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draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
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ππ ππππππ πππππππ ππ πππ π ππππ β£ 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 β 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 Β« CHARACTER NAME | CANON | NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEΒ» 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 isnβt, stay in bed and wallow β eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itβs normal for you. Maybe it isnβt.
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 β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt 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, youβll 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 heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt 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 doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt 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 doesnβt dissipate, though β 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, itβs 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. Itβs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
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 β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt 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, youβll 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 heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt 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 doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt 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 doesnβt dissipate, though β 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, itβs 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. Itβs 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.
Itβs 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 β 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 β a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youβll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods β six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) β as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereβs 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.
Itβs 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 β 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 β a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youβll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods β six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) β as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereβs 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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.
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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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? ]
no subject
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 subject
[ 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.
no subject
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 Quentinβs 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 Quentinβs bare, bloodcaked ribs.] Here? You don't think they're cracked, right? My medical skills only go so far.
[Then Quentinβs 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.
no subject
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. heβs 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. ]
Theyβre 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 itβs 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 shouldnβt be leaning into the space between them as it is, shouldnβt be closing the distance so that he may map kobyβs lips with his own, but he is, soft and sweet, nose bumping against his. itβs 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 kobyβs mouth, his own a slant of a smile all over again. ] My head, of course.
no subject
Except hereβs both, hereβs his hand pressing flat to Quentinβs side, finding the notch of ribs beneath muscle and getting blood between his fingers. Hereβs his pulse pounding beneath the hand against his neck, hereβs the cartography of his eyes closing and his breath catching and his nose bumping against Quentinβs when he leans in quicker, too quick, too clumsy, rising up on his knees and kissing him harder. Thereβs a hunger in it, a sunbaked starvation that Kobyβs tried covering up with uniforms and rules and regulations, but which is woven deeper than his skin. Very good, Quentin says, and itβs not praise, itβs 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 β to breathe, for the moment, pulling back suddenly, a shuddering gasp for air, squeezing his eyes shut, forehead resting against Quentinβs.] I β sorry. [Because heβs hurt, because heβs exhausted, because Koby doesnβt want him to assume he has to pay for this kindness. Because Koby wouldβve kissed him if he was injured or not, wouldβve helped him without kissing him, wouldβve--] Iβm sorry. Youβre β you donβt β 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 donβt 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 donβt have to give me anything, Quentin.
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but he doesnβt have to think about any of that here, his fingers curling against kobyβs 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. itβs 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 doesnβt 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 itβs just in his bones, the playacting heβs 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 kobyβs neck to tug him forward, to urge him back up to his feet so he doesnβt have to lean on an injured side. ]
Iβm only giving you what I also wish to take. Though Iβll 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 Iβm not a man to press where Iβm not wanted, I assure you.
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But what matters is:] I-Itβs wanted! I mean, youβre β wanted. [Earnest now, wide eyes and glasses slipping down his nose, rising up and resting both hands on Quentinβs thighs. Thereβs the jolt of heated realization that seated, Quentin is only slightly shorter than Koby is standing, the consciousness that thereβs that much of a difference in their size, and thereβs teeth in that lower lip again, a hitch of breath, a flicker of eyes lower. Just for a second, just β 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 Quentinβs 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 thatβs very nearly shy.]
I donβt want to go anywhere else. [Quieter, thumbs smoothing over a smear of dust, wiping it away from Quentinβs cheek.] I want you to stay here. If you want to. [Itβs a cautiously opened door, nudging through to β 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, justβ¦different. Koby tilts his head, feels the too-loose shoulder of his robe start to slip again. Lets it, cradling Quentinβs face.] Do you want to stay?
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[ 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. ]
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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.
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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.
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He wants -- and his blunt nails curl against the back of Quentinβs 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 Quentinβs 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 Quentinβs 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 Quentinβs 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.
