hands too, at least one of them, the other too preoccupied with supporting Sunjatas head, fingers playing in wet hair.
The other, the one that had been stroking along the wing moves to stroke along whatever it can reach, a soft, unhurried exploration. Like Nate’s fingers are searching for every spot that makes Sunjata tremble, or pull in a breath, or press in closer, though not one of those things ever difficult to coax out when he wants them. Nate breaks off the bite, but doesn’t pull back, keeping his lips pressed in against the attuned.
”You said something about a bed, didn’t you?” The words are loud enough to be heard over the spray, filled with heat and need and everything else that Nate is usually too stubborn to let slip out.
Of course, that doesn’t mean Nate doesn’t appreciate the reciprocation. The hands in his hair, roaming down his back, and lower, eliciting a soft hum from him, nearly inaudible but rumbling against the attuned’s neck. His hips roll, muscle memory and instinct and that insistent need to be close, to be closer in every way. It drives his hands too, at least one of them, the other too preoccupied with supporting Sunjatas head, fingers playing in wet hair.
The other, the one that had been stroking along the wing moves to stroke along whatever it can reach, a soft, unhurried exploration. Like Nate’s fingers are searching for every spot that makes Sunjata tremble, or pull in a breath, or press in closer, though not one of those things ever difficult to coax out when he wants them. Nate breaks off the bite, but doesn’t pull back, keeping his lips pressed in against the attuned.
”You said something about a bed, didn’t you?” The words are loud enough to be heard over the spray, filled with heat and need and everything else that Nate is usually too stubborn to let slip out.
grab your saints and pray
and we'll burn this world today
and we'll burn this world today
