terminally vague

Samuel

Nate's blood was delicious, the immediate rush of arousal and satisfaction arising from drinking causing Sam's hips to shake. His eyes half-lidded and cloudy, he moaned against Nate's arm as he felt jerky, hard movements pressing against him, Nate moving like a man possessed - it was an attractive notion to Sam. He wanted to make it so Nate had to take him, needed to make him his.

As his cheek was tapped he opened his mouth obediently, blood running off his lip as he pulled away. He licked it, swallowing as he looked in Nate's eyes for just a second; then the rush to undress came and he lifted his hips, tilted his body as needed, wrists straining against the rope as his hands automatically wanted to touch Nate.

Of course, with the ropes on his wrists, he could not entirely have his shirt removed. It hung off his arms, crumpled around his torso, but Sam found that made him feel hotter. As if this was spontaneous, messy, something necessary ripped from the both of them. As soon as his legs were freed from his clothing he spread them for Nate, arching his body slightly up and slowly rocking his hips, hoping to make himself look pretty. At the very least Nate would see his hard cock, standing up between his legs with a clear desperation.

And it's hard to write about being happy
'Cause the older I get

I find that happiness is an extremely uneventful subject