[It's easy for him to slip out of his job momentarily, to be distracted by Rafe's furrowed brow and the skeptical squint he employs at so many objects of interest. Easy to think about how that butcher-block hands might feel, blood sticking them together, on his skin. Rafe always dresses in the sharpest fashions and every time he loosens his tie it's like someone is gripping Nate's throat, seizing the breath out of him. The way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he kills - probably the way he fucks, not that Nate would know. But he's sure Ms. Evelyn does.
He's seen the way they look at each other, too, with a ruthless kind of devotion. Something he wishes he could contribute to in some way, outside of the work he executes at Rafe's side: a red knife in the master's hand. A blunt instrument.]
Mhm.
[He agrees without listening, unusually quiet, mentally attempting to catch up with the boss' suggestion that they split for the time being. Better than being caught red-handed and hauled down to the station in a paddy-wagon.
On the fritz the way that Rafe is, Nate doesn't want to risk offering to drive - the capo needs all the control he can get just to still those shivering fingers. Nate's thrill manifests itself in the heartbeat he can still feel pounding high in his throat, fluttering to get out. He swallows it and slips into the passenger side.]
I'll keep an eye out, [he offers, finally wiping his own knife clean on his trousers.] Ain't like we've got far to go, though. Bulls usually keep to the west side this time of night.
[ Rafe shrugs out of his jacket, arm flailing angrily where it catches before it's freed. ]
I ain't about to go banking on usually.
[ He knows better. They both do. Which is why he takes the time to use the relatively unsoiled inside of his jacket to wipe the worst of the mess off his face. A couple blocks is only a couple blocks but all it takes is one pair of peepers ringing up for cherry-tops and that's the ball game. It'll stick after he puts it back on but if them's the breaks then Rafe'll take it and be glad for such easy pickings.
Clambering up into the driver's seat, the door slammed shut with a little too much force behind him, Rafe takes a minute. Breathes. Sucks it down and holds it before letting it out again. ]
Easy peasy, Japanesey.
[ The words are murmured softly before Rafe allows himself a harsh, barked laugh before kicking the car into gear. He almost jumps at the sound, the purr of the engine suddenly much too loud in the still of the night and all the more reason to peel the fuck out of here to safer harbors. But he knows better. Forces himself to hold it like he did his breath and calmly rolls off down the road. True enough, it helps to have something outside himself to focus on, that demands control as he drives between the shifting pools of light and swallowing dark. His knuckles stay white where they clench at the wheel but he drives...slow. Safe. Sedate, even. Just any two gents on a quiet midnight drive along the waterfront. Nothing to see here, officers.
Even with the trip as short as it is, there isn't much for conversation. Not with Nate so oddly quiet and Rafe concentrating on getting there of a piece. They do but now he's wound up all the tighter for the effort. All but vibrates in place after the car's parked behind a couple stacks of crates. Hands flexing at the wheel, he stares out at brick walls for long seconds after cutting the engine. ]
It isn't a long jog around a few city blocks, but it feels like half a day in the dark. Lurching shadows creep out from under streetlights, any lump in the darkness could be a copper car rolling out of a nearby alley. It isn't that he doesn't have faith in Rafe's family to post bail if they got picked up covered in blood, but it would definitely suck all the fun out of the evening. They're both strung thin and his imagination is running wild, so when the opportunity comes for him to breathe easy, Nate takes it.
They safely deposit themselves shielded from the street and it doesn't take any prompting for Nate to turn around, snatching his kit from the backseat and digging through its contents. Their pants are dark - no big problems there - but both of them have a tendency to wear shirts that are spic-and-span, and duds this stained won't be saved by bleach or quicklime.
He gets to work without thinking, the movements made comfortable with repetition. This isn't his first rodeo.]
Here.
[Nate extends a small towel and one of Rafe's crisp white button-downs with the French cuffs. Realizing that neither of them ever really have water sitting around, he offers his flask and its sterile contents for the sake of breaking up the red on Rafe's face. He can't imagine that coming home drenched in blood would be all that great for the little woman, so smelling soused will have to do in its stead.
