draino | 𝐍𝐎 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 ▣ JULY TDM

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𝐍𝐎 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 ▣ JULY TDM

JULY 2024 TDM: LECTISTERNIUM

Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember — dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.

Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, so all posters can use the title « CHARACTER NAME | CANON | NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.

You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.

If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?

Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.

"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."

WHICH WAY TO THE BACCHANAL?

CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.

It’s been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities — a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed — a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.

Between the columns and up the stone steps, you’ll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods — six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) — as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, there’s also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.

Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.

Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?

There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.

 VENI, VIDI, VICI.

CONTENT WARNINGS: violence, body horror, gore, animal attacks (specifically wolf), potential body transformations.

You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.

In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day — a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.

That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public — a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.

Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast — abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.

If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration — less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.

It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He has long eyelashes. That's the sort of thing Koby wouldn't see if he were further away, if he'd maintained the careful distance between himself and strangers that he's usually so mindful of. But the blood, the way it had coated every tooth in that knife of a smile -- well, now he's here, sitting with one foot folded beneath him, noticing a stranger's eyelashes.]

I've been here a while, so I...don't smell like it anymore. [It comes out with a twist of sadness, without any confirmation that yes, being smelled would be offensive. Koby's too busy trying to summon up the memory of how the ocean smells, salty and briny and bittersweet. He inhales, without thinking, trying to catch it beneath the sweat and blood. Maybe if he leaned in closer --

But then there's blood being wiped from his hand, and Koby twitches like an overly cautious forest creature, roughened fingers curling away from the touch, instinctively. He doesn't fully jerk away, though, looks down at his hand in the stranger's, pale against dusky, his own much smaller. They have similar calluses though, remnants of gripping rough rope and tying it in expert knots against the rock and pitch of the sea. Any doubt he'd had that Quentin was telling him the truth vanishes, when he sees the roughened sailor's palms.

Koby doesn't realize how wide he's smiling, how there's a near-fervent look of awe on his sunburned face when he looks up again. He doesn't think about anything besides the almost-remembered scent of ocean spray.] You're a navigator. Really? I was -- a cabin boy, I guess, but nobody else on the crew could read maps that well, so I had to do that too, chart courses, plan escape routes...

[But now the conversation's too close, skirting the edges of sharp thoughts Koby keeps locked away for a reason, heat and blood and death and starvation. He swallows tightly, biting the corner of his mouth hard until the memories retreat, until he can no longer read them in their matching roughened palms.] Then I enlisted, so. Just a cadet now. Or -- before this place, I mean.

[A deep breath, then those serious eyes are fixed upwards again, businesslike.] But -- tell me more. Lieutenant. [Koby means it as a joke, but the title makes him sit a bit taller, like he wants to impress, simply by virtue of Quentin being a navigator, a Navy man, a sailor.

[ a part of him wishes koby still smelled of salt and brine, of open air and easy waters. he's not smelled of it himself in a long time, and under the sweat and blood and dirt, he'll smell of something more distant - spicy and fiery, expensive. like the fine perfumes of a king. he knows the longing that's easy to see in the man's face - feels it tight and sharp in his chest.

his callused hand pauses when the other's jerks, his fingers hovering just over his. like a skittish rabbit this one - or a spooked gull stern side. his fingers go back to their work, pressing clean cloth to the blood, eyes flickering up just in time to catch the bright smile. he can see the pink of the sun in his skin, feel the calluses that match his own, watch the memory of an open ocean light up behind pale eyes.

looking at koby feels like homecoming, like somehow he's captured the sea in a bottle, leaving the message to the waves. he doesn't like the way it dims, and without hesitation his dirtied fingers leave behind kinship in calluses and reach for his chin, tipping it up gently so their eyes meet. ]

I'm just a sailor. A kid who grew up on a fancy ship and knows nothing else. My father, my Captain - my family the crew. We had titles and honorifics but the ocean doesn't care about that. Cares only about the beating of your heart and the belly of a vessel on its back.

[ he gives a shrug, gives koby's chin a soft little pinch before his hand drops back to his lap. ] Quentin. And I'll call you Cadet, if you'd like, but I'm guessing you've got a nicer name than that. So tell me your name. If you need a Lieutenant's order... [ a soft grin. ]

[Out of all the things Koby misses in this strange, uncomfortable, confusing place, the sea is ever-present. He’s not a captain (yet), no officer or pirate king, but there isn’t a person alive in his world who doesn’t have that connection to the ocean, to the salt spray and the monsters and mysteries and wonders it holds. He doesn’t talk about it much with the others, worried that bringing up the lack of sea will lead to the other things they miss – their crew, their ship, their captain, all things that Koby can’t stake a claim to, can’t call his own – but talking to Quentin now has his chest aching with the longing for it.

Because Quentin understands. They’ve scarcely met, barely begun to talk, but when one bloodied, dusty hand comes to cup his chin, Koby doesn’t flinch back – he leans in, hunger and loss and longing painted vividly across his face, every memory he tries to hold back showing itself as raw as a fresh wound. Quentin talks like someone raised on the sea, like someone who has it in his veins, pulsing with every beat of his heart, and Koby is – indignant, somehow, that this place has taken someone else away from that lifeblood. So he takes a breath, shaky, unlocks that aching loss and lets it bleed out into his words, a vulnerability that he knows damn well could backfire, could show weakness, cracks in his careful composure. But it’s the only thing Koby can give, beside water and bandages and the full force of his intent, wide-eyed gaze.] My world is – mostly ocean. Almost entirely sea. Four of them [One hand lifts, draws the circle of the world, divides it into four, summoning up maps that don’t exist anywhere now but in Koby’s mind, in Nami’s, in the attempts he’s made on scrap paper.] East Blue, West, North, South. I’m from the East Blue. From an island, everyone’s from an island. You can’t go anywhere without smelling the ocean, without hearing it. I didn’t grow up on a ship, but – it was always right there. The sea. Everywhere you went.

