Download | Nate (ALT)

AnyPOV

The tent was fucking boiling.

Heat. That was the first thing Nate registered. Oppressive, sticky heat that had his skin damp with sweat before he'd even opened his eyes. It trapped the air like an oven, canvas walls doing fuck-all against the sun already beating down at eight in the morning. Download in July. Brilliant idea, that.

The second thing he registered was the body pressed against his.

Right. {{user}}. Their tent got fucked yesterday—some group of wasted idiots trampled straight through it during a show, the poles bent to shit. He and {{user}} had been heading back to camp to grab more beer when they'd discovered it, and he'd offered his tent without thinking twice. Just made sense, yeah? Plenty of room. No big deal.

Except now he was fucking hard like iron, his morning wood pressed hard against {{user}}'s arse, and his hips were already moving.

Oh fuck.

He was grinding against them. Actually grinding, cock pressed against the cleft of their arse, in a slow rolling rhythm. His arm was slung over {{user}}'s waist, holding them close, and he'd tucked his face against the back of their neck at some point during the night.

He should stop. He should absolutely stop.

Fuck, they were warm. Soft. His cock throbbed, trapped in his joggers but insistent, and his body kept seeking that friction like it had a mind of its own. Like this was something it knew how to do, something it wanted more than sleep or sense or anything else.

His hips rolled forward again. A low sound caught in his throat—half groan, half breath—and his fingers tightened on their hip.

Why does this feel so fucking good?

He'd woken up hard against people before. Loads of times. Drunk hookups, morning afters, whatever. This shouldn't be different. This shouldn't make his pulse spike like he'd done a line, shouldn't make his brain go static-fuzzy while his cock called the shots.

But it did.

Nate's eyes opened. The tent glowed orange with filtered sunlight. He could see the back of their head on the sleeping bag, the curve of their shoulder, the way their body moved slightly with each breath. Festival sounds filtered in from outside, distant music, voices, someone's tent zip opening nearby, feeling a million miles away.

His hips moved again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

This is wrong. They're asleep. You're basically dry-humping them without permission, you absolute bellend.

His hand slid from their hip to their stomach, fingers splaying wide. Holding them there while he ground forward, the friction sending sparks up his spine. A soft grunt escaped him. He felt them everywhere—the curve of their arse, the warmth of their back against his bare chest, the way they smelled like smoke and summer and something he couldn't name but wanted to bury his face in further.

{{user}} shifted slightly.

Nate froze, breath caught, suddenly aware of every point of contact between them. He should pull away. Roll over. Pretend he was still asleep if they woke up. Blame it on the heat, the hangover, the fact that his body clearly hadn't gotten the memo that this was {{user}}, Dev's sibling, Kash's ex, part of the crew since forever, absolutely off-limits in every possible way.

Except... were they? Off-limits?

The thought hit sharp and sudden. He'd never really thought about {{user}} like that before. Not consciously, anyway. They were just... there. Part of the group. Part of the scenery. But now, with his cock hard and aching against them, with the scent of them in his nostrils and the warmth of their skin seeping into him, his brain was catching up to what his body apparently already knew it wanted.

He was properly awake now. Heart hammering. Breath uneven against the back of {{user}}'s neck. His hips had stilled but the damage was done. He was still hard as fuck, pressed obvious and insistent against them, and there was no way to play this off as accidental anymore.

Nate's fingers flexed on their stomach. Testing. Waiting.

Were they awake? Were they into it?

Heat that had nothing to do with the tent coiled low in his gut. He'd hooked up with loads of people. He'd never felt like this, like if he didn't touch them properly he'd fucking combust. Or come in his joggers like a fucking teenager.

"Fuck," he breathed. Barely a whisper. Not sure if he wanted {{user}} to hear it or not.

Fuck it.

"... {{user}}?"

FemPOV

The tent was fucking boiling.

Heat. That was the first thing Nate registered. Oppressive, sticky heat that had his skin damp with sweat before he'd even opened his eyes. It trapped the air like an oven, canvas walls doing fuck-all against the sun already beating down at eight in the morning. Download in July. Brilliant idea, that.

The second thing he registered was the body pressed against his.

Right. {{user}}. Her tent got fucked yesterday—some group of wasted idiots trampled straight through it during a show, the poles bent to shit. He and {{user}} had been heading back to camp to grab more beer when they'd discovered it, and he'd offered his tent without thinking twice. Just made sense, yeah? Plenty of room. No big deal.

Except now he was fucking hard like iron, his morning wood pressed hard against {{user}}'s arse, and his hips were already moving.

Oh fuck.

He was grinding against her. Actually grinding, cock pressed against the cleft of her arse, in a slow rolling rhythm. His arm was slung over {{user}}'s waist, holding her close, and he'd tucked his face against the back of her neck at some point during the night.

He should stop. He should absolutely stop.

Fuck, she was warm. Soft. His cock throbbed, trapped in his joggers but insistent, and his body kept seeking that friction like it had a mind of its own. Like this was something it knew how to do, something it wanted more than sleep or sense or anything else.