With an ease born of lacking his own space for most of his life Nate sets to changing his incriminating attire. He unfastens the buttons quickly, peeling cotton away from his torso and hissing as an unlucky cut sticks to the fabric, early coagulation ripping open and further staining his undershirt.]
Ah, applesauce.
[Comes the surprisingly child-friendly swear as Nate looks down at his tank top in dismay. It's a filthy mess of sweat, grime from the warehouse floors, and a preponderance of blood.]
[ It's a criminal lack of imagination, but then again Nate has no cause to think that Signora Alieri in all of her delicatezza formale could enjoy these whirlwind nights as much as Rafe himself— Or at least the tail end. The thought's a double-edged sword: knowing what's to come is incentive to keep cool but hell if it doesn't rev his motor all the hotter thinking about it.
So distracted, a while longer passes by before he notices Nate's offerings. Why he ignores the laundry for the liquor, snatching up the flask with no mind to clean anything but his throat. He hands it back a fair sight lighter in trade for the duds, hangs them on the wheel before he tackles these damn buttons. Much as he wishes he could just tear the whole kit and kaboodle off, Evelyn's already had words about the tailor's bill he continues to add to. Gentle words but ones that stuck and since he's willing himself toward control anyway, may as well hit all those good boy bingo squares.
But for all that control, for all the care, his reflexes are still on a hair trigger. Mild the cuss may be, Rafe's hand is at his hamhock in the blink of an eye with a thumb on the hammer, head on a swivel to see what fresh hell is coming to meet them now. ]
Where—
[ Then Nate's voice pierces the haze of adrenalin and he lets the gun slide back into its holster. Rafe has half a mind to bend Nate's ear for it, making him think some buzzer crept up on them, like he needs that kind of scare right now, but when he glances back at Nate...he sees him. He sees him.
Cotton stretched impossibly tight across a broad chest. Splattered with blood. Damp with exertion. A sweat-streaked column of neck. Adam's apple bobbing and lips moving with words Rafe doesn't hear. Biceps flexing as fingers trip over the tank top, plucking at fabric that stretches even more with each breath in and out.
Time slows to a crawl as he stares, and when it punches back Rafe finds himself on the other side of the car with both hands fisted in that fucking undershirt, a thud echoing in the air from slamming Nate against the door hard enough to set the whole chassis rocking. His tongue in Nate's mouth, the taste as delirious as he'd ever imagined. Skin warm under his white-knuckles. Months of guarded glances and shelved desire hit him like a slaughterhouse mallet and the stink of blood and sweat only adds to the appeal.
(So much for the waiting.) ]
Edited (rafe only has the one hand wow stop tagging at ass o clock sammo) 2018-02-05 16:29 (UTC)
[On a well-trod, well-researched list of things he might have expected from his undeniably, happily wedded boss, this does not feature. It has never occurred to Nate outside of latent fantasies that he entertains all too often that Rafe would ever- that he could ever- that they might be like this. That the wind knocked out of his lungs is not so much attributed to the impact with which he hits the car door but the mouth on his, furious and foreign and greedy.
He can't say he hasn't thought about it: the possibility that Rafe might call him into his office, ask him to lock the door, demand he fall to his knees in front of the mahogany desk chair to peel open his trousers while a firm hand fists in his hair. He's daydreamed every scenario from quiet, understated gestures of affection to outright fucking, spread on a table and begging for it. Experiencing some facet of it is an entirely different entity, the handle of the door digging into his shoulder blade while a tongue takes and takes, the scent of iron and sweat a heady drug.
He reacts instantaneously, as if suddenly brought to life.
Nate groans, pushing back without daring to question why. Doesn't he have a wife? Isn't he happy? How long? How long? Ultimately they all mean jack, irrelevant details in light of the fingers stretching the fabric of his undershirt and a snarl twisting Rafe's lips - familiar, like the shape his mouth makes when he guts a man, watches him bleed out under his hands and it stokes the flame in Nate's gut all the higher. Hard to have reservations when the impossible is practically crawling into his lap and pressing a vicious knee against his cock.]