[A shaky breath, as Quentin’s hand moves away, and Koby leans after it instinctively, before remembering himself, before the dreamy recollection fades. He reaches up, rubs at his chin, like he’s trying to recreate the sensation, unconsciously. Blinking, clearing his throat, like he’s waking up:] Um, Koby. That’s – not much nicer than “Cadet”, but there aren’t any Marines here, so. [No sea either. He swallows hard, against the ache of that thought, then forces a smile.] “Quentin” is nicer. Um, than “Lieutenant”, I mean. Not that – you don’t look like a. I mean.

[Koby leans back, rubs at the marks on his nose, then hooks a finger into the bridge of his glasses, pulling them back in place.] Sorry, um. I think the heat, it’s – we should go inside. I mean, if you want to. Wash off the, um. Rest of the blood. [Nailed it, doing great.]

[ the longing that splits koby's face into something raw and open is palpable - in a way that he's sure he could slide his hand up from his chin, his jaw, his cheek, his brow and feel the way it might pulse and pull under his skin. he doesn't - that would be too presumptuous and he doesn't want to break whatever wistful spell the other man is under. it makes his own heart ache for a freedom he can't be sure he'll ever have again. ]

Entirely ocean? [ he huffs, a little baffled, a little surprised by the sheer thought of it. but he listens to the way koby describes it, eyes following the way his finger moves in the air and draws the invisible map, already creating a mental image himself of a little island with a pale-haired, soft eyed boy watching the waves roll in. no different than him standing as a child, hand in one of a man he didn't know, staring up the hulking bow of the grays, its sails flying the crimson sails of the regent.

they both come out of their dreamlike world and quentin looks over koby's face again, his body relaxing a little, trying to mask the yearning in his own chest. ]

Koby. Much nicer than cadet. But if you're saying I don't look the part of a Quentin or a Lieutenant, then what would you name me? I'd love to hear what you think suits me.

[ he smiles a little, nose crinkling and brows waggling. it's easy to overturn the soft, emotional moment with the nerves this man has. so, with a shrug of his shoulder, he nods his head, giving a lazy little sailor's salute and pushes to his feet. ]

Of course, Cadet Koby, I will heed your every command. [ it's true, for all his bite back, he's done everything koby has asked of him, pliant and jovial in a way that one might not expect. he towers over the smaller man, but there's a glint of something in his eyes when he reaches to straighten his glasses. and then, a little dramatic bow though it makes him wince for the pain in one side: ]

Can't have you seeing crooked before we get going - lead the way, goodly navigator, I will follow your compass to the end.

[The moment passes, and for an instant Koby is saddened by that, thinks about talking more, about drawing maps in the sand, explaining everything he knows, everything he loves about a planet that's mostly sea. He has to bite his lip to hold back the words, to keep from offering to show Quentin his notes, his maps, his sketches-from-memory of the islands he's seen. Later, maybe. If this place allows it.

Besides, Quentin stands and Koby's thoughts stutter to a halt, because he is -- tall. Exceptionally so, especially when Koby is seated. He looks up and up and swallows audibly, breath catching a bit when Quentin adjusts the crooked spectacles. It's dumb to feel that sudden swoop of fascination, that flutter in his chest, his stomach, lower, just because someone's a sailor.

A smooth-talking, sad-eyed, bright-grinning sailor with broad shoulders painted in blood and sweat and sand, yes. But still.

Another swallow, then Koby stands, self-consciously tugging at the sheer fabric of his stupid impractical garment, pulling it away from where it's adhering to his chest, his waist, his lower back, everywhere sweat pools.] I don't know. Something -- ostentatious, maybe. Conqueror of Seas and Sands. Dehydrated Warrior. [This last is said with a meaningful eyebrow-arch at the half-finished water bottle.

Then, relieved to have a task to do, Koby turns, rolling back his shoulders, very conscious of the way the back of his neck is sunburned, the way his hair curls where it's sweat-soaked against his nape. He wonders if Quentin is looking, what he sees -- an underfed, scrawny, bad-postured youth who can't string a complete sentence together, probably.

Koby runs his fingers through his hair, pulls it away from his neck, makes a mental note to trim it, then nods towards the stairs.] I don't think you'll need a compass to go upstairs. At least, I hope not -- unless you have a concussion too. [Back to concerned, fussy, bossy, looking back over his shoulder and glancing over Quentin with a critical eye, even as he starts for said stairs.] Do you?

[ quentin has been around long enough to know what that little swallow means, the little gasp. while he's not always on the receiving end of it, this time makes him hesitate, glancing to be sure the sound came out of the slight man in front of him. why he cares? he can't put a finger on, but he's almost certain he can see the sea in koby's eyes. he snorts as he follows dutifully, and only when given the titles does he roll his eyes, crack the water bottle open again and make a display of downing the rest of it in a succession of swallows, head tipped back, throat exposed.

he pops his mouth from it with a satisfied little ah and raises a brow. ]

Happy, Commander Navigator? I am no longer your Dehydrated Warrior, I'm sorry to disappoint.