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itβs 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 thatβs precariously close to a moan. how funny it is to offer power to the person heβs 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. itβs tempting to disobey, to chase after kisses and have his hands wander his smaller frame. but no, he leans back, eyes meeting kobyβs and a lazy grin pulls across his lips. like a cat who has gotten into the cream, who knows very well that though heβs given this offer of power? he is very much at the captainβs wheel, still.
he regrets kobyβs 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. heβll feel it tomorrow, surely, but he doesnβt think heβll 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 doesnβt need to ask. ]
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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 crowβs 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.
Heβs never been good at hiding his emotions β they splash across his face like seasalt spray, vivid in those round eyes, the way he blinks again and again like heβs waiting for Quentin to β disappear, become less stunning, like looking into the sun. Koby half wants to turn away, incredulous that heβs the one standing here, watching the slow peel away of clinging dark fabric, that there isnβt some sort of catch, some cosmic trick. By the time Quentinβs done, standing bare and glorious and devastating, Kobyβs 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 β not a question, Quentin knows damn well what the answer is β gets an emphatic nod, so earnest that Kobyβs glasses slip down his nose and he shoves them up, a quick, jerky motion, like he doesnβt quite know what to do with his hands. Heβs flushed down his neck, over his sunburnt shoulders, and he looks deliriously happy.] I β 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 canβt quite articulate.
And then, like heβs 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. Thereβs an urge to cross his arms, to hide β for no reason, heβs not nearly as underfed as heβd 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 heβd been for years. Still, thereβs a moment of hesitation, of steeling himself before he nudges the loose robe off, slipping down and puddling at his feet.
Thereβs a scrunch in his shoulders, an instinctive curling-in, because β thereβs nothing underneath, there hasnβt been since the beginning, because every undergarment this stupid place has given Koby is brightly patterned and couldβve easily been seen under the near-sheer draping fabric. So: heβd forgone it entirely, had been (shamefully, secretly) thrilled by the lack of layers. But now it means Quentin can see β 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 heβs 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 Kobyβs fingers, the aversion of his eyes, the way he -- waits. Doesnβt say anything. Flicks his eyes back up, catching Quentinβs 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 β steps forward.]
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what he doesn't expect? the slope of hips, the trail of pink hair to the tidy press of thighs together. it's foolish, really, how his cock twitches at the full sight of him, and how a low hum of approval rumbles from his throat. koby, at least a whole head shorter than him, made up of bone joints and soft sides and the most subtle curves - he's alluring, handsome, unexpected. everything about him - the nerves, the rambling, then combined with the sharp tongue and directives?
he wants to pull sweet koby apart, see what makes him lose track of his words, fumbling.
his body moves of its own accord, approaching koby and gathering his face in between his palms. he bends in to kiss him, hard and hungry and wanting - the intensity altogether different now that he's laid eyes on him. he licks filthily into koby's mouth, one hand falling to reach for his waist and drag him flush again, uncaring that one of his knees slots between his, that his half-dick slides up against the curve of one of those hips.
he kisses him like that until he needs to breathe, nudging their noses together, his voice nothing but a hoarse rasp. ]
I don't think I've met anyone who could surprise me so many times in one night. A medic, a navigator, cartographer, a lover of books, a lover of adventure - a truly Handsome Commander, indeed.
[ he reaches for koby's hand, linking their fingers playfully and giving a soft tug toward the bathtub where he takes one step into the heated water, then another, not releasing his hand the whole while. in fact, he leans in to kiss him again, murmuring against his lips as he pulls away, words nearly a purr: ]
I want to find out if you smell like ink on a summer day. If you taste like the sea. If you make sounds like those tricksy sirens in storybooks. Join me? Please.
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And then Quentin reaches for him, and for the first time in years, that damn voice is silent.