Shit-
[he hisses, frantically shoving the dress shirt off of Rafe's shoulders, feeling the taut fury of the muscles moving under his skin and the mere fact that he is touching all of this so freely sends him reeling. Blunt nails scrape battered flesh and they aren't nearly close enough, not with their work rags still between them, so glaring they might as well be a brick wall. Nate's teeth sink into Rafe's lip and he growls, working a belt open, incapable of telling what belongs to who.]
[ From the quick-shrinking corner of Rafe's mind still capable of rational thought comes a dizzy rush of relief. Nate grabs back just as eager and greedy for it as Rafe, ready to boil over just the same way— Too much heat left under pressure for too long now finally busting out for release. Rafe knows why he's sat on his end, has repeated the reasons to himself too many times to count. Nate never came off finocchio before this, not anywhere Rafe could see. Even if he were, the Drakes were good at their jobs; it there was ever a way to crumble the works it was by sticking your dick into it. Never mind about Evelyn...
Evelyn. Christ. Rafe will never hear the end of it once she finds out.
But now Nate's hands are on him and whatever little reason was left is swept away in their wake. Later will be its own problem. His shoulders flex, wriggling violently to get the hell out of this goddamned piece of shit shirt. It gets the job done, sure, just not before Rafe slams an elbow back into the windshield, the steering wheel. There's not enough room for what he wants to do and god, he's been waiting long enough to do it that every delay seems another struggle on the cross. ]
Fucking—
[ Rafe snaps his teeth with a click, frustrated and only finding ease when he bites back at Nate's tongue. Fingers still curled in Nate's shirt, he yanks to get that Irish ass moving where he needs it to be. ]
[Rafe is a fucking force of nature, pushing at and pressing him with a heat so unbearable he might as well have just shoved his hands right into a fire. The coals lick his fingers as they wrench the fabric from Rafe's torso and burn his mouth with truly vicious kisses, breath huffed against his skin like a bellows in the depth of a train engine's furnace.
A loud crack signals Rafe's attempt at easier movement and Nate sees the grit in his jaw as his elbow retracts, as he makes a desperate bid for more space instead of cramming Nate against the car door. The fist in his shirt jerks him, more sudden than any motion thus far and the taste of blood and sweat on his tongue doubles when Rafe hisses against his lips.
Nate complies immediately.
It's an inelegant move, from the front seat to the backseat. It involves half-vaulting over the low, padded rest, hindered by the ceiling and the windows, struggling with a half-hard cock in his trousers. Nate scrambles over the thing - only taking care not to kick Rafe in the jaw - and lands on his back on the seat cushion, winded already.]
[ Thank goodness Nate is watching those legs of his because close as these quarters are? That kick is still a near thing. Rafe almost gets an actual noseful of leather instead of just the whiff as he scoots back out of range. But he can't give a shit about that right now given what's just happened, how Nate looks a sight hauling ass into the backseat, and what's about to come next if Rafe has any say about it.
A rabid grin flickers into life as he peels off his undershirt, not giving two shits for the insistent tingles racing up and down his arm. His funny bone can complain much as it wants to but it's more than drowned out by the roaring blood in his ears on its headlong race south. The undershirt gets company soon enough, Rafe's buckle jangling as the belt lands who the fuck even cares where.
So unencumbered, he has a slightly easier time over the seat than but still manages to make Nate look like goddamn Swan Lake in comparison. Rafe heaves himself over in an impatient tangle of limbs that only gets more complicated when he lands square on top of Nate. Teeth flashing white in the shadows, he can't help the demented cackle that bursts out of him like gunfire. His legs slot either side of Nate's hips and what he feels as he settles just makes him smile the wider before smothering his laughter with Nate's lips against his own. ]
[Rafe clambers over the seat sporting a manic smile and Nate would be terrified if he wasn't so thrilled by the prospect of getting his boss on top of him. Impatience wins out and he almost starts reaching for the guy before he descends, eager to gets his hands on Rafe's chest, his shoulders, his back. All parts he's seen before, all parts he knows well from observation, but touch is an entirely different animal. Touch is electrifying and he swallows the shock as Rafe practically falls on top of him, barely missing a knee to the dick.
Nate catches another curse before it slips out of him, aware that he's being repetitive and bordering on mute wonder and neither of those things are appealing to someone like this.