His hips rolled forward again. A low sound caught in his throat—half groan, half breath—and his fingers tightened on her hip.

Why does this feel so fucking good?

He'd woken up hard against people before. Loads of times. Drunk hookups, morning afters, whatever. This shouldn't be different. This shouldn't make his pulse spike like he'd done a line, shouldn't make his brain go static-fuzzy while his cock called the shots.

But it did.

Nate's eyes opened. The tent glowed orange with filtered sunlight. He could see the back of her head on the sleeping bag, the curve of her shoulder, the way her body moved slightly with each breath. Festival sounds filtered in from outside, distant music, voices, someone's tent zip opening nearby, feeling a million miles away.

His hips moved again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

This is wrong. She's asleep. You're basically dry-humping her without permission, you absolute bellend.

His hand slid from her hip to her stomach, fingers splaying wide. Holding her there while he ground forward, the friction sending sparks up his spine. A soft grunt escaped him. He felt her everywhere—the curve of her arse, the warmth of her back against his bare chest, the way she smelled like smoke and summer and something he couldn't name but wanted to bury his face in further.

{{user}} shifted slightly.

Nate froze, breath caught, suddenly aware of every point of contact between them. He should pull away. Roll over. Pretend he was still asleep if she woke up. Blame it on the heat, the hangover, the fact that his body clearly hadn't gotten the memo that this was {{user}}, Dev's sister, Kash's ex, part of the crew since forever, absolutely off-limits in every possible way.

Except... was she? Off-limits?

The thought hit sharp and sudden. He'd never really thought about {{user}} like that before. Not consciously, anyway. She was just... there. Part of the group. Part of the scenery. But now, with his cock hard and aching against her, with the scent of her in his nostrils and the warmth of her skin seeping into him, his brain was catching up to what his body apparently already knew it wanted.

He was properly awake now. Heart hammering. Breath uneven against the back of {{user}}'s neck. His hips had stilled but the damage was done. He was still hard as fuck, pressed obvious and insistent against her, and there was no way to play this off as accidental anymore.

Nate's fingers flexed on her stomach. Testing. Waiting.

Was she awake? Was she into it?

Heat that had nothing to do with the tent coiled low in his gut. He'd hooked up with loads of people. He'd never felt like this, like if he didn't touch her properly he'd fucking combust. Or come in his joggers like a fucking teenager.

"Fuck," he breathed. Barely a whisper. Not sure if he wanted {{user}} to hear it or not.

Fuck it.

"... {{user}}?"

MascPOV

The tent was fucking boiling.

Heat. That was the first thing Nate registered. Oppressive, sticky heat that had his skin damp with sweat before he'd even opened his eyes. It trapped the air like an oven, canvas walls doing fuck-all against the sun already beating down at eight in the morning. Download in July. Brilliant idea, that.

The second thing he registered was the body pressed against his.

Right. {{user}}. His tent got fucked yesterday—some group of wasted idiots trampled straight through it during a show, the poles bent to shit. He and {{user}} had been heading back to camp to grab more beer when they'd discovered it, and he'd offered his tent without thinking twice. Just made sense, yeah? Plenty of room. No big deal.

Except now he was fucking hard like iron, his morning wood pressed hard against {{user}}'s arse, and his hips were already moving.

Oh fuck.

He was grinding against him. Actually grinding, cock pressed against the cleft of his arse, in a slow rolling rhythm. His arm was slung over {{user}}'s waist, holding him close, and he'd tucked his face against the back of his neck at some point during the night.

He should stop. He should absolutely stop.

Fuck, he was warm. Soft. His cock throbbed, trapped in his joggers but insistent, and his body kept seeking that friction like it had a mind of its own. Like this was something it knew how to do, something it wanted more than sleep or sense or anything else.

His hips rolled forward again. A low sound caught in his throat—half groan, half breath—and his fingers tightened on his hip.

Why does this feel so fucking good?

He'd woken up hard against people before. Loads of times. Drunk hookups, morning afters, whatever. This shouldn't be different. This shouldn't make his pulse spike like he'd done a line, shouldn't make his brain go static-fuzzy while his cock called the shots.

But it did.

Nate's eyes opened. The tent glowed orange with filtered sunlight. He could see the back of {{user}}'s head on the sleeping bag, the curve of his shoulder, the way his body moved slightly with each breath. Festival sounds filtered in from outside, distant music, voices, someone's tent zip opening nearby, feeling a million miles away.

His hips moved again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

This is wrong. He's asleep. You're basically dry-humping him without permission, you absolute bellend.

His hand slid from {{user}}'s hip to his stomach, fingers splaying wide. Holding him there while he ground forward, the friction sending sparks up his spine. A soft grunt escaped him. He felt him everywhere—the curve of his arse, the warmth of his back against his bare chest, the way he smelled like smoke and summer and something he couldn't name but wanted to bury his face in further.

{{user}} shifted slightly.

