[Later, Koby will replay every word to himself -- pretty, immaculate, he'll find every mark Quentin's left on him in the dark and press his fingers to them, the bruises on his hips and the bite marks on his neck, sparking them alive with pinprick thrills of pain, remembering everything, remembering this. Remembering the press of bitten-red lips against his gasping mouth, remembering the way his body clutches and throbs around Quentin inside him at the delicious agony of each word, each touch, each thrust to the hilt. He'll remember how hard obedience was, how his nails drew little half-moon marks over Quentin's shoulders, how his stomach tightened and his knees pressed hard into the other man's hips, how he clung to that thread of control when everything in him was coming undone, shuddering, sobbing sounds with each deliberate plunge of that (perfect, glorious, shattering) cock into his core.
And, of course, Koby will remember what does it, what actually makes him let go an instant before permission arrives -- good boy. It sears down his spine, it makes him moan against Quentin's mouth, one hand cupping the back of his neck, the other at his shoulder, clinging white-knuckled as those two words hit him with the force of a gale wind, with the power of a tidal wave. It's probably a little cliche, yeah, but the praise feels so damn good, triumph thrumming through Koby's body along with that unbearable build of heat and pleasure he's been fighting this entire time, and then it snaps, a rope pulled taut, a sail filled with wind, salt and sea in his mouth and steam in his hair and pooled in the hollow of his throat.
There's an instant of clarity, of I need to, he needs, I need to give, a thousand half-formed thoughts that turn into Koby driving back onto Quentin's cock, taking him to the hilt so he can feel it, feel the release, the shivering, clenching, tightening clutch of slick, wet heat around every inch of him. And then there's nothing but heat and light and Koby gasping out--] Y-yes, yesyesyes, god, Quentin, yes-- [--as he comes on his cock, as Quentin fucks him through it, as any thoughts of someone overhearing them absolutely vanish, any thoughts beside yes and more and please and the sharp, gasp of QuentinQuentinQuentin over and over again. His back arches, head going back, toes curling and every muscle strained and singing and liquid with how good it feels.
And still, despite it all, Koby manages, eyes glazed and hazy and locked on Quentin, to plead:] Don't -- don't stop, don't stop, need you t-to -- [To come as well, to feel this deliriously good, to lose himself just as much as Koby is, even if each movement just prolongs that devastating peak of pleasure again and again.]
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And, of course, Koby will remember what does it, what actually makes him let go an instant before permission arrives -- good boy. It sears down his spine, it makes him moan against Quentin's mouth, one hand cupping the back of his neck, the other at his shoulder, clinging white-knuckled as those two words hit him with the force of a gale wind, with the power of a tidal wave. It's probably a little cliche, yeah, but the praise feels so damn good, triumph thrumming through Koby's body along with that unbearable build of heat and pleasure he's been fighting this entire time, and then it snaps, a rope pulled taut, a sail filled with wind, salt and sea in his mouth and steam in his hair and pooled in the hollow of his throat.
There's an instant of clarity, of I need to, he needs, I need to give, a thousand half-formed thoughts that turn into Koby driving back onto Quentin's cock, taking him to the hilt so he can feel it, feel the release, the shivering, clenching, tightening clutch of slick, wet heat around every inch of him. And then there's nothing but heat and light and Koby gasping out--] Y-yes, yesyesyes, god, Quentin, yes-- [--as he comes on his cock, as Quentin fucks him through it, as any thoughts of someone overhearing them absolutely vanish, any thoughts beside yes and more and please and the sharp, gasp of QuentinQuentinQuentin over and over again. His back arches, head going back, toes curling and every muscle strained and singing and liquid with how good it feels.
And still, despite it all, Koby manages, eyes glazed and hazy and locked on Quentin, to plead:] Don't -- don't stop, don't stop, need you t-to -- [To come as well, to feel this deliriously good, to lose himself just as much as Koby is, even if each movement just prolongs that devastating peak of pleasure again and again.]