Nate
There's a shadow just behind me
Shrouding every step I take
Making every promise empty
Pointing every finger at me
Shrouding every step I take
Making every promise empty
Pointing every finger at me
If his mouth wasn’t so occupied, Nate would laugh, loud and brash and soaring, but all he can manage is a hum, a growl that reverberates through his whole chest and into the man under him, so willing, so desperate, so over stimulated. This is Nate’s favourite place to hold people, and it had been so so easy, it was so so easy. The demand - because of course Sunjata is the demanding type, of course - earns the attuned a fluttering stroke of fingers along his jaw, down the opposite side of his neck, and then lower still, Nate’s fist gripping the strap of the thin tank top cover Sunjatas chest.
When he shifts to the wrist, less intimate, less satisfying, there is a moment where guilt has a chance to surge in, the elation of the bite fading quickly, but coming back just as quickly as he pushes past it, eyes moving to drink in the look on Sunjatas face while he has this distance. Nate shifts, feeling the arch of his back and the insistent press of his hips, and slips his own leg between the other mans, giving him something to press against, some pressure to help relieve what’s coiling in his stomach.
Nate releases the wrist his teeth are sunk into, his hand finding a better spot cradling the sharp curve of the hips beneath him. He presses down like he’s trying to pin Sunjata against the wall, trying to keep him still and desperate, despite the offered relief of his thigh. He wants to pull back again, go back to the much more satisfying spot that is the willing throat, but he is just as reluctant to pull himself away as before, if not more so at this point. He has dived headfirst into something he should not have even touched, and now all Nate wants is to see it through, see the attuned man undone beneath him, scratch the itch that burns in his throat and chest and gut.
With another growl, another low moan, Nate shifts again, letting himself return to Sunjatas throat, tongue preceding teeth. They are chest to chest, and he is unyielding, unwilling to give the other an inch against him when it’s so much better to have him squirm, caught between a rock and a hard place. He rubs hard circles against Sunjatas hip with his thumb, flicks his tongue where he can, trying anything to coax more groans from him, as handsy and desperate as a teenager again, moving quickly to squeeze as much enjoyment from this before he, they, are caught.
When he shifts to the wrist, less intimate, less satisfying, there is a moment where guilt has a chance to surge in, the elation of the bite fading quickly, but coming back just as quickly as he pushes past it, eyes moving to drink in the look on Sunjatas face while he has this distance. Nate shifts, feeling the arch of his back and the insistent press of his hips, and slips his own leg between the other mans, giving him something to press against, some pressure to help relieve what’s coiling in his stomach.
Nate releases the wrist his teeth are sunk into, his hand finding a better spot cradling the sharp curve of the hips beneath him. He presses down like he’s trying to pin Sunjata against the wall, trying to keep him still and desperate, despite the offered relief of his thigh. He wants to pull back again, go back to the much more satisfying spot that is the willing throat, but he is just as reluctant to pull himself away as before, if not more so at this point. He has dived headfirst into something he should not have even touched, and now all Nate wants is to see it through, see the attuned man undone beneath him, scratch the itch that burns in his throat and chest and gut.
With another growl, another low moan, Nate shifts again, letting himself return to Sunjatas throat, tongue preceding teeth. They are chest to chest, and he is unyielding, unwilling to give the other an inch against him when it’s so much better to have him squirm, caught between a rock and a hard place. He rubs hard circles against Sunjatas hip with his thumb, flicks his tongue where he can, trying anything to coax more groans from him, as handsy and desperate as a teenager again, moving quickly to squeeze as much enjoyment from this before he, they, are caught.
