so you say you want a deathbed scene, the knowledge that comes
before knowledge
before knowledge
and you want it dirty
With his thumb over the attuned’s pulse, at his most vulnerable place, Nate can feel every shudder, every struggling breath, every low growl. Everything that he does, he can now feel, as well as hear, as well as taste. This is an addicting place to be, once he doesn’t want to leave, one he wouldn’t leave, if not for the constraints of the more mortal body under his control.
The end seems to be racing up on them, faster and faster, a hand, claws trembling over his shoulder; if Nate was willing to pull his mouth away now he would tell Sunjata to leave whatever marks on him he could, take the chance while he had it, but nothing in the world could slow him down at this point. Maybe another time, maybe next time, when the mood is not so frantic, when he has the time, the urge to tease and play and drag the experience out. The warning is appreciated, ignored, except for the way Nate’s eyes open wide, focus up on Sunjata’s face, nearly all of the blue blown out of them by excitement, by hunger, by the darkness of his pupil.
Nate drags the other man to edge, throws him over it, lets the fire burn brighter and hotter until there is nothing left for it burn. And only when Sunjata is spent completely, sagging and gasping for breath, does he slow, swallowing as he pulls back. A kiss is pressed to the bite mark on the attuned’s thigh, tender, despite the roughness of what they’ve just done. Nate is considerate enough to not try to take more when he knows there’s nothing left to give. He stands, knees protesting quietly, and leans over the other. His hand is still shifted, still resting at the hollow of his partners throat, but his eyes are fixed to Sunjatas face.
”C’mere.” There’s still enough of an order in Nate’s hoarse voice to be taken seriously, but it helps that his free hand moves, these fingers normal again, wrapping around Sunjatas back to help support him, help him come up into Nate’s chest instead of collapsing into the papers on the desk.
The end seems to be racing up on them, faster and faster, a hand, claws trembling over his shoulder; if Nate was willing to pull his mouth away now he would tell Sunjata to leave whatever marks on him he could, take the chance while he had it, but nothing in the world could slow him down at this point. Maybe another time, maybe next time, when the mood is not so frantic, when he has the time, the urge to tease and play and drag the experience out. The warning is appreciated, ignored, except for the way Nate’s eyes open wide, focus up on Sunjata’s face, nearly all of the blue blown out of them by excitement, by hunger, by the darkness of his pupil.
Nate drags the other man to edge, throws him over it, lets the fire burn brighter and hotter until there is nothing left for it burn. And only when Sunjata is spent completely, sagging and gasping for breath, does he slow, swallowing as he pulls back. A kiss is pressed to the bite mark on the attuned’s thigh, tender, despite the roughness of what they’ve just done. Nate is considerate enough to not try to take more when he knows there’s nothing left to give. He stands, knees protesting quietly, and leans over the other. His hand is still shifted, still resting at the hollow of his partners throat, but his eyes are fixed to Sunjatas face.
”C’mere.” There’s still enough of an order in Nate’s hoarse voice to be taken seriously, but it helps that his free hand moves, these fingers normal again, wrapping around Sunjatas back to help support him, help him come up into Nate’s chest instead of collapsing into the papers on the desk.
and no one can figure out what you want
and you won’t tell them
NATE
