[Koby's somewhere in the stratosphere right now, so he misses the surprised look, the sight of Quentin's face soaked from being buried between his thighs, the evidence of just how enjoyable every lash of his tongue is for the younger man. Which is a pity, because he wants to watch, wants to soak in every shift in expression, every movement, every instant of Quentin with his mouth sealed to Koby's cunt. Next time, perhaps next time, because there has to be, because nothing can feel this good and be only temporary.
But he feels Quentin's hand move, feels how easily his fingers tease Koby open and apart in ways he didn't know were possible, and there's a pitch of questioning in the next shuddery gasp, curious even with his legs spread and his hips rocking steadily up into Quentin's mouth. Something else new, something he hadn't really considered, but suddenly craves, one more way to be consumed, claimed, devoured, Quentin's tongue and his fingers and his cock, his cock there, and Koby makes a soft, needy sound, rolls his hips between mouth and hand, insistent on both, greedy.]
Don't stop. [It's not clear which he means (does he have to choose because he won't, he refuses, self-sacrifice and denial left somewhere in the cooling bath water), but everything is a slick mess of thrumming nerves and desire and heat, and Koby is shameless in the way he ruts against Quentin's mouth, the grip in his hair urging him closer, the weep of his cunt throbbing like a bruise. The words again--] Please don't stop-- [-- the helpless hitch of his stomach, his hips, the way he shudders around nothing, aches empty and hollow and hungry.
Breath coming quicker, pitching higher, even without Quentin's skilled attention on his clit, Koby arches up, heels digging into the bed, back like a bow, chasing that climbing peak and just barely remembering to ask --] C-Can I, can I please, Quentin, please? [Holding back, like before, wanting (needing) the permission, the praise, needing Quentin's voice to release him into coming on his tongue.]
no subject
But he feels Quentin's hand move, feels how easily his fingers tease Koby open and apart in ways he didn't know were possible, and there's a pitch of questioning in the next shuddery gasp, curious even with his legs spread and his hips rocking steadily up into Quentin's mouth. Something else new, something he hadn't really considered, but suddenly craves, one more way to be consumed, claimed, devoured, Quentin's tongue and his fingers and his cock, his cock there, and Koby makes a soft, needy sound, rolls his hips between mouth and hand, insistent on both, greedy.]
Don't stop. [It's not clear which he means (does he have to choose because he won't, he refuses, self-sacrifice and denial left somewhere in the cooling bath water), but everything is a slick mess of thrumming nerves and desire and heat, and Koby is shameless in the way he ruts against Quentin's mouth, the grip in his hair urging him closer, the weep of his cunt throbbing like a bruise. The words again--] Please don't stop-- [-- the helpless hitch of his stomach, his hips, the way he shudders around nothing, aches empty and hollow and hungry.
Breath coming quicker, pitching higher, even without Quentin's skilled attention on his clit, Koby arches up, heels digging into the bed, back like a bow, chasing that climbing peak and just barely remembering to ask --] C-Can I, can I please, Quentin, please? [Holding back, like before, wanting (needing) the permission, the praise, needing Quentin's voice to release him into coming on his tongue.]