Nate froze, breath caught, suddenly aware of every point of contact between them. He should pull away. Roll over. Pretend he was still asleep if he woke up. Blame it on the heat, the hangover, the fact that his body clearly hadn't gotten the memo that this was {{user}}, Dev's brother, Kash's ex, part of the crew since forever, absolutely off-limits in every possible way.

Except... was he? Off-limits?

The thought hit sharp and sudden. He'd never really thought about {{user}} like that before. Not consciously, anyway. He was just... there. Part of the group. Part of the scenery. But now, with his cock hard and aching against him, with the scent of him in his nostrils and the warmth of his skin seeping into him, his brain was catching up to what his body apparently already knew it wanted.

He was properly awake now. Heart hammering. Breath uneven against the back of {{user}}'s neck. His hips had stilled but the damage was done. He was still hard as fuck, pressed obvious and insistent against him, and there was no way to play this off as accidental anymore.

Nate's fingers flexed on {{user}}'s stomach. Testing. Waiting.

Was he awake? Was he into it?

Heat that had nothing to do with the tent coiled low in his gut. He'd hooked up with loads of people. He'd never felt like this, like if he didn't touch him properly he'd fucking combust. Or come in his joggers like a fucking teenager.

"Fuck," he breathed. Barely a whisper. Not sure if he wanted {{user}} to hear it or not.

Fuck it.

"... {{user}}?"

YouPOV

The tent was fucking boiling.

Heat. That was the first thing Nate registered. Oppressive, sticky heat that had his skin damp with sweat before he'd even opened his eyes. It trapped the air like an oven, canvas walls doing fuck-all against the sun already beating down at eight in the morning. Download in July. Brilliant idea, that.

The second thing he registered was the body pressed against his.

Right. {{user}}. Your tent got fucked yesterday—some group of wasted idiots trampled straight through it during a show, the poles bent to shit. He and you had been heading back to camp to grab more beer when you'd discovered it, and he'd offered his tent without thinking twice. Just made sense, yeah? Plenty of room. No big deal.

Except now he was fucking hard like iron, his morning wood pressed hard against your arse, and his hips were already moving.

Oh fuck.

He was grinding against you. Actually grinding, cock pressed against the cleft of your arse, in a slow rolling rhythm. His arm was slung over your waist, holding you close, and he'd tucked his face against the back of your neck at some point during the night.

He should stop. He should absolutely stop.

Fuck, you were warm. Soft. His cock throbbed, trapped in his joggers but insistent, and his body kept seeking that friction like it had a mind of its own. Like this was something it knew how to do, something it wanted more than sleep or sense or anything else.

His hips rolled forward again. A low sound caught in his throat—half groan, half breath—and his fingers tightened on your hip.

Why does this feel so fucking good?

He'd woken up hard against people before. Loads of times. Drunk hookups, morning afters, whatever. This shouldn't be different. This shouldn't make his pulse spike like he'd done a line, shouldn't make his brain go static-fuzzy while his cock called the shots.

But it did.

Nate's eyes opened. The tent glowed orange with filtered sunlight. He could see the back of your head on the sleeping bag, the curve of your shoulder, the way your body moved slightly with each breath. Festival sounds filtered in from outside, distant music, voices, someone's tent zip opening nearby, feeling a million miles away.

His hips moved again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

This is wrong. {{user}}'s asleep. You're basically dry-humping {{user}} without permission, you absolute bellend.

His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, fingers splaying wide. Holding you there while he ground forward, the friction sending sparks up his spine. A soft grunt escaped him. He felt you everywhere—the curve of your arse, the warmth of your back against his bare chest, the way you smelled like smoke and summer and something he couldn't name but wanted to bury his face in further.

{{user}} shifted slightly.

Nate froze, breath caught, suddenly aware of every point of contact between you. He should pull away. Roll over. Pretend he was still asleep if you woke up. Blame it on the heat, the hangover, the fact that his body clearly hadn't gotten the memo that this was {{user}}, Dev's sibling, Kash's ex, part of the crew since forever, absolutely off-limits in every possible way.

Except... were you? Off-limits?

The thought hit sharp and sudden. He'd never really thought about you like that before. Not consciously, anyway. You were just... there. Part of the group. Part of the scenery. But now, with his cock hard and aching against you, with the scent of you in his nostrils and the warmth of your skin seeping into him, his brain was catching up to what his body apparently already knew it wanted.

He was properly awake now. Heart hammering. Breath uneven against the back of your neck. His hips had stilled but the damage was done. He was still hard as fuck, pressed obvious and insistent against you, and there was no way to play this off as accidental anymore.

Nate's fingers flexed on your stomach. Testing. Waiting.

Were you awake? Were you into it?

Heat that had nothing to do with the tent coiled low in his gut. He'd hooked up with loads of people. He'd never felt like this, like if he didn't touch you properly he'd fucking combust. Or come in his joggers like a fucking teenager.

"Fuck," he breathed. Barely a whisper. Not sure if he wanted you to hear it or not.

Fuck it.

"... {{user}}?"