He is. [There's softness, reverence in Koby's voice, a fondness that settles into the background again, because there's a time and place for being homesick and it's neither here nor now. Now is just Quentin's skilled mouth, his rumbling voice, the sight of that grin that's etched itself all over Koby's body in softly-purpling marks. There's nothing in the world but it, but him, settled between Koby's legs and making him forget why he was ever anxious about anything.
Koby's thighs tense a little when Quentin spreads them, another apology rising in his throat for -- what? He's still tender from the bath, from Quentin inside him, from the few (too few) moments of intense, feverish heat. He's still dripping Quentin's cum for god's sake, there's no need to be shy. Or apologize. Or even think, don't think, act, act, and that's an easy command to follow because --
Because that first touch of Quentin's tongue is like sun on the sea, like a soaring, searing wind in the sails, it's lightning on the waves, it's electric and shattering and Koby makes a sound that's almost a sob, that lilts into a moan at the very end. His toes curl against the bed, hips lifting from the sheets, towards Quentin's mouth, blunt nails leaving little notches at Quentin's nape, urging him closer. Then his grip slackens, on a shuddering exhale, and Koby props himself up on his elbows, shakily.]
Don't want to -- mess up your hair. [It's sort of gasped, that crimson flush painted down his neck, over his heaving, scarred chest, his kiss-marked shoulders. An inhale, legs spreading wider, welcoming, inviting.] But don't stop. Please don't stop.
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Koby's thighs tense a little when Quentin spreads them, another apology rising in his throat for -- what? He's still tender from the bath, from Quentin inside him, from the few (too few) moments of intense, feverish heat. He's still dripping Quentin's cum for god's sake, there's no need to be shy. Or apologize. Or even think, don't think, act, act, and that's an easy command to follow because --
Because that first touch of Quentin's tongue is like sun on the sea, like a soaring, searing wind in the sails, it's lightning on the waves, it's electric and shattering and Koby makes a sound that's almost a sob, that lilts into a moan at the very end. His toes curl against the bed, hips lifting from the sheets, towards Quentin's mouth, blunt nails leaving little notches at Quentin's nape, urging him closer. Then his grip slackens, on a shuddering exhale, and Koby props himself up on his elbows, shakily.]
Don't want to -- mess up your hair. [It's sort of gasped, that crimson flush painted down his neck, over his heaving, scarred chest, his kiss-marked shoulders. An inhale, legs spreading wider, welcoming, inviting.] But don't stop. Please don't stop.