[ he keeps in step with him, ignoring the way people look at him, bloody and sandy and bruised, hair matted and sweat stippling his temples. it's not hard to sneak a look while they're wading through crowds - the curl of hair at koby's nape (and the skin exposed when he runs fingers through it), the flush of sunburn, walking chest forward and chin up despite the rambling nerves he hears tumbling from his lips.

in a different world he might dash into a side stall, tug someone like koby up against him and laugh into his mouth to ruin a night together. this isn't home, and this isn't that kind of meeting. nothing about this place will be fleeting for him - a different cage with prettier walls and finer ammenities. strangely? he doesn't want it to be like home, either.

he pauses at the base of the stairs, screws his face up in mock thought and shrugs one shoulder. ] Not that I'm aware of. I can tell you that my room is up these stairs, down two hallways and the third door on the left. It was two floors up this morning - this place is strange.

[ he races up a couple more stairs ahead of koby, looking over his shoulder at him. he shouldn't be moving so fast - he's definitely bruised a rib, but he's used to it. ]

But the question is, Goodly Handsome Commander Navigator - will we be going to my room to wash up, or yours?

[There's a beat where Koby just sort of watches Quentin drink, watches the working of his throat, the stray drips of water that course down his chin, dapple his bare chest. And he absolutely can't blame that on just being observant. But he's cleared his throat and turned back to the steps before the water's gone, hopefully managing to keep his voice steady when he replies:] Some titles are meant to be short-lived. I'll think of a better one.

[Then Quentin's darting above him, nimble and grinning and just slightly favoring his side in a way only someone observant might notice, and Koby's opening his mouth to chide him for moving so quickly, to mention a head injury again. But the older man's rattling off a description with uncanny precision, and Koby's stopping, one foot on the steps, looking upwards with furrowed brow.] That's...very exact. You have a very good sense of direction.

[He's about to pry, to ask more questions, ferret out the answer the way he usually does, when Quentin calls him handsome. And Koby stumbles on the steps, hand tightening on the banister, cheeks pinking for entirely un-sun-related reasons.] Hands-- [It comes out shaky, high, and he immediately clamps his mouth shut, blushing even deeper and quickly scaling the steps.] You're teasing me. Or you really do have a head injury.

[At the top of the stairs, Koby pauses, looking downwards, arms crossed tightly over his chest.] Whichever you prefer. I suppose. [A pause, a deeper frown.] What do you mean "we"?

[ the amount of times in his life he's been complimented on his keen sense of direction, on his eagle eye, his luck - the words slide out of his periphery so easily. yes, he can navigate anything, anywhere, without thinking much. better not to draw attention to what is innate in him, anyway. he continues walking up the stairs until he hears movement behind him, eyes tracking koby up to the stop. ]

Am I not allowed to call a fellow seaman handsome? Is that one of the rules in your world of oceans?

[ quentin grins, continuing up the stairs to meet koby on the landing, rolling one shoulder, as though testing where the pain might be. definitely his ribs, definitely. so as not to draw further attention to his injuries, he sighs. ]

You are my attending medic - administering first aid is in your capable hands. You suggested a wash up, and who am I to deny your expertise in this matter. There might be more wounds under all the dirt. I may have a head injury - I could be concussed. I shouldn't be left to my own devices.

[ there's that grin again and this time he nudges him with an elbow before starting down the hall. indeed, favoring one side. ]

[Interesting. No explanation of the keen sense of direction, not even the slightest bit of self-aggrandizing. Koby arches both eyebrows, nudges his glasses up, files the thought away. A good navigator is always useful, especially in a place that changes between breakfast and dinner.

Besides, there are more concerning things -- the way Quentin moves, the subtle favoring of his side, the way he covers winces with that flash of a grin. It's a nice grin, and it makes Koby's chest knot up to realize it's meant to be, it's meant to distract from the fact that Quentin's injured. He'd ask why, demand it, but -- he knows. He knows all about weakness being opportunity, about the hypervigilance that comes when you're used to being cornered. Koby makes connections, looks for patterns, thinks too damn much for his own good.

Don't think, act, in the back of his mind, seared like a brand, and Koby darts forward, blocks Quentin's path, one hand up to press against his chest, to stop him.] My room. It's closer. [There's genuine concern in his face now, in the knit of his brow, the set of his mouth, in the way he keeps his touch gentle, having clocked that the worst of the pain comes from somewhere on Quentin's torso.]

You shouldn't walk very far, if you're hurt. [A breath, then Koby ducks under Quentin's arm, presses against his side, bracing him up with his squared shoulders. It's not especially effective, considering the dramatic size difference, but Koby is lean muscle in his every inch, shockingly strong for someone his height.] Don't -- say anything. [Quick, businesslike bossiness laced with that concern. Lean on him, damn it.]

[ quentin follows easily, like he's walked the halls a thousand times before even if he hasn't. that's the benefit, really of his abilities. the benefit of being able to open his eyes to little maps, an innate sense of knowing, a pull whenever something comes to his mind. it's no different now, thinking about the room he woke in - his body making the steps easily.

well, at least until koby steps in his path, brings him to a stuttering stop. the hand on his chest surprises him, eyes falling down to the way the palm looks spread out on his bloody skin, a stark contrast for how much smaller and cleaner it is. ]

Oh? To what do I owe the honor?

[ a huff of a laugh, one that crinkles the corners of his eyes, but he's grateful really, to not travel too much farther. already he can tell koby's room is just around the corner on this floor, two doors down. what he doesn't expect however is the warm body pressing up into his side, slight and trying best to take his weight. he blinks down at him, incredulous, before he laughs again, bright and open. ]

I'm getting blood on your toga. Is that what you didn't want me to say?

[ but he knows the business behind the voice, knows too well what his part of his bargain is and he rests his arm around koby's shoulders. strong shoulders, despite his frame - and bare skin, thanks to the toga. his callused hands must be garish for how soft koby's skin is, even sunburnt. but he manages to put some of his weight on the smaller navigator, some of the tension going out of his own shoulders. ]

If you wanted to get close all you had to do was ask, you know. Where's your room? Gotta be close, right?

