[The rambling could've conceivably continued forever, because when Koby gets going, he tends to just -- go and go. It's excitement and nerves and eagerness all tangling together with genuine worry for Quentin's condition, it's his need to take care of people warring with his desire to get back between the sheets as soon as possible and that's...new for him. Normally the former always wins out. But he's standing there wrapped in a towel and still warm from the bath and he's rummaging through the cupboards and watching Quentin out of the corner of his eyes and his entire body is thrumming with want. And Koby's always been so, so good at denying himself what he wants.
But then -- there are arms around him, scooping him right off his feet, and Koby makes an undignified squawking gasp and freezes, eyes very wide as he tries to register what's happened. He's being held, cradled against Quentin's still-damp chest, like he weighs nothing, like it's the easiest thing in the world. For years, he's hated being small, being perceived as weak or powerless, but this is -- different. This is very, very different.
Blinking a couple times, Koby slowly looks upwards with those huge, wondering eyes, taking in the drops of water coursing down Quentin's neck, dripping from the loose curls escaping his braid, tickling as they slip down his chest and onto Koby's still-warmed body. He swallows hard, audible, and forgets entirely what he was talking about, forgets about everything but the heat where his bare skin meets Quentin's, but the throbbing pulse of yes, yes, yes that shoots right down his spine and pools between his legs. There's still an ache, a slight tenderness there, but Quentin's arms around him are rapidly fanning that into a hungry emptiness that demands to be filled. Fast.
Slowly, Koby drags his tongue over his lips, takes a shaky breath.] You can -- knock over anything you want. It doesn't matter. [His voice comes out low, husky, and he reaches out, stopping a coursing drop of water as it leaves the hollow of Quentin's throat, pressing his fingertips there instead.] I'll fix it later. [Fingers, then palm, smoothing slowly over the curve of collarbone and shoulder and pectoral, those eyes dark and unflinching.] Just -- take me to bed. Please.
[Interrupting the fretting spiral: a resounding success, Q.]
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But then -- there are arms around him, scooping him right off his feet, and Koby makes an undignified squawking gasp and freezes, eyes very wide as he tries to register what's happened. He's being held, cradled against Quentin's still-damp chest, like he weighs nothing, like it's the easiest thing in the world. For years, he's hated being small, being perceived as weak or powerless, but this is -- different. This is very, very different.
Blinking a couple times, Koby slowly looks upwards with those huge, wondering eyes, taking in the drops of water coursing down Quentin's neck, dripping from the loose curls escaping his braid, tickling as they slip down his chest and onto Koby's still-warmed body. He swallows hard, audible, and forgets entirely what he was talking about, forgets about everything but the heat where his bare skin meets Quentin's, but the throbbing pulse of yes, yes, yes that shoots right down his spine and pools between his legs. There's still an ache, a slight tenderness there, but Quentin's arms around him are rapidly fanning that into a hungry emptiness that demands to be filled. Fast.
Slowly, Koby drags his tongue over his lips, takes a shaky breath.] You can -- knock over anything you want. It doesn't matter. [His voice comes out low, husky, and he reaches out, stopping a coursing drop of water as it leaves the hollow of Quentin's throat, pressing his fingertips there instead.] I'll fix it later. [Fingers, then palm, smoothing slowly over the curve of collarbone and shoulder and pectoral, those eyes dark and unflinching.] Just -- take me to bed. Please.
[Interrupting the fretting spiral: a resounding success, Q.]