“My turn now, I think,” Alex says. “Unless you’re going to smack me again?” He’s smiling, but his eyes are serious, gaze flicking down to Nate’s mouth and back up again, questioning.
Nate thinks about saying no, just to assert some control, but then realises that he already has it. Because Alex asked, he asked, and Nate wants, and it’s easier to just reach up and bring Alex’s mouth down to meet his.
It’s not the best angle. Nate feels out of balance, his torso twisted awkwardly, the crook of Alex’s elbow supporting his neck. His own fingers tangle in Alex’s hair, longer again after months of touring when things like haircuts and personal grooming tend to take the back seat.
The kiss is softer, shallower than Nate expected and it irritates him. He already feels like some sort of a movie heroine, Alex bent over him like he’s caught Nate mid-swoon and swept him into his arms. On the background Gabe and Ryland are harmonising on something that sounds suspiciously like Celine Dion, and Alex, damn him, only chuckles good-naturedly, and fuck this, Nate is not fragile, he’s definitely not a virgin and he doesn’t need to be treated like one.
He lets Alex keep brushing their mouths together, slow and delicate, once, twice, and on the third pass he sinks his teeth into Alex’s bottom lip. The bite is quick but it makes Alex open his mouth in surprise and his grip around Nate’s shoulders tightens until it’s almost bruising. Nate takes advantage immediately, dipping his tongue inside and now they’re kissing, deep and urgent.
Nate is clean-shaven from the concert, but Alex isn’t; his two-day-old stubble scraping over Nate’s jaw and cheeks, a little painful and a lot something else entirely. Alex hauls him up roughly and Nate grunts into the kiss, clambering up to straddle him without breaking the contact. This isn’t just kissing anymore, he thinks hazily, pressing their hips together, feeling Alex do the same, and fuck, definitely not just kissing anymore.
no subject
Nate thinks about saying no, just to assert some control, but then realises that he already has it. Because Alex asked, he asked, and Nate wants, and it’s easier to just reach up and bring Alex’s mouth down to meet his.
It’s not the best angle. Nate feels out of balance, his torso twisted awkwardly, the crook of Alex’s elbow supporting his neck. His own fingers tangle in Alex’s hair, longer again after months of touring when things like haircuts and personal grooming tend to take the back seat.
The kiss is softer, shallower than Nate expected and it irritates him. He already feels like some sort of a movie heroine, Alex bent over him like he’s caught Nate mid-swoon and swept him into his arms. On the background Gabe and Ryland are harmonising on something that sounds suspiciously like Celine Dion, and Alex, damn him, only chuckles good-naturedly, and fuck this, Nate is not fragile, he’s definitely not a virgin and he doesn’t need to be treated like one.
He lets Alex keep brushing their mouths together, slow and delicate, once, twice, and on the third pass he sinks his teeth into Alex’s bottom lip. The bite is quick but it makes Alex open his mouth in surprise and his grip around Nate’s shoulders tightens until it’s almost bruising. Nate takes advantage immediately, dipping his tongue inside and now they’re kissing, deep and urgent.
Nate is clean-shaven from the concert, but Alex isn’t; his two-day-old stubble scraping over Nate’s jaw and cheeks, a little painful and a lot something else entirely. Alex hauls him up roughly and Nate grunts into the kiss, clambering up to straddle him without breaking the contact. This isn’t just kissing anymore, he thinks hazily, pressing their hips together, feeling Alex do the same, and fuck, definitely not just kissing anymore.
Maybe it never was.