[Koby thinks about just that, about what it would feel like, the teasing of Quentin's hand turning into the hot, thick fullness of his cock inside and then he has to stop thinking, has to hitch his breath and drop his forehead to Quentin's shoulder, the thought alone almost making him fail his task before he's even started. Considering that Koby's prided himself on getting off as quickly and quietly as possible in nearly every situation up until this one, he thinks he's showing admirable restraint.
Until there's the slip of Quentin's middle finger inside him, then a second sliding up the flushed split of his cunt, nudging for entrance, and there's that voice against his ear, soft and thick and heated against Koby's ear, his jaw. And it's not nearly enough, but he's still very nearly undone, panting open-mouthed into Quentin's neck, hands curling against his water-dropleted back as he tries to reel back in the thrumming pulse of pleasure. It throbs in his chest, in his stomach, in the clench around Quentin's fingers and Koby's teeth find where neck and shoulder meet, taste blood and sand and sweat as he nips there. Not quite a proper bite, but enough to leave a red-purple mark worried into Quentin's flesh, the act of it distracting Koby from how close he is to coming.]
Y-You too. [It goes without saying, it has to, because Quentin's effect is visible to see, marks blooming over Koby's throat, his chest, his mouth kiss-swollen and bruised, his breath coming ragged and panting as he rocks his hips into Quentin's hand. He thinks about the roughened, clever sailor's hands elsewhere, imagines them in his hair, encircling his wrists, pinning him to the wall, the bed, the sunwarmed grass by the lake, the shelves in the library. Koby thinks next time, and he's too caught up in how good he feels to realize how risky that is, but his trembling hands find Quentin's bruised-up neck, cradle there with his thumb stroking over the steady beat of his heart. Later, he'll think about it later, but for now he finds the throb of Quentin's pulse and presses his lips there like a promise. And he begs:]
Tell me. [Hoarse, pleading, wanting the torment of the dizzying words, wanting to dance along the knife's edge of release, wanting to see if they can stay there. Koby knows there's a very real chance he'll lose control, if Quentin says anything else, his silken smooth voice almost as deliciously maddening as the grind of his roughened fingertips. Koby shifts, finds a new angle, slips Quentin's fingers deeper inside his cunt and grinds his clit against his hand and whimpers helplessly, desperately, head falling back, hair mussed and sweatslick across his forehead.] T-Tell me what you want. What you'll d-do, please... [Promise to fuck him senseless, promise his cock his mouth his hands all night, tease that reward if Koby holds back, if he can prove himself for just a little longer, if he can be good for Quentin.]
no subject
Until there's the slip of Quentin's middle finger inside him, then a second sliding up the flushed split of his cunt, nudging for entrance, and there's that voice against his ear, soft and thick and heated against Koby's ear, his jaw. And it's not nearly enough, but he's still very nearly undone, panting open-mouthed into Quentin's neck, hands curling against his water-dropleted back as he tries to reel back in the thrumming pulse of pleasure. It throbs in his chest, in his stomach, in the clench around Quentin's fingers and Koby's teeth find where neck and shoulder meet, taste blood and sand and sweat as he nips there. Not quite a proper bite, but enough to leave a red-purple mark worried into Quentin's flesh, the act of it distracting Koby from how close he is to coming.]
Y-You too. [It goes without saying, it has to, because Quentin's effect is visible to see, marks blooming over Koby's throat, his chest, his mouth kiss-swollen and bruised, his breath coming ragged and panting as he rocks his hips into Quentin's hand. He thinks about the roughened, clever sailor's hands elsewhere, imagines them in his hair, encircling his wrists, pinning him to the wall, the bed, the sunwarmed grass by the lake, the shelves in the library. Koby thinks next time, and he's too caught up in how good he feels to realize how risky that is, but his trembling hands find Quentin's bruised-up neck, cradle there with his thumb stroking over the steady beat of his heart. Later, he'll think about it later, but for now he finds the throb of Quentin's pulse and presses his lips there like a promise. And he begs:]
Tell me. [Hoarse, pleading, wanting the torment of the dizzying words, wanting to dance along the knife's edge of release, wanting to see if they can stay there. Koby knows there's a very real chance he'll lose control, if Quentin says anything else, his silken smooth voice almost as deliciously maddening as the grind of his roughened fingertips. Koby shifts, finds a new angle, slips Quentin's fingers deeper inside his cunt and grinds his clit against his hand and whimpers helplessly, desperately, head falling back, hair mussed and sweatslick across his forehead.] T-Tell me what you want. What you'll d-do, please... [Promise to fuck him senseless, promise his cock his mouth his hands all night, tease that reward if Koby holds back, if he can prove himself for just a little longer, if he can be good for Quentin.]