Koby shudders out a gasping laugh against Quentin's mouth, hands drawn back to his body like a compass pointing north, finding the ridge of his ribs, the contours of his chest and thrilling at the realization that they're already familiar. That he can close his eyes and seek Quentin's tongue with his, tilt his head back and surrender to the way he tastes, to the heat of his mouth, moaning open-mouthed against his kiss -- and still know the handspan from his waist to his chest, to the glint of silver in one nipple. Koby's thumb brushes against it, curiously, matched with his teeth closing on Quentin's lower lip, biting it the way he's imagined since the second they saw each other.
And then they're parting, and true to form, Koby's wide blue eyes are bright, his breathing shaky and hitched. Because he's crybaby Koby, because that's what he does, he wells up whenever he feels something, whenever something is good or bad or too big, too much. Quentin touching him, kissing him, Quentin gorgeous and naked and wanting him is so much, and yet when he steps back, Koby shivers at the loss of his body, thighs tightening together at the throb of want that pulses between them.]
Y-Yes, I -- I don't. Know what I taste like. [Koby immediately winces, stumbling over his own feet, fingers sliding between Quentin's and squeezing, thumb finding his knuckles and stroking over them. Callus to callus. But he's laughing, blushing, reaching to hook his glasses off his face and leave them on the counter by the sink, not caring if he loses track of them. They get in the way when kissing, he's learning.] But I -- do want to make sure you get clean too. And don't exert yourself too much.
[He says, already naked and following Quentin into the bath, his shoulders loosening a little at the luxurious heat, the steaming water. Having running water is never something Koby takes for granted. And while exertion isn't something Koby's signing off on, he does immediately try to get as close to Quentin as possible, once they're both settled in the huge tub. In his lap, if he can manage it.]
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it also earns koby an appreciative groan, his eyes fluttering a moment. to be touched tenderly paired with the eager little bite - no less matched with the ache in his bones, well. it's an intoxicating combination. he lets the moment remain fleeting as he settles down into the water with a low hiss, a pleased sound, the warmth already making muscles in his back relax.
he notes the little welling at the corners of koby's eyes behind large, round frames. he'll deal with that soon enough, but he holds onto the man's hand as he steps into the bath, being sure he doesn't slip on the porcelain. sailors are good in water, but things like this? well, he's seen the wrong side of a bathtub himself on a few occasions. ]
You cannot help but worry, can you? I think it's in your bones, the way you fret and fuss. I've no doubt I'll get clean, but no chances I'll stay that way - and as for the exertion? Well, Sweet Commander, it all depends on how you define exertion, doesn't it?
[ not a criticism, no, but amused and light, even as his eyes travel the line of koby's body as he climbs into the bath. it's a good sight - take him to the courts over it! he thinks at first koby might settle on the opposite end of the bath, but makes a surprised, pleased sound as koby settles into his lap. his free arm immediately loops round his waist, dragging him closer in his lap (and invariably across the already hardening cock beneath him). he keeps his hand settled low on his back, fingers stroking the soft skin beneath the water. the other? he keeps their fingers tangled, bringing koby's hand to his lips, brushing little kisses over each knuckle, eyes on koby's face the whole time. ]
Before I kiss you again, [ thoughtful, his mouth traveling along koby's palm, his wrist. ] You don't have to hide your tears. If they're for any reason other than enjoying all of this, I insist you tell me. If you don't, you're leaving me without a compass on wild waters and high winds. I'd much prefer to know I'm pointed north.
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[Would he have helped anyone? Yes, of course. Would there had been this sort of connection, this spark of recognition? Koby doesn't think so, can't imagine that thrilling sense of being seen that had swept through him when Quentin said he was a navigator too, a sailor, a charter of maps and explorer of seas. It was something unique, something that could have even Koby's careful, logical, constantly-overthinking mind believing in things like magic, like fate.
Up close, there are little scars mixed in with the freckles and callus on Koby's hands, the result of years of scrubbing decks on his hands and knees, the rough grain of the wood catching at his knuckles, making them bleed. That and the jagged, poorly-healed scars on his chest are his only major marks -- Koby had lived the last two years pathologically avoiding any other reason to be hurt, had kept himself small and unobtrusive. Invisible.]