His hips buck, desperate for pressure and rocking upward, teeth clicking vicious and sharp and Nate can taste the iron on his skin, the sweat in the air, the dust from the warehouse floor. Groaning in the back of his throat Nate shoves his tongue into Rafe's mouth, hoping for the same in return. Just as frantic are his hands, slipping haphazardly across a scarred frame, less bulky than his own but all muscle and slick exertion - they fumble at his own trousers, tugging the belt from its loops and whipping the leather to the floor of the car with an audible snap.]
Help me get this fuckin' shirt off-
[He half-demands, half-laughs, trying to worm out of his smalls.]
[ That's where Nate is wrong — it's all appealing, every cuss and every sound new in this moment even if it's said a hundred times. It's the first that Rafe hears it like this, with Nate underneath him and rocking up for friction. He gives back in kind, rolling his hips down in a sinuously filthy grind that hangs his head and cracks open a moan in his throat.
Nate still has too much on right now, flimsy as the cotton is with the tang of blood and sweat, and it's unac-fucking-ceptable. The squirming doesn't help anything and Rafe cuts off the effort by planting a hand on Nate's shoulder to shove him flat on the seat. ]
Hold still.
[ It's the only warning Rafe gives before a switchblade is out and open in his other hand, snatched out of a pocket with a bare scraping whisper of steel. A steady hand slices that shirt from navel to collar in a trice, a hastily-made vest leaving Nate's chest gloriously bare and there for the taking. Flipping the knife sideways in his fist, Rafe then drags his nails back down Nate's abs to feel all he can't see thanks to the night crowding in on them. ]
Better.
[ Flick of the wrist and the blade is safely away — dropped into the shadowy depths of the backseat as Rafe refocuses on what matters: snapping new bites at Nate's mouth and grabbing greedy handfuls of that chest. ]
[Rafe's cock is a brand against his thigh, every roll of their hips sending a shock of electricity rolling through him like a lightning bolt. It skitters through his muscle and skin like nothing else he's ever felt before, the agonizing heat of it suffocating and sharp, stealing his concentration. Theft from a thief.
A hand presses him into the leather and it creaks beneath him, and the order that follows is so serious that Nate ceases his squirming long enough for Rafe to draw a knife, for Nate to swallow in anticipation. It slices neatly through his ruined shirt, a hot blade through butter, and the jersey-knit falls open.
He knows he's a sight, albeit not in the way he thinks Rafe might interpret. Scars and somewhat more scarce body hair than his current partner, tan skin with smatterings of Irish freckles, blood and sweat smearing his torso. Nate shivers as those nails claw down his chest and shivers again when Rafe tosses the knife aside and closes the distance. Too eager to wait Nate shoves his fingers in Rafe's hair, dragging him closer without thinking of the repercussions, and opens his mouth to the onslaught.
Spirited, frantic groans in the dark, panting against someone he's craved for months, Nate pushes into Rafe's hands and arches for more of that filthy friction. His dick is a hard, eager line crammed into too-tight trousers and the thin air has Nate quipping in ways he wouldn't have dared only hours earlier.]
[ If he had the light, Rafe would take inventory with as appraising an eye as he'd turn to the books. The momentary frustration that he can't, that it'll need to wait for another time and place is beyond frustrating— Or is until Nate's hands card through his hair, twisting and pulling him in to moan desperately against Nate's tongue.
At least his body is full aware of what to do until his brain kicks back on, taking every inch Nate offers and then some as he presses them into the seat. ]
Feels like y'ready to bust through 'em clean on your own.
[ He chuckles, a low rasp in his throat before he laughs again. At his own joke, at the truth of it poking insistent at his hip. But not for long.
His free hand snakes into the scant space between them to reach inside Nate's pants and pull him free. An almost maniacal grin bright enough to turn the Great White Way red stretches across Rafe's face at what he finds, long fingers squeezing at the base of Nate's cock before just as quickly releasing him. He still has to get himself out, after all, to better grip the both of them together.
