[Koby’s no exacting commander – not a commander at all, really, though it sends a pleasant, toe-curling shiver up his spine every time Quentin says it, even in teasing. If asked, he’d say gaining power was never the goal, never something he’d thought about extensively. Survival, that had been the focus of every day of the last two years – and honestly, every day preceding that, albeit less intently. He wants to help, he wants to please, he wants to (be good, be great, be unforgettable) do what he can to achieve his goals while protecting people, all things he’s dragged out as motivation to anyone who asks. But Vice-Admiral Garp had seen something, had seen what Koby could do, could be when he stopped overthinking, when he acted from his gut, from his impulses, and he’d approved (begrudgingly, sometimes) and that had been…well it had been intoxicating.
But this? Quentin rising slowly (not painlessly, the slight favoring of his side almost prompting Koby to call the entire thing off, to step back into fussing and doctoring and bossing around), standing tall and broad-shouldered and elegant in the way sailors have, the nimble quickness born of years adapting to the pitch and roll of a deck, the blistering wind in a crow’s nest, the lightning-quick reflexes necessary on something as powerful and dangerous and unpredictable as the sea. This has Koby openly, blatantly staring, not even trying to hide his wide-eyed enthrallment, both hands curling into the fabric held to his chest, eyes very wide, jaw actually dropping a little.
He’s never been good at hiding his emotions – they splash across his face like seasalt spray, vivid in those round eyes, the way he blinks again and again like he’s waiting for Quentin to – disappear, become less stunning, like looking into the sun. Koby half wants to turn away, incredulous that he’s the one standing here, watching the slow peel away of clinging dark fabric, that there isn’t some sort of catch, some cosmic trick. By the time Quentin’s done, standing bare and glorious and devastating, Koby’s mouth is quirked up into a grin, his cheeks red, his toes curling against the lush bathroom rug as his eyes drag over every (perfect, perfect) inch.
The question – not a question, Quentin knows damn well what the answer is – gets an emphatic nod, so earnest that Koby’s glasses slip down his nose and he shoves them up, a quick, jerky motion, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He’s flushed down his neck, over his sunburnt shoulders, and he looks deliriously happy.] I – yeah. Yes. Um. Yeah. [He could keep doing that, keep nodding and staring and admiring, but he also wants to get his hands back on Quentin, wants to map out every muscle, every scar, every old wound and tender place, wants to show what his mouth can’t quite articulate.
And then, like he’s coming back to himself, Koby blinks, looks down at his own barely-there clothes, clears his throat. Somehow, impossibly, he turns even more red, taking a deep breath and letting the top of the toga fall, letting it expose his chest, his stomach, catch at his hips for a long moment. There’s an urge to cross his arms, to hide – for no reason, he’s not nearly as underfed as he’d been when he first enlisted, the combination of regular food and enough sleep helping him fill out from the scrawny, nervous bundle of sharp hipbones and jutting ribs he’d been for years. Still, there’s a moment of hesitation, of steeling himself before he nudges the loose robe off, slipping down and puddling at his feet.
There’s a scrunch in his shoulders, an instinctive curling-in, because – there’s nothing underneath, there hasn’t been since the beginning, because every undergarment this stupid place has given Koby is brightly patterned and could’ve easily been seen under the near-sheer draping fabric. So: he’d forgone it entirely, had been (shamefully, secretly) thrilled by the lack of layers. But now it means Quentin can see – everything, the curve of his hips, the shiver in his thighs when they press together, the trail of (pink, yes) hair up from the apex of them. The fact that he’s a very different sort of man in a lot of ways.
The urge to bolt, to hide, is there, is evident in the fidget of Koby’s fingers, the aversion of his eyes, the way he -- waits. Doesn’t say anything. Flicks his eyes back up, catching Quentin’s with a raw, aching vulnerability in them. And, with more bravery than it had taken to defy the Marines, to step between Garp and Luffy – steps forward.]
no subject
But this? Quentin rising slowly (not painlessly, the slight favoring of his side almost prompting Koby to call the entire thing off, to step back into fussing and doctoring and bossing around), standing tall and broad-shouldered and elegant in the way sailors have, the nimble quickness born of years adapting to the pitch and roll of a deck, the blistering wind in a crow’s nest, the lightning-quick reflexes necessary on something as powerful and dangerous and unpredictable as the sea. This has Koby openly, blatantly staring, not even trying to hide his wide-eyed enthrallment, both hands curling into the fabric held to his chest, eyes very wide, jaw actually dropping a little.
He’s never been good at hiding his emotions – they splash across his face like seasalt spray, vivid in those round eyes, the way he blinks again and again like he’s waiting for Quentin to – disappear, become less stunning, like looking into the sun. Koby half wants to turn away, incredulous that he’s the one standing here, watching the slow peel away of clinging dark fabric, that there isn’t some sort of catch, some cosmic trick. By the time Quentin’s done, standing bare and glorious and devastating, Koby’s mouth is quirked up into a grin, his cheeks red, his toes curling against the lush bathroom rug as his eyes drag over every (perfect, perfect) inch.
The question – not a question, Quentin knows damn well what the answer is – gets an emphatic nod, so earnest that Koby’s glasses slip down his nose and he shoves them up, a quick, jerky motion, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He’s flushed down his neck, over his sunburnt shoulders, and he looks deliriously happy.] I – yeah. Yes. Um. Yeah. [He could keep doing that, keep nodding and staring and admiring, but he also wants to get his hands back on Quentin, wants to map out every muscle, every scar, every old wound and tender place, wants to show what his mouth can’t quite articulate.
And then, like he’s coming back to himself, Koby blinks, looks down at his own barely-there clothes, clears his throat. Somehow, impossibly, he turns even more red, taking a deep breath and letting the top of the toga fall, letting it expose his chest, his stomach, catch at his hips for a long moment. There’s an urge to cross his arms, to hide – for no reason, he’s not nearly as underfed as he’d been when he first enlisted, the combination of regular food and enough sleep helping him fill out from the scrawny, nervous bundle of sharp hipbones and jutting ribs he’d been for years. Still, there’s a moment of hesitation, of steeling himself before he nudges the loose robe off, slipping down and puddling at his feet.
There’s a scrunch in his shoulders, an instinctive curling-in, because – there’s nothing underneath, there hasn’t been since the beginning, because every undergarment this stupid place has given Koby is brightly patterned and could’ve easily been seen under the near-sheer draping fabric. So: he’d forgone it entirely, had been (shamefully, secretly) thrilled by the lack of layers. But now it means Quentin can see – everything, the curve of his hips, the shiver in his thighs when they press together, the trail of (pink, yes) hair up from the apex of them. The fact that he’s a very different sort of man in a lot of ways.
The urge to bolt, to hide, is there, is evident in the fidget of Koby’s fingers, the aversion of his eyes, the way he -- waits. Doesn’t say anything. Flicks his eyes back up, catching Quentin’s with a raw, aching vulnerability in them. And, with more bravery than it had taken to defy the Marines, to step between Garp and Luffy – steps forward.]