Well, I wouldn't want to do that. [Feeling very visible, Koby rubs at his eyes, at the glasses marks on the bridge of his nose.] I cry at most things, it's -- just what I've always done. Sort of stupid. [A sort of shivery inhale, then Koby's shifting slightly, knees on either side of Quentin's hips, pressing back against his half-hard cock. Not quite grinding, just the slow slide of his spread thighs, the rock of his hips, feeling out how they fit together, how everything inside him aches with wanting to show Quentin exactly what he means by exertion.
Biting at his lip again, harder this time, whole body shivering despite the heat of the water, Koby manages to say, as fervently as he can:] But I promise you, there's n-nothing at all wrong. Except that I'm still worried that you're in pain, so... [Licking his lips, rocking his body again, the press of his ass back against Quentin's dick much more deliberate this time.] Can I...distract you? Maybe?
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[ quentin seems serious for a moment, brow pinching as he looks up into koby's face, kissing along his forearm now, to the crook of his elbow where he decidedly swipes his tongue, tasting sweat and dirt and sun. it's impossible, however, to ignore the subtle movements in the other's hips, the water making the slide easier but changes very little for the friction.
he hums, smiling against koby's skin, biting softly at the swell of a bicep. the hand at koby's back moves as those thighs spread around him, fingers trailing down to the soft muscle of his ass, gripping one and kneading it in his callused palm, then down to grip the underside of his thigh.
he leans forward enough that his mouth follows the line of koby's arm, his shoulder, to his neck, and its there he moans low against his skin, huffing an airy little laugh after. ]
You've been distracting me for longer than you think. [ the press of koby's ass against his waking dick is delicious and the burst of confidence amid the nerves? it makes him feel wildly warm, his cock thickening, lining up so perfectly against the cleft of his pert ass. ] I'm not in so much pain that I can't enjoy you and this bath. So my order to you this evening? [ he tips his head back, keeping one hand on koby's thigh and the other falling to his ass, dragging him back forward over his aching cock, applying presser for him as he gently rolls his hips up to meet his body. ]
Don't worry about me or the pain, and I'll vow to tell you if it's too much. I very much want you right now, and it is worth any minor ailment.
[ then and only then does his mouth slide down to his collar bone, thankful suddenly that koby is in his lap as it makes it all too easy for his tongue to swipe the nipple he'd teased earlier, swirling the flat of it over the nub, coaxing. there might even be the softest graze of teeth, too. ] Are the terms agreeable, Sweet Commander?
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I guess i-if that's an order... [Stammered, shuddery breaths, pitching into a higher, pleading whine when Quentin moves away, because every tease of his lips, tickle of his teeth is devastating, and Koby can feel his heart pulsing between his legs, cunt throbbing like a bruise and he doesn't want to go too fast, because of course he's still going to worry, albeit less intensely. But he's also rapidly moving from want to need, especially when Quentin drags him along the swelling length of his cock, slipping thick and hard so close that it gets a huffy, impatient sound.
One arm's made it's way around Quentin's neck, tangling in his hair, like Koby needs to hold on for stability, fingers tightening every time their hips shift, every time there's that maddening, too-slow friction. He's being asked a question and -- honestly how can Quentin still speak in that smooth, lilting, effortless way, half sailor, half poet, when Koby feels like he's going to die if he doesn't get something inside him right now?
But right, question -- hazy-eyed, it takes Koby a moment to focus, breath coming shaky from kiss-swollen, parted lips. He nods, trying to think about anything besides Quentin's cock against his ass, Quentin's mouth seared over his collarbone, his chest, his peaked, pointed nipple. It's not at all successful, evident in the way Koby whines open-mouthed, desperate, blunt nails against the back of Quentin's neck, urging him closer, sparks of sensitivity jolting down his spine, hitching his hips so he can rut against Qunetin's hard length, nudge it between spread thighs, spread folds.]