Sweat, blood, precum— Any or all together make for slick going as he rocks into his fist, along Nate and he practically purrs his native tongue against Nate's. ]
[The reaction he garners is inebriating. Rafe groans - the sound low and thick and eager - as Nate pulls on his hair and he files it away as something important, maybe something for the future if whatever this is stretches past the boundaries of the car doors.
Nate is fixing to feed his boss something just as sly and curt, the kind of playful, if violent, flirting he's craved, but a hand is on his cock in the next second and the wind gets knocked out of his chest. Rafe's fingers are scarred and callused and rough like his own, from wet work and the abattoir alike, but his palm is smooth and Nate can only picture how delicate, how careful it is by comparison when it slides around his wife's waist.
He would linger on the sudden thread of guilt in his gut if not for the way that Rafe pulls him back into the present and another heavy, hard cock presses against his own. The contact is electrifying and Nate whimpers as Rafe clenches them together, a vise he tries to ease his hips toward as his partner pours words he doesn't know into his mouth.
Nate catches a few things, talk, want, familiar verbs that drip with the vestiges of the Romans and he feels an ancient desire now roiling in him, a brazen bull.]
No sabes cuánto tiempo- [He mumbles, blunt nails snaking down Rafe's nape and digging into his shoulder blades. He struggles to remember what little Italian he knows.] Voglio- ti voglio-
[ All roads and words lead back to Rome, the broad strokes easy enough to translate even before Nate makes the valiant effort to meet Rafe on his own terms. It's the truth — he doesn't know how long, all he can tell is how much. It's in the red lines he can feel burning along his shoulders, the desperation as Nate's cock slides against his own, the perfect rhythm they fall into to the cadence of pants and groans.
This much at least still holds the same. Rafe gives an order, Nate follows it, babbling how he wants. As if Rafe were about to deny him now. ]
You're gonna get it, [ Rafe growls, as fervent a promise as the death he'd whispered as his knives sank into ready throats back at the warehouse. ] Oh, Christ, I'm gonna give it to you now.
[ His teeth sink into Nate's lip, savaging punctuation before he claims that mouth again — if for no other reason than to silence himself the closer he works both of them to completion. ]
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uncalendula) wrote2017-12-07 11:15 pm
no subject
He's seen the way they look at each other, too, with a ruthless kind of devotion. Something he wishes he could contribute to in some way, outside of the work he executes at Rafe's side: a red knife in the master's hand. A blunt instrument.]
Mhm.
[He agrees without listening, unusually quiet, mentally attempting to catch up with the boss' suggestion that they split for the time being. Better than being caught red-handed and hauled down to the station in a paddy-wagon.
On the fritz the way that Rafe is, Nate doesn't want to risk offering to drive - the capo needs all the control he can get just to still those shivering fingers. Nate's thrill manifests itself in the heartbeat he can still feel pounding high in his throat, fluttering to get out. He swallows it and slips into the passenger side.]
I'll keep an eye out, [he offers, finally wiping his own knife clean on his trousers.] Ain't like we've got far to go, though. Bulls usually keep to the west side this time of night.
no subject
I ain't about to go banking on usually.
[ He knows better. They both do. Which is why he takes the time to use the relatively unsoiled inside of his jacket to wipe the worst of the mess off his face. A couple blocks is only a couple blocks but all it takes is one pair of peepers ringing up for cherry-tops and that's the ball game. It'll stick after he puts it back on but if them's the breaks then Rafe'll take it and be glad for such easy pickings.
Clambering up into the driver's seat, the door slammed shut with a little too much force behind him, Rafe takes a minute. Breathes. Sucks it down and holds it before letting it out again. ]
Easy peasy, Japanesey.
[ The words are murmured softly before Rafe allows himself a harsh, barked laugh before kicking the car into gear. He almost jumps at the sound, the purr of the engine suddenly much too loud in the still of the night and all the more reason to peel the fuck out of here to safer harbors. But he knows better. Forces himself to hold it like he did his breath and calmly rolls off down the road. True enough, it helps to have something outside himself to focus on, that demands control as he drives between the shifting pools of light and swallowing dark. His knuckles stay white where they clench at the wheel but he drives...slow. Safe. Sedate, even. Just any two gents on a quiet midnight drive along the waterfront. Nothing to see here, officers.
