[There's a laugh, there's Koby's fingers finding their way deep into the twining curls he'd woven together, all business, all care. Fixing things, helping, making it better with every action, every bit of energy in his body. And he'd meant it, meant the care, meant the gentleness of his hands in Quentin's hair, meant each careful plait. The way he lets himself shudder apart now doesn't nullify the actions before -- it's a gift of a different sort, a vulnerability that is usually hidden behind a bitten lip, an averted gaze, instead laid out and flushed and tender for Quentin to roam, to explore, to claim.
The sounds Koby makes, soft and needy and bitten back between shuddering breaths are a gift too, ones that quicken at the grip to his hips. He half-laughs when he's tugged down, like the way he tastes is something craved, like Quentin is savoring each lash of his clever, devastating tongue. Fingers sinking into dark, braided hair, Koby shifts his hips up, trying to angle the steady strokes up, between the folds still heated from the bath, from Quentin's cock between them -- how long ago, too long, it's been too long, and it's been a long day, but Koby wants it again, wants Quentin to tease him into shuddery, needy bliss, then fill him up again and again and again--
And then Quentin's mouth is on his clit and those soft sweet sounds pitch high, sharp, fingers clutching tight, harsh, nearly yanking, as Koby sobs out:] There, th-ere, don't stop, don't stop, please, Quentin-- [He breaks off in a frustrated huffing sound when Quentin's tongue moves, insistently grinding up, wanting it back targeted on the throbbing apex of heat. But then, again, nearly immediate and not soon enough, and Koby moans again, dropping back against the pillows, unable to stay propped up.] O-Okay, okay, that -- okay. [Half-talking to himself, learning the rhythm of Quentin's mouth, the tease from worked-open, dripping entrance to clit and back, steady, like the tide, like rolling waves, not-enough to too-much and back.
One hand stays knotted in Quentin's hair, less insistent, but still tightening at every lash of his tongue, but the other moves, shaky, slips down over Koby's own chest, stomach, finds one of the hands gripping his hips. Covers it, fingers curling in time with Quentin's mouth against his clit, thumb stroking over his knuckles. Like he needs that too, like if he can't watch, he needs to connect some other way, needs to seek out those callused fingers and hold on tight.]
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The sounds Koby makes, soft and needy and bitten back between shuddering breaths are a gift too, ones that quicken at the grip to his hips. He half-laughs when he's tugged down, like the way he tastes is something craved, like Quentin is savoring each lash of his clever, devastating tongue. Fingers sinking into dark, braided hair, Koby shifts his hips up, trying to angle the steady strokes up, between the folds still heated from the bath, from Quentin's cock between them -- how long ago, too long, it's been too long, and it's been a long day, but Koby wants it again, wants Quentin to tease him into shuddery, needy bliss, then fill him up again and again and again--
And then Quentin's mouth is on his clit and those soft sweet sounds pitch high, sharp, fingers clutching tight, harsh, nearly yanking, as Koby sobs out:] There, th-ere, don't stop, don't stop, please, Quentin-- [He breaks off in a frustrated huffing sound when Quentin's tongue moves, insistently grinding up, wanting it back targeted on the throbbing apex of heat. But then, again, nearly immediate and not soon enough, and Koby moans again, dropping back against the pillows, unable to stay propped up.] O-Okay, okay, that -- okay. [Half-talking to himself, learning the rhythm of Quentin's mouth, the tease from worked-open, dripping entrance to clit and back, steady, like the tide, like rolling waves, not-enough to too-much and back.
One hand stays knotted in Quentin's hair, less insistent, but still tightening at every lash of his tongue, but the other moves, shaky, slips down over Koby's own chest, stomach, finds one of the hands gripping his hips. Covers it, fingers curling in time with Quentin's mouth against his clit, thumb stroking over his knuckles. Like he needs that too, like if he can't watch, he needs to connect some other way, needs to seek out those callused fingers and hold on tight.]