[ he keeps himself from pointing it out. ]

"Toga"? Is that what it's called? [Koby sounds dismissive, glancing down at the clingy bit of nothing with a scrunch of his nose, arm sliding around Quentin's waist to brace him a bit more. He's mindful of any caught breath, any sharp inhale, trying to map out where the pain is without a) asking or b) hurting Quentin more. Gathering clues, even now. Such as -- that sharp, spicy scent, unlike the overly floral soaps in the bathroom, something less artificially expensive. It's layered beneath the blood, the sweat, rich enough that Koby nearly feels it on his tongue.

It summons up more questions, filed away, because Quentin's palm is back on Koby's bare shoulder, freckles and sunburn painted over the curve of it, and he feels the callus again, each finger, the pads of his palm, settling in place like a cat in sun. Mopping until his shoulders burn, scrubbing decks until his knuckles bleed -- Koby wouldn't have anticipated that such labor would be preparing himself for this, to support someone smiling and teasing and bleeding sluggishly from the head. He thinks, as he rounds a corner -- his hand is so warm. He thinks not now, stop that.]

You caught me, that's my motivation. [Wryly, looking up over the tops of his glasses, under long eyelashes. He sees Quentin's brush his cheek as he blinks, wonders wildly what he'd do if the (taller, heavier) man passed out, crumpled right to the floor. Not lift him, certainly. But not leave him either.

Fortunately around the corner, the familiar door, though Koby tries the wrong knob at first, muttering softly in annoyance when it opens to a closet.] Sorry, that's -- where it was this morning. [The next door is correct, opening to one of the standard guest rooms, albeit one with an alarming amount of papers, maps, books and photos, stacked on the desk, pinned to the wall, sorted into makeshift folders. On the desk, a hot pink typewriter (don't ask). On the bed, rumpled sheets.

Koby clears his throat, awkwardly, weaving around a wobbly pile of books.] Sorry about the mess. I don't usually have, um. Visitors.

That's what the people at the party called it. Everyone kept asking why I wasn't wearing one. Didn't know I was supposed to.

[ quentin bites the inside of his cheek when koby reaches for the wrong doorknob but he says nothing. instead, koby speaks - you caught me - and he smirks a little. ]

Ah, the dictatorial cadet does have a sense of humor. Like I said, all you had to do was tell me you wanted to walk a little closer - I'd hate to spoil your motivation when it looks so sweet on your face.

[ the tinge of pink that isn't sunburn, the fan of fair lashes against fairer cheeks. he looks a wild rogue himself - wild hair and mess face, tired eyes and blood all over. maybe it isn't the time to flirt with a beautiful man, but better to focus on making sure he really doesn't have that head injury.

they enter the room, however, and quentin blinks. books, papers, maps, pens, pencils, tools - everything he's accustomed to in his own study, maps haphazardly places on the walls and preliminary designs crumpled on the floor. odd, how the strangest of places can feel more like home than his own home, as it is now. ]

Don't fuss - I'm happy to visit with your book mountains, perhaps wade through the sea of forgotten maps and unfortunate mistakes.

[ he surveys the room, the rumpled sheets - what must they smell like? koby is warm under his arm, warm at his side. would his neck smell of salt and smoke and dirt? would it smell of summer air in a foreign country? ]

Washroom? Or shall we alight to bed already, Handsome Navigator? I await your firm instruction. [ teasing, teasing, teasing.

or is he? ]

Dictatorial? [It's very indignant, and Koby considers removing his support of Quentin altogether, except that he might stumble and fall and knock over a pile of books. So instead he huffs out a put-upon sigh, making a beeline to the bathroom, hoping against hope that his reddening ears, the back of his neck, aren't noticed -- faint hope, when Quentin is nearly a full foot taller than him.]

Nothing's forgotten, I have a very coherent system. [That's not a convincing argument whatsoever, but Koby seems unaware of that. Some of the maps flutter as they pass, floating gentle as autumn leaves to the ground, and he winces.] Maybe when you're less bloody. I'll let you look at every mistake I've made and crumpled and thrown in the corner. [Because the wastebin is full.

Then Koby shakes his head, firmly.] Not while you're all bloody. Unless you -- need to lie down? [He's nudging the door open with a knee, grateful his sometimes-suitemate is absent, that he can guide Quentin to sit on the edge of the tub, then crouch in front of him, frowning deeper.] Are you feeling all right? That was a long walk and you're -- you're hurt way worse than you let on, aren't you?

[Back to concern, back to Koby sitting on his heels and balancing with one hand on Quentin's knee, his -- robe, toga, whatever, slipping off his shoulder as he pushes up his glasses. He's breathing a bit heavier, scarred chest rising and falling, bubblegum-pink hair all mussed from being tucked up under Quentin's arm, but his main priority remains:] Tell me the truth. Please.

No one can forget a map - you're right. Even the ones with imperfections. I remember those best sometimes. But I look forward to diving into your many mistaken maps with you. You'll have to tell me their stories.

