[ 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
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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-
no subject
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. ]