Y-Yeah, yes, it's -- they're g-good, they're -- really good. [The tears are back, thick in Koby's voice as he drops his head forward, finds Quentin's ear and manages in a moan:] Just -- don't stop, please, please.
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his mouth tilts, sliding with sloppy eagerness to the other nipple. he can't let go any of him go untouched, but the bath indeed limits things. his dick, at the easy slide of koby's hot cunt over him, is almost painfully hard already, one hand helping to guide the movements in his lap. at least for a moment - instead, when he feels the the way koby's body practically parts in wanting for him, he moans loudly against that perfect little nipple, letting his tongue lap lazily before he provides a soft, short suck. enough to leave a little mark in his fair skin. ]
Oh I'm not going to stop, Koby. [ the name - no nickname. he has no capacity for pleasantries, for platitudes. his voice comes out husky and raw, his hips rising a few times to meet the downward slide of koby's hips. on one backslide, the hand at koby's thigh slides in, enough that when he parts his own legs enough to give some room, he presses the flat of his palm against what, when not in a bath, he's sure would be koby's sopping cunt.
his legs come back together and as koby ruts on him, it's his palm that goes instead, but one pass might bring a finger to the tight ring of his entrance, then out, teasing. ]
You are incredibly alluring when you're falling apart. But try something for me - [ he smiles a little, mouth bruised and swollen kiss-pink. ] - don't let go until I tell you that you can. I promise it will feel good.
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But then Quentin says his name. And the nicknames are fun, delightful in a way that Koby can't quite untangle, making him fluster and blush, but the sound of his name (his, entirely Koby's, chosen for himself, the first thing he'd ever chosen) has him almost immediately disobeying the following request. There's a shivering little inhale, both Koby's hands finding their way to grab onto Quentin's broad, beautiful shoulders, steadying himself.
Try something for me, Quentin says, and Koby's immediately ready to do it, anything, anything he's asked, no matter how impossible. And not finishing, not coming just from the delicious press of Quentin's finger inside him, feels incredibly impossible at that moment. Koby's honestly not sure he'll last through another searing press of their mouths together, that he'll withstand the aching need to release the coiling heat that's been building in him since the arena.
But he nods, of course. Because Quentin's asking it -- not commanding, not demanding, but requesting, with that curl of a smile, with the soft heated force of his eyes fixed on Koby, with the palm of his hand promising to be a hell of a lot better than Koby's own quick, hasty experiences getting himself off. Koby nods, gnaws his lower lips (a near-constant habit, that and the fidget of his fingers, tapping where Quentin's neck and shoulder meets), rolls his hips again, experimentally, the shivery length of his chest, his stomach, his hips sealing against Quentin's chest for a long, lingering moment.]
Y-Yeah, I can -- try. [Another of those huffy sounds, a shifting grind of his cunt against the calluses he's becoming very fond of, and Koby's eyes flutter shut, thighs shivering with the feeling.] You really don't make that easy, though, you know.
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he keeps his palm where it is, back of it being ground down against his own aching prick while his palm, upward, applies some pressure with every roll of the other man's hips. he lets the length of his middle finger slide into the heat of his cunt as he grinds down, each movement drawing his finger deeper and he turns his head, kissing koby's neck, his free hand sliding to koby's ass, encouraging his little grinds, bearing more weight down. ]
I believe you can do it. [ he whispers low in his ear, nosing into the soft pink hair at his temples. ] But if you can't, then don't hold back. Let me try and work you open, get you ready, but I promise I'll give you what you want. Can't deny it's everything I want, too.
[ because the divine heat of koby around his finger is already overwhelming, the smell of sweat and whatever soap he uses - light and fresh and sunbaked. he licks softly at the shell of his ear once, his own moan dropping against he soft skin as he adds a second finger, not quite fucking into him but letting koby's motions ground down on him. ]
You feel so good, you know that? [ there's a huff, his voice hoarse with want, mouthing the words on his jaw. ]
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