Even with the trip as short as it is, there isn't much for conversation. Not with Nate so oddly quiet and Rafe concentrating on getting there of a piece. They do but now he's wound up all the tighter for the effort. All but vibrates in place after the car's parked behind a couple stacks of crates. Hands flexing at the wheel, he stares out at brick walls for long seconds after cutting the engine. ]
Clothes. Now.
no subject
It isn't a long jog around a few city blocks, but it feels like half a day in the dark. Lurching shadows creep out from under streetlights, any lump in the darkness could be a copper car rolling out of a nearby alley. It isn't that he doesn't have faith in Rafe's family to post bail if they got picked up covered in blood, but it would definitely suck all the fun out of the evening. They're both strung thin and his imagination is running wild, so when the opportunity comes for him to breathe easy, Nate takes it.
They safely deposit themselves shielded from the street and it doesn't take any prompting for Nate to turn around, snatching his kit from the backseat and digging through its contents. Their pants are dark - no big problems there - but both of them have a tendency to wear shirts that are spic-and-span, and duds this stained won't be saved by bleach or quicklime.
He gets to work without thinking, the movements made comfortable with repetition. This isn't his first rodeo.]
Here.
[Nate extends a small towel and one of Rafe's crisp white button-downs with the French cuffs. Realizing that neither of them ever really have water sitting around, he offers his flask and its sterile contents for the sake of breaking up the red on Rafe's face. He can't imagine that coming home drenched in blood would be all that great for the little woman, so smelling soused will have to do in its stead.
With an ease born of lacking his own space for most of his life Nate sets to changing his incriminating attire. He unfastens the buttons quickly, peeling cotton away from his torso and hissing as an unlucky cut sticks to the fabric, early coagulation ripping open and further staining his undershirt.]
Ah, applesauce.
[Comes the surprisingly child-friendly swear as Nate looks down at his tank top in dismay. It's a filthy mess of sweat, grime from the warehouse floors, and a preponderance of blood.]
Last time I wear new smalls on the job.
no subject
So distracted, a while longer passes by before he notices Nate's offerings. Why he ignores the laundry for the liquor, snatching up the flask with no mind to clean anything but his throat. He hands it back a fair sight lighter in trade for the duds, hangs them on the wheel before he tackles these damn buttons. Much as he wishes he could just tear the whole kit and kaboodle off, Evelyn's already had words about the tailor's bill he continues to add to. Gentle words but ones that stuck and since he's willing himself toward control anyway, may as well hit all those good boy bingo squares.
But for all that control, for all the care, his reflexes are still on a hair trigger. Mild the cuss may be, Rafe's hand is at his hamhock in the blink of an eye with a thumb on the hammer, head on a swivel to see what fresh hell is coming to meet them now. ]
Where—
[ Then Nate's voice pierces the haze of adrenalin and he lets the gun slide back into its holster. Rafe has half a mind to bend Nate's ear for it, making him think some buzzer crept up on them, like he needs that kind of scare right now, but when he glances back at Nate...he sees him. He sees him.
Cotton stretched impossibly tight across a broad chest. Splattered with blood. Damp with exertion. A sweat-streaked column of neck. Adam's apple bobbing and lips moving with words Rafe doesn't hear. Biceps flexing as fingers trip over the tank top, plucking at fabric that stretches even more with each breath in and out.
Time slows to a crawl as he stares, and when it punches back Rafe finds himself on the other side of the car with both hands fisted in that fucking undershirt, a thud echoing in the air from slamming Nate against the door hard enough to set the whole chassis rocking. His tongue in Nate's mouth, the taste as delirious as he'd ever imagined. Skin warm under his white-knuckles. Months of guarded glances and shelved desire hit him like a slaughterhouse mallet and the stink of blood and sweat only adds to the appeal.
(So much for the waiting.) ]
no subject
He can't say he hasn't thought about it: the possibility that Rafe might call him into his office, ask him to lock the door, demand he fall to his knees in front of the mahogany desk chair to peel open his trousers while a firm hand fists in his hair. He's daydreamed every scenario from quiet, understated gestures of affection to outright fucking, spread on a table and begging for it. Experiencing some facet of it is an entirely different entity, the handle of the door digging into his shoulder blade while a tongue takes and takes, the scent of iron and sweat a heady drug.