[ there's a fondness in his voice, a warmth that hadn't blossomed there before. the room smells of paper and dust and ink, of something heady and is sure to be what koby smells like under dirt and sweat. a part of him makes a note to find out later, something he doesn't usually do, but koby is so sweet-faced and unapologetic about everything in this room.

the washroom isn't far, thankfully, and he sits on the edge of the tub as told. he's in a good amount of pain, yes. the fatigue of the day catching up and making his muscles sore, making his side ache, his head swim for the alcohol and lack of food. the water earlier, to his chagrin, was a good call.

his eyes follow koby once he's settled, watching the way he knees down in front of him. it's easy to stare here at the soft pink hair, ruffled from being tucked into his side, the tinge of pink warming his face, the wide, earnest eyes behind glasses. the toga slipping, the second shoulder exposed and soft, soft skin spotted in a gentle dappling of freckles, to the scars in perfect parallel on his chest.

it's foolish that his words have left him. quentin has traveled many ports, been to many places, fucked all sorts of people from all walks of life, but it was never this. attraction? certainly. but the taverns were meant for quick romps and drunken tumbles. he feels the same welling of attraction, deep in his gut, but revving at a completely different speed.

he doesn't think before he leans forward, ignoring the pain in his side as he reaches tenderly for the man's arm, long fingers sliding from his elbow up to the fallen fabric and sliding it back into place with a quiet reverence. his fingers linger there against the curve of his collar bone, slide softly up the line of his neck, to the curve of his jaw. ]

I'm hurt way worse than I let on, as you'd say. Bruise rib, I think. Pulled muscle in my side. My head's perfectly clear though.

[Of course Koby hears the softness -- a lifetime spent longing for just that has him attuned to it, to any scrap of praise or approval, regardless of the source. And the source is...well, the source is dusty and bleeding in his bathroom. The source is looking at him with a quiet observance that isn't quite cartographer, isn't quite lover, is something else entirely, and Koby would be lying if he said he wasn't affected by it. It's not just that Quentin’s attractive -- because he is, he's that knife of a smile, those bright weary eyes, the tangled curls still matted with blood.

It's that something about him sees, knows, understands aches at the very core of who Koby is. There's seasalt in his touch, an echo of everything that's been lost, and Koby's probably projecting, probably thinking about someone else with dark curls and dark eyes and a sailor's smile, but he -- isn't, at the same time. He sits back on his heels, still as windless waves, feeling the trail of Quentin’s hand up his arm, fixing the loose shoulder of his clothes and half-expecting the warmth of his roughened fingers to leave marks. Like ink over his skin, like he's been mapped out too.

And there's honesty, glib and genuine at once, and Koby half-reaches out, his own callused fingertips just barely hovering over Quentin’s bare, bloodcaked ribs.] Here? You don't think they're cracked, right? My medical skills only go so far.

[Then Quentin’s hand is on his jaw, on the still-youthful curve of it, and Koby's eyes flickering back up, hand settling over the bruised ribs without thinking.] Good. [It comes out soft, each point of contact thrumming like a pulse. Unconsciously, Koby bites his lower lip, tugs it into his mouth for a moment, then flicks his tongue over the tooth marks. Repeats:] That's good. Your head, I mean.

[ what does it feel like to long for the sea when the sea has been the whole of one’s life? what is it to dream of waves and billowing sails, the songs of men singing or laughing, the spray of the ocean on the deck, on your face, in your hair. to see the sun rise on endless horizon, beckoned in by the call of gulls, the smell of crudely made coffee, the cooking of grits somewhere in the belly of a ship.

it must feel like this, he realizes - bright eyes and soft pink hair, soft jaw and callused fingers at his sore ribs. the pinch of a lip between teeth. he’s been seen and understood before - but only by the men he works and sweats alongside. they understand the job, but the sea lives in his chest, roaring and vast and awesome in many ways. ]

They’re not cracked, no. If they are, nothing to be done but wait and heal.

[ but his eyes remain fixed on the man, on the little indents in his lip, and it’s absent the way his thumb gently traverses the swell of it, callused pad indeed mapping the tender shape. the fingers on his ribs feel like a brand, and he shouldn’t be leaning into the space between them as it is, shouldn’t be closing the distance so that he may map koby’s lips with his own, but he is, soft and sweet, nose bumping against his. it’s a lingering little thing, his lips moving only to catch that bottom lip in his own, to feel the little indentations in the skin. ]

Very good, yes. [ against koby’s mouth, his own a slant of a smile all over again. ] My head, of course.

Right. [It comes out softer than before, because Quentin is leaning in and because – that’s what Koby wants, what he’s wanted maybe this entire time (maybe his entire life), the press of bloodied lips to his, less a kiss than a caress, than the curl of a grin against his oft-gnawed mouth, than the lingering taste of salt and iron. Like the sea, everything comes back to that, life and death and other worlds, bruised ribs and very good and nights spent looking up at stars from a dark, dank hold. Back then, Koby hadn’t dreamed of this, hadn’t dreamed of anything except escape, except surviving another day, finding a way to live that didn’t involve blood caked beneath his nails, heart racing against his ribs.

Except here’s both, here’s his hand pressing flat to Quentin’s side, finding the notch of ribs beneath muscle and getting blood between his fingers. Here’s his pulse pounding beneath the hand against his neck, here’s the cartography of his eyes closing and his breath catching and his nose bumping against Quentin’s when he leans in quicker, too quick, too clumsy, rising up on his knees and kissing him harder. There’s a hunger in it, a sunbaked starvation that Koby’s tried covering up with uniforms and rules and regulations, but which is woven deeper than his skin. Very good, Quentin says, and it’s not praise, it’s not approval, but gods and monsters and sea kings and demons, Koby wants it to be. He wants to offer anything, everything, wants to prove himself until his muscles burn and his body aches, wants to keep that smile curled against his mouth until it sears itself into his skin.

He wants – to breathe, for the moment, pulling back suddenly, a shuddering gasp for air, squeezing his eyes shut, forehead resting against Quentin’s.] I – sorry. [Because he’s hurt, because he’s exhausted, because Koby doesn’t want him to assume he has to pay for this kindness. Because Koby would’ve kissed him if he was injured or not, would’ve helped him without kissing him, would’ve--] I’m sorry. You’re – you don’t – have to, you. [Quentin smells like he tastes, like blood and wine and salt, and Koby keeps his eyes shut tight, breath stuttered and shaky, hair mussed and curling.] You don’t have to. [Again, softer, rocking back enough to open his eyes, to look up and find the exhaustion, the sadness, to hold it like a tether, to knot it around his fingers.] You don’t have to give me anything, Quentin.

