[Even the slight movements, the lift of one foot, the settle of Quentin's back against the curve of the tub, the rumble of laughter in his broad chest -- it shifts where they're still joined, where Quentin's softening, but still buried, where Koby's still sensitive and shuddery with aftershocks, and it feels good, so good, something else Koby had never really considered before. He thinks about how if they weren't in the water, he could probably feel Quentin's spend leaking down his thighs, and the abrupt desire for just that very nearly distracts Koby from his goals.

But --] I'm a very motivated siren, not a vengeful one. [It comes out breathless, on a shivered sigh at the tickle of Quentin's hands on oversensitive skin. Mind and body are at a disagreement, the former focused on the initial goal of cleanliness while the latter just wants to see how long it takes before Quentin's ready for round two. Koby shifts his hips, experimentally tightens around the half-hard length still buried inside him, teethes at his bruised lower lip against a whimpering sigh.

And then Quentin steals the washcloth, and Koby is focused again, frowning and scrunching his nose as he grabs for it, brow knitting in disapproval.] And I don't think anything could stop your stubbornness. I've known you less than a day and that much is evident. [Very snippy for someone still sitting on the man's cock, Koby. But he plucks the lathered washcloth away, softens his snark with a firm kiss to Quentin's cheek, his chin, his nose.] So -- I'll ask nicely.

Let me help you. [Finding Quentin's mouth, free hand coming to his face again, soft, stroking over the bruising there, half from the arena, half from Koby himself.] Please. Just -- lie back and let me take care of you.