He reacts instantaneously, as if suddenly brought to life.
Nate groans, pushing back without daring to question why. Doesn't he have a wife? Isn't he happy? How long? How long? Ultimately they all mean jack, irrelevant details in light of the fingers stretching the fabric of his undershirt and a snarl twisting Rafe's lips - familiar, like the shape his mouth makes when he guts a man, watches him bleed out under his hands and it stokes the flame in Nate's gut all the higher. Hard to have reservations when the impossible is practically crawling into his lap and pressing a vicious knee against his cock.]
Shit-
[he hisses, frantically shoving the dress shirt off of Rafe's shoulders, feeling the taut fury of the muscles moving under his skin and the mere fact that he is touching all of this so freely sends him reeling. Blunt nails scrape battered flesh and they aren't nearly close enough, not with their work rags still between them, so glaring they might as well be a brick wall. Nate's teeth sink into Rafe's lip and he growls, working a belt open, incapable of telling what belongs to who.]
Rafe.
no subject
Evelyn. Christ. Rafe will never hear the end of it once she finds out.
But now Nate's hands are on him and whatever little reason was left is swept away in their wake. Later will be its own problem. His shoulders flex, wriggling violently to get the hell out of this goddamned piece of shit shirt. It gets the job done, sure, just not before Rafe slams an elbow back into the windshield, the steering wheel. There's not enough room for what he wants to do and god, he's been waiting long enough to do it that every delay seems another struggle on the cross. ]
Fucking—
[ Rafe snaps his teeth with a click, frustrated and only finding ease when he bites back at Nate's tongue. Fingers still curled in Nate's shirt, he yanks to get that Irish ass moving where he needs it to be. ]
Backseat, g- Now.
no subject
A loud crack signals Rafe's attempt at easier movement and Nate sees the grit in his jaw as his elbow retracts, as he makes a desperate bid for more space instead of cramming Nate against the car door. The fist in his shirt jerks him, more sudden than any motion thus far and the taste of blood and sweat on his tongue doubles when Rafe hisses against his lips.
Nate complies immediately.
It's an inelegant move, from the front seat to the backseat. It involves half-vaulting over the low, padded rest, hindered by the ceiling and the windows, struggling with a half-hard cock in his trousers. Nate scrambles over the thing - only taking care not to kick Rafe in the jaw - and lands on his back on the seat cushion, winded already.]
Shit.
no subject
A rabid grin flickers into life as he peels off his undershirt, not giving two shits for the insistent tingles racing up and down his arm. His funny bone can complain much as it wants to but it's more than drowned out by the roaring blood in his ears on its headlong race south. The undershirt gets company soon enough, Rafe's buckle jangling as the belt lands who the fuck even cares where.
So unencumbered, he has a slightly easier time over the seat than but still manages to make Nate look like goddamn Swan Lake in comparison. Rafe heaves himself over in an impatient tangle of limbs that only gets more complicated when he lands square on top of Nate. Teeth flashing white in the shadows, he can't help the demented cackle that bursts out of him like gunfire. His legs slot either side of Nate's hips and what he feels as he settles just makes him smile the wider before smothering his laughter with Nate's lips against his own. ]
no subject
Nate catches another curse before it slips out of him, aware that he's being repetitive and bordering on mute wonder and neither of those things are appealing to someone like this.
His hips buck, desperate for pressure and rocking upward, teeth clicking vicious and sharp and Nate can taste the iron on his skin, the sweat in the air, the dust from the warehouse floor. Groaning in the back of his throat Nate shoves his tongue into Rafe's mouth, hoping for the same in return. Just as frantic are his hands, slipping haphazardly across a scarred frame, less bulky than his own but all muscle and slick exertion - they fumble at his own trousers, tugging the belt from its loops and whipping the leather to the floor of the car with an audible snap.]
Help me get this fuckin' shirt off-
[He half-demands, half-laughs, trying to worm out of his smalls.]
no subject
Nate still has too much on right now, flimsy as the cotton is with the tang of blood and sweat, and it's unac-fucking-ceptable. The squirming doesn't help anything and Rafe cuts off the effort by planting a hand on Nate's shoulder to shove him flat on the seat. ]
Hold still.