[ koby’s lips are as soft as he’d envisioned them to be. he feels a little guilty kissing him with a split lip, with iron and dust and fury on the back of his tongue. after all, isn’t that why he competed? ribbed and jabbed until one comment too far sent him over the precipice. he’d had a lot to work out. still does.

but he doesn’t have to think about any of that here, his fingers curling against koby’s cheek, thumb skirting the soft line of his cheekbone, the whole of his broad, callused palm sliding to his neck so that his fingers can curve against some of the curled wisps of pink at the back of his neck. it’s easier when koby rises up to meet the kiss, hungry and wanting, quentin humming against their joined mouths, licking once across the dents of his lip and then in to taste the sunlight on his very tongue.

but koby pulls back, gasping and quentin wonders if the dream of the seas took him too far. if kissing the fair haired man at his feet had been the wrong decision. it certainly doesn’t taste like the wrong choice and his eyes open when koby starts rattling on, apology after panicked noise. he smiles, lips tugging to one side, and he almost looks sheepish. had it seemed like he felt compelled? like he felt as though he had to kiss him?

maybe it’s just in his bones, the playacting he’s been made to do for the better part of a year. a ghost living in his bones. koby looks too sweet like this - red faced and mussed, flustered and raised up on his knees. ]

Mm. Are you apologizing that I kissed you? [ he laughs a little, bright and sudden, the sound genuine and from the chest. he uses the hand at koby’s neck to tug him forward, to urge him back up to his feet so he doesn’t have to lean on an injured side. ]

I’m only giving you what I also wish to take. Though I’ll say it would be much easier if you would get to your feet and maybe then I can kiss you properly. If you wish to receive it. If you wish to take it. But I’m not a man to press where I’m not wanted, I assure you.

There’s another moment of confused, doe-eyed blinking, until Koby realizes that it – almost might’ve sounded like a rejection. He’d meant I know how it is and I understand transactions and give-and-take and bartering and bargaining and I don’t want you to kiss me unless you want to. But he’d also meant don’t stop, and it’s those words that tangle up in his throat, coming out in more of that stammering, fumbling, red-faced and looking up at Quentin like he’s the sun, like he’s some cardinal true north, like – some other nautical metaphor.

But what matters is:] I-It’s wanted! I mean, you’re – wanted. [Earnest now, wide eyes and glasses slipping down his nose, rising up and resting both hands on Quentin’s thighs. There’s the jolt of heated realization that seated, Quentin is only slightly shorter than Koby is standing, the consciousness that there’s that much of a difference in their size, and there’s teeth in that lower lip again, a hitch of breath, a flicker of eyes lower. Just for a second, just – imagining. That night, in the club, in the hot, thrumming, liquor-fueled horde had been dizzying, overwhelming, too quick, over too soon, but this is different. This is clear heads and that smile, and Koby stands up fully, moves his hands to rest lightly on Quentin’s face. Fingertips brushing his loose, blood-caked curls, smoothing them back from the bruises on his cheekbone, his neck, looking down at him with a smile that’s very nearly shy.]

I don’t want to go anywhere else. [Quieter, thumbs smoothing over a smear of dust, wiping it away from Quentin’s cheek.] I want you to stay here. If you want to. [It’s a cautiously opened door, nudging through to – wherever this may go, whatever might happen. It feels different, in the sober light of day, without the sugar and sweetness of the nightclub. Not better, not worse, just…different. Koby tilts his head, feels the too-loose shoulder of his robe start to slip again. Lets it, cradling Quentin’s face.] Do you want to stay?

Well, I'm flattered. A man does like to be wanted, doesn't he?

[ the stammering, the red face, the stumbling over himself - quentin had been a boy like at once, bright-eyed and new to a world of so many open doors. that's what sailing had felt like at every turn - one new port, one new world, and the sea at his back. he tracks koby's eyes, monitors the little bite of his lip - he's envious it's not him biting that lip instead - and opens his mouth to speak until hands frame his face, delicate and tender, pushing dirty hair out of his face.

quentin isn't stunned often, isn't brought to quiet surprise if ever, but in this moment he blinks up at the other navigator with a quiet sort of wonder. maybe, he thinks, he's just weak to humane affection, weak to the idea of softness and drawn in like flowers to the sun. but no. his skin lights up electric, white-hot under koby's fingers. he'd be a fool if he didn't reach for the dip of koby's waist, both hands tugging him closer between the vee of his thighs. ]

I think I'd like to stay, Handsome Commander Cadet. If you'll have... ah, what was it, this Dehydrated Warrior for a night? Though no promises I'll be able to move in the morning.

[ there's something devilish in the caveat, in the way he gently guides koby closer. he tilts his face into the other man's touch, daring to turn a kiss in against the soft inside of his wrist. ]

I should bathe before you kiss me again. Which, I'd very much like you to kiss me again. [ another kiss, this time further up on his arm, all the way to the fabric fallen from koby's shoulder. ]

It's a very good thing I'm impatient. [ he leans up, just enough to kiss koby againt, one hand raising to his face, the back of his neck, urging him closer until their bodies are flush and he is kissing him hard and hungry, matching koby's energy from before. ]

[There's a little bit of a laugh at the constantly-evolving nickname, because it's -- fun, Quentin is fun, even weary and sore and bleeding, he smiles and he teases and it warms a part of Koby that he'd kept locked away for years. The thrilling, dizzying potential of sailing, of chasing a horizon had soured a long time ago, laced with misery and terror in a way that he's only just begun to untangle. Sometimes he feels like it'll never come loose, like he'll never think about the rock of waves without hearing blood splatter across the deck, never smell salt without thinking about curling up in the hungry, shivering dark and stifling sobs against his folded arms.

