[ Predatory. Hungry. Obsessive. Each emotion is a warning sign in its own way. But there's a corner of Matt's heart that thrills over all of it. Long ago, well before he was capable of understanding what it would mean, a piece of him made a promise. Enthralled with the sense of connection that came from magic, from sex, he committed himself to following the ecstatic arrow of desire. Now he finds all want to be sacred--no matter where it points, or who is on the sharp end of it.
For the moment, though, there seems to be no daylight between this stranger's desires and his own. He fingers Matt's scar, but doesn't plunge into it the way his organ-sticky imagination feared he might. Matt sighs, mouth wrapped around his nipple. He'd like to wear sweet thing on his skin, he thinks, burning like a brand for all to see. Something to be known for that isn't SNITCH.
Matt offers no resistance as he's laid down on the altar, his scatter of flowers at his back. The stranger said not to stop, so he doesn't--not the attention of his tongue and teeth, as he tries to see what reactions he can coax from him with a there-and-gone flash of a bite; and not the wandering of his hands. With the stranger straddling him, Matt's left hand slides up his back, passing the (increasingly irritating) leather top to encounter more of those regular marks. Nerve center marks. X marks the spot.
The stranger drags sharp-nailed fingers up Matt's sides, and Matt cries out, an ah! of more adrenaline than pain. His spine arches, pressing chest and then hips to him. His right hand replaces his left on Marazhai's back, burning fingers plucking at nerves like notes made of flesh and bone. ]
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For the moment, though, there seems to be no daylight between this stranger's desires and his own. He fingers Matt's scar, but doesn't plunge into it the way his organ-sticky imagination feared he might. Matt sighs, mouth wrapped around his nipple. He'd like to wear sweet thing on his skin, he thinks, burning like a brand for all to see. Something to be known for that isn't SNITCH.
Matt offers no resistance as he's laid down on the altar, his scatter of flowers at his back. The stranger said not to stop, so he doesn't--not the attention of his tongue and teeth, as he tries to see what reactions he can coax from him with a there-and-gone flash of a bite; and not the wandering of his hands. With the stranger straddling him, Matt's left hand slides up his back, passing the (increasingly irritating) leather top to encounter more of those regular marks. Nerve center marks. X marks the spot.
The stranger drags sharp-nailed fingers up Matt's sides, and Matt cries out, an ah! of more adrenaline than pain. His spine arches, pressing chest and then hips to him. His right hand replaces his left on Marazhai's back, burning fingers plucking at nerves like notes made of flesh and bone. ]