[ The bite gets a moan, soft but emphatic, as Matt presses to him in a curve that runs from his hips up to his ribs, all the way through the arch of his neck. The word pet makes his lashes flutter. There are few things Matt loves like a good endearment.
He's breathing harder by the time the stranger seizes his wrist. They've pulled back far enough from each other that Matt can examine his shoulders and upper arms, his chest. His gaze rakes across scars new and old, but is drawn particularly to the regular markings arrayed in their obscure pattern. These, too, strike Matt as constellation-like: star stories from a place so distant he can't name it. Then the stranger says nerve centers, and it clicks.
He wants to tell him that in the past, people where he comes from might have driven hooks and thorns through spots like these. Devoted Hindu ascetics, indigenous American warriors, the Aztecs, who would have offered blood to their gods from their genitals and tongues. But he's too absorbed by the terrible curiosity of watching his fingers drift towards that spot by the stranger's collarbone. Like putting his hand on a planchette, the closer he gets to the mark, the less sure Matt is of who's moving him. He presses a burning fingertip to the spot. It seems to fit perfectly into the groove, as if the whorls of his fingerprint were meant only for this. Skin sears; the scent of burning flesh flares again. Matt sighs heavily, watching Marazhai's face with lips rounded to an 'oh' of enlightenment.
He doesn't need to be guided to pull away this time. But his withdrawal is only a brief, strategic retreat. Matt bends his head to tongue at the corresponding mark on the stranger's opposite collarbone. Then his burning fingers tweak one of his nipples, ending with the piercing pinched between forefinger and thumb. His free hand flutters to the stranger's back, palm pressing flat to give him the leverage he wants for a slow drag of their hips. ]
no subject
He's breathing harder by the time the stranger seizes his wrist. They've pulled back far enough from each other that Matt can examine his shoulders and upper arms, his chest. His gaze rakes across scars new and old, but is drawn particularly to the regular markings arrayed in their obscure pattern. These, too, strike Matt as constellation-like: star stories from a place so distant he can't name it. Then the stranger says nerve centers, and it clicks.
He wants to tell him that in the past, people where he comes from might have driven hooks and thorns through spots like these. Devoted Hindu ascetics, indigenous American warriors, the Aztecs, who would have offered blood to their gods from their genitals and tongues. But he's too absorbed by the terrible curiosity of watching his fingers drift towards that spot by the stranger's collarbone. Like putting his hand on a planchette, the closer he gets to the mark, the less sure Matt is of who's moving him. He presses a burning fingertip to the spot. It seems to fit perfectly into the groove, as if the whorls of his fingerprint were meant only for this. Skin sears; the scent of burning flesh flares again. Matt sighs heavily, watching Marazhai's face with lips rounded to an 'oh' of enlightenment.
He doesn't need to be guided to pull away this time. But his withdrawal is only a brief, strategic retreat. Matt bends his head to tongue at the corresponding mark on the stranger's opposite collarbone. Then his burning fingers tweak one of his nipples, ending with the piercing pinched between forefinger and thumb. His free hand flutters to the stranger's back, palm pressing flat to give him the leverage he wants for a slow drag of their hips. ]