And sometimes it's effortless. Sometimes all the darkness disappears, and Koby laughs without a hint of self-consciousness, turns his palm towards the brush of Quentin's mouth, lets it send sparks up along his veins, thrumming with his heartbeat.] I'm not going to kick you out at dawn or anything, don't be silly. [It's tied on his tongue -- stay as long as you want, anything you want, just don't stop holding onto me, don't stop kissing me -- but Quentin's sense of direction sends him rising up to obey without Koby having to say a word. And there's still dust and blood in his mouth, fever-warm and full of teeth, and maybe that should be frightening. Maybe Koby should be more cautious.

But instead he snugs between Quentin's thighs, inhales the salty tang of his bloodied kiss, curls his tongue against it, clumsy -- inexperienced, his whole body radiates it, eager and unpracticed and raw -- but so, so willing to please. There's a little "mmmf" sound, the press of Koby's scarred chest to Quentin's dusty one, smearing the white fabric red-and-gold. His fingers slip up, into the tangled curls, cautiously, mindful of any tender spots, any injuries, careful here too.]

You should bathe. [Mumbled, against Quentin's mouth, between shuddery breaths, between the eager, hungry mess of tongue and lips and soft needy sounds.] But you kissed me, so -- doesn't count as impatient. [Sound logic, punctuated by Koby leaning to one side, not far enough to twist free from the hands at his waist, but enough that he can turn the knobs, send the steaming water flowing. Then he's back, a shorter kiss, leaning back and saying firmly:] But it will if you don't get started. So -- undress.

[A beat. Koby doesn't move from where he's snuggled up against Quentin's front, where he can feel the thrum of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest. Then:] I'll -- get you. More water, um. They have pain medication here too, it works pretty well. [Still not moving.] If you want it.

[ there's an eagerness to koby that is utterly refreshing. there are no egos at play here, no wars of experience or competence, just sweet kisses and the clash of tongues and teeth, of wet heat and desperation. one hand strays from koby's waist, enough to catch the slipping sleeve of the toga, even dare to pull it free altogether, letting it hand lazily to the side before those delicious fingers slide into the messy waves of his hair.

koby comes closer, closer, their bodies pressed flush and warm, his fingers sliding along the soft plane of his ribs, tripping tenderly over the line of one scar, tickling over the dusty nub of a nipple, to come rest at the side of his neck. he groans a little into the kiss when he's lectured again about bathing.

and, well. there's a look of surprise at the little order. ]

Oh. Well, then. I would hate for you to get impatient, for one, and I am a good sailor if there was one. I follow commands very well. Undress?

[ he tilts his head, a little playful, teasing and light, shining in his eyes. he's pleased that koby doesn't move, that he can use his grip on the man to draw him tighter, a hand sliding to the backside of a hip. ]

I have plenty of water. Don't you hear it? [ cheeky, but he can feel the rising heat on his back behind him. ] You could bathe with me. There's room enough for two. I thought you were still worried I had a head injury. [ he dips in, biting softly at koby's lips, then his jaw, up to his ear where he presses a kiss against the shell. ]

Handsome Cadet Navigator of the World of Seas, I am at your command.

[Prudency -- not to mention propriety -- dictates that Koby should leave, should have left a while ago, in fact. He doesn't stand on ceremony, has no upbringing that would've drilled him in such social graces, but one doesn't need a degree in etiquette to know it's slightly audacious to bathe with someone half an hour after meeting them. And yet, the facts: Koby's half-memorized Quentin’s taste, Koby fits snug against his chest, wrapped in his arms and, most important: he doesn't want to go.

He wants -- and his blunt nails curl against the back of Quentin’s neck, like he can hold on by will and stubbornness alone -- to surrender to every tempting promise in the voice against his ear. He wants to etch his own marks into Quentin’s skin, wants to leave him aching and charted with Koby's hands all over him, wants to haunt him, with a savagery that's a little frightening. Because he's beautiful. Because he knows maps and the sea. Because Koby's going to remember the way he tastes every time he shuts his eyes.]

Okay. [Soft, like the slip of sweat-stained silk off his shoulder. Like the way Koby leans against Quentin, temple to temple, cradles the back of his neck, a momentary pause in the frenetic urgency, very nearly tender. The shiver down his spine at the brush of roughened fingertips over his scars (numb), his nipple (not) is less gentle, though. That pools in Koby's stomach, molten heat, pulsing like a bruise, insistent and needy and nagging.

And Koby wonders, nudges closer between Quentin’s spread thighs, pressing his hips snug to the other man's, shifting slightly -- not quite a grind, nothing so suggestive, but the jut of his hipbone, the curve of his waist, seared so close he's sure Quentin can feel every contour of his body. Koby turns, lips close enough that they tease where ear and jaw meet when he speaks:] Then do what I said. Undress.

[Cheeks flushed with his own daring, pleased his voice had only slightly trembled, more from eagerness than nerves, Koby steps back, out of Quentin’s arms, his own going to press the slipping silky fabric against his chest, keep it in place. For now. Then, lifting his chin, arching both eyebrows:] I'm waiting.