[ It's the only warning Rafe gives before a switchblade is out and open in his other hand, snatched out of a pocket with a bare scraping whisper of steel. A steady hand slices that shirt from navel to collar in a trice, a hastily-made vest leaving Nate's chest gloriously bare and there for the taking. Flipping the knife sideways in his fist, Rafe then drags his nails back down Nate's abs to feel all he can't see thanks to the night crowding in on them. ]
Better.
[ Flick of the wrist and the blade is safely away — dropped into the shadowy depths of the backseat as Rafe refocuses on what matters: snapping new bites at Nate's mouth and grabbing greedy handfuls of that chest. ]
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A hand presses him into the leather and it creaks beneath him, and the order that follows is so serious that Nate ceases his squirming long enough for Rafe to draw a knife, for Nate to swallow in anticipation. It slices neatly through his ruined shirt, a hot blade through butter, and the jersey-knit falls open.
He knows he's a sight, albeit not in the way he thinks Rafe might interpret. Scars and somewhat more scarce body hair than his current partner, tan skin with smatterings of Irish freckles, blood and sweat smearing his torso. Nate shivers as those nails claw down his chest and shivers again when Rafe tosses the knife aside and closes the distance. Too eager to wait Nate shoves his fingers in Rafe's hair, dragging him closer without thinking of the repercussions, and opens his mouth to the onslaught.
Spirited, frantic groans in the dark, panting against someone he's craved for months, Nate pushes into Rafe's hands and arches for more of that filthy friction. His dick is a hard, eager line crammed into too-tight trousers and the thin air has Nate quipping in ways he wouldn't have dared only hours earlier.]
You gonna cut my pants off too, boss?
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At least his body is full aware of what to do until his brain kicks back on, taking every inch Nate offers and then some as he presses them into the seat. ]
Feels like y'ready to bust through 'em clean on your own.
[ He chuckles, a low rasp in his throat before he laughs again. At his own joke, at the truth of it poking insistent at his hip. But not for long.
His free hand snakes into the scant space between them to reach inside Nate's pants and pull him free. An almost maniacal grin bright enough to turn the Great White Way red stretches across Rafe's face at what he finds, long fingers squeezing at the base of Nate's cock before just as quickly releasing him. He still has to get himself out, after all, to better grip the both of them together.
Sweat, blood, precum— Any or all together make for slick going as he rocks into his fist, along Nate and he practically purrs his native tongue against Nate's. ]
Parla me, tesoro, voglio sentirti chiedere l'elemosina.
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Nate is fixing to feed his boss something just as sly and curt, the kind of playful, if violent, flirting he's craved, but a hand is on his cock in the next second and the wind gets knocked out of his chest. Rafe's fingers are scarred and callused and rough like his own, from wet work and the abattoir alike, but his palm is smooth and Nate can only picture how delicate, how careful it is by comparison when it slides around his wife's waist.
He would linger on the sudden thread of guilt in his gut if not for the way that Rafe pulls him back into the present and another heavy, hard cock presses against his own. The contact is electrifying and Nate whimpers as Rafe clenches them together, a vise he tries to ease his hips toward as his partner pours words he doesn't know into his mouth.
Nate catches a few things, talk, want, familiar verbs that drip with the vestiges of the Romans and he feels an ancient desire now roiling in him, a brazen bull.]
No sabes cuánto tiempo- [He mumbles, blunt nails snaking down Rafe's nape and digging into his shoulder blades. He struggles to remember what little Italian he knows.] Voglio- ti voglio-
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This much at least still holds the same. Rafe gives an order, Nate follows it, babbling how he wants. As if Rafe were about to deny him now. ]
You're gonna get it, [ Rafe growls, as fervent a promise as the death he'd whispered as his knives sank into ready throats back at the warehouse. ] Oh, Christ, I'm gonna give it to you now.
[ His teeth sink into Nate's lip, savaging punctuation before he claims that mouth again — if for no other reason than to silence himself the closer he works both of them to completion. ]