[ koby draws in closer, their bodies slotting together with ease. he can feel the other’s heart beating, the heat of him, the fervent press of hipbone to hipbone. he’d be lying if he said the blood coursing through his body wasn’t already heading south, stirring and heated. it’s intoxicating, really, the way koby fits himself perfectly against his body, the growing confidence making it more enticing.

it’s the lips against his ear, the soft whisper, that has white-hot heat traveling down his spine. that makes his skin prickle with electricity, elicits a low, amused hum that’s precariously close to a moan. how funny it is to offer power to the person he’s bedding down with, but have it be shared between them like this.

oh, koby has his full attention - the impatience, the pretty flush on his cheeks. it’s tempting to disobey, to chase after kisses and have his hands wander his smaller frame. but no, he leans back, eyes meeting koby’s and a lazy grin pulls across his lips. like a cat who has gotten into the cream, who knows very well that though he’s given this offer of power? he is very much at the captain’s wheel, still.

he regrets koby’s departure - the heat of him already leaving his chest cold. he rises from the edge of the tub, ignoring the pull of pain in his side, in the tired muscles of his body. he’ll feel it tomorrow, surely, but he doesn’t think he’ll regret it. ]

Mm, as you wish. I hate to keep you waiting, but it gives me longer to look and admire my commander, does it not?

[ even as he begins to undo the button on his trousers, he lets his gaze rove over the man, hungry and wanting but appreciative all the same. the trousers fall to the ground, then, revealing dark briefs that outline the hard muscle of his thighs, from years of climbing perches and ships. he takes his time with his undergarments, peeling the waistband away from his sweaty, sticky body. he has no shame though, and it shows in the way he easily pulls them free, half-hard cock springing from the fabric, a dusting of dark hair from its base and trailing up to this chest.

he has a few scars and adornments, of course - an old, jagged thing over his right thigh, a few old marks along one hip, but the only one self inflicted? the the straight, silver bar through his left nipple. ]

Pleased?

[ the amused tone in his voice reeks of a confidence to know he doesn’t need to ask. ]

[Koby’s no exacting commander – not a commander at all, really, though it sends a pleasant, toe-curling shiver up his spine every time Quentin says it, even in teasing. If asked, he’d say gaining power was never the goal, never something he’d thought about extensively. Survival, that had been the focus of every day of the last two years – and honestly, every day preceding that, albeit less intently. He wants to help, he wants to please, he wants to (be good, be great, be unforgettable) do what he can to achieve his goals while protecting people, all things he’s dragged out as motivation to anyone who asks. But Vice-Admiral Garp had seen something, had seen what Koby could do, could be when he stopped overthinking, when he acted from his gut, from his impulses, and he’d approved (begrudgingly, sometimes) and that had been…well it had been intoxicating.

But this? Quentin rising slowly (not painlessly, the slight favoring of his side almost prompting Koby to call the entire thing off, to step back into fussing and doctoring and bossing around), standing tall and broad-shouldered and elegant in the way sailors have, the nimble quickness born of years adapting to the pitch and roll of a deck, the blistering wind in a crow’s nest, the lightning-quick reflexes necessary on something as powerful and dangerous and unpredictable as the sea. This has Koby openly, blatantly staring, not even trying to hide his wide-eyed enthrallment, both hands curling into the fabric held to his chest, eyes very wide, jaw actually dropping a little.

He’s never been good at hiding his emotions – they splash across his face like seasalt spray, vivid in those round eyes, the way he blinks again and again like he’s waiting for Quentin to – disappear, become less stunning, like looking into the sun. Koby half wants to turn away, incredulous that he’s the one standing here, watching the slow peel away of clinging dark fabric, that there isn’t some sort of catch, some cosmic trick. By the time Quentin’s done, standing bare and glorious and devastating, Koby’s mouth is quirked up into a grin, his cheeks red, his toes curling against the lush bathroom rug as his eyes drag over every (perfect, perfect) inch.

The question – not a question, Quentin knows damn well what the answer is – gets an emphatic nod, so earnest that Koby’s glasses slip down his nose and he shoves them up, a quick, jerky motion, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He’s flushed down his neck, over his sunburnt shoulders, and he looks deliriously happy.] I – yeah. Yes. Um. Yeah. [He could keep doing that, keep nodding and staring and admiring, but he also wants to get his hands back on Quentin, wants to map out every muscle, every scar, every old wound and tender place, wants to show what his mouth can’t quite articulate.

And then, like he’s coming back to himself, Koby blinks, looks down at his own barely-there clothes, clears his throat. Somehow, impossibly, he turns even more red, taking a deep breath and letting the top of the toga fall, letting it expose his chest, his stomach, catch at his hips for a long moment. There’s an urge to cross his arms, to hide – for no reason, he’s not nearly as underfed as he’d been when he first enlisted, the combination of regular food and enough sleep helping him fill out from the scrawny, nervous bundle of sharp hipbones and jutting ribs he’d been for years. Still, there’s a moment of hesitation, of steeling himself before he nudges the loose robe off, slipping down and puddling at his feet.

There’s a scrunch in his shoulders, an instinctive curling-in, because – there’s nothing underneath, there hasn’t been since the beginning, because every undergarment this stupid place has given Koby is brightly patterned and could’ve easily been seen under the near-sheer draping fabric. So: he’d forgone it entirely, had been (shamefully, secretly) thrilled by the lack of layers. But now it means Quentin can see – everything, the curve of his hips, the shiver in his thighs when they press together, the trail of (pink, yes) hair up from the apex of them. The fact that he’s a very different sort of man in a lot of ways.

The urge to bolt, to hide, is there, is evident in the fidget of Koby’s fingers, the aversion of his eyes, the way he -- waits. Doesn’t say anything. Flicks his eyes back up, catching Quentin’s with a raw, aching vulnerability in them. And, with more bravery than it had taken to defy the Marines, to step between Garp and Luffy – steps forward.]

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