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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
A little longer, a little -
[ he leans in for a biting, bruising kiss. desperate and needy and anything to feel the pretty sounds of koby begging on his lips. it's open-mouted, hot and sliding tongues and searing teeth into a lip that has been bitten over and over by koby himself. all the while he moves glacially slow, fucking up into him with intent, growling low into their shared kiss when koby's walls clamp down. ]
You're so - are you a siren? Your mouth so pretty - your - your cunt immaculate. Shit -
[ the pressure building in the low of his belly is beginning to make him incoherent, his hips thrusting up a little faster, hands undoubtedly going to leave a bruise on the skin for the way he's holding on. ]
Go on - you're - good boy, come on. Come for me. I want to - I need to - feel you around -
no subject
And, of course, Koby will remember what does it, what actually makes him let go an instant before permission arrives -- good boy. It sears down his spine, it makes him moan against Quentin's mouth, one hand cupping the back of his neck, the other at his shoulder, clinging white-knuckled as those two words hit him with the force of a gale wind, with the power of a tidal wave. It's probably a little cliche, yeah, but the praise feels so damn good, triumph thrumming through Koby's body along with that unbearable build of heat and pleasure he's been fighting this entire time, and then it snaps, a rope pulled taut, a sail filled with wind, salt and sea in his mouth and steam in his hair and pooled in the hollow of his throat.
There's an instant of clarity, of I need to, he needs, I need to give, a thousand half-formed thoughts that turn into Koby driving back onto Quentin's cock, taking him to the hilt so he can feel it, feel the release, the shivering, clenching, tightening clutch of slick, wet heat around every inch of him. And then there's nothing but heat and light and Koby gasping out--] Y-yes, yesyesyes, god, Quentin, yes-- [--as he comes on his cock, as Quentin fucks him through it, as any thoughts of someone overhearing them absolutely vanish, any thoughts beside yes and more and please and the sharp, gasp of QuentinQuentinQuentin over and over again. His back arches, head going back, toes curling and every muscle strained and singing and liquid with how good it feels.
And still, despite it all, Koby manages, eyes glazed and hazy and locked on Quentin, to plead:] Don't -- don't stop, don't stop, need you t-to -- [To come as well, to feel this deliriously good, to lose himself just as much as Koby is, even if each movement just prolongs that devastating peak of pleasure again and again.]
no subject
koby comes undone around him and the sound that leaves quentin's throat is near feral against the man's mouth, licking against his chin, his lips, to the roof of his mouth like koby is withholding some sweet nectar he must taste. the little bites of nails in his sholder, the way his hair pulls, everything about the way koby handles him lacking the sweetness but full of desperation. it makes his blood sing hot, his hips making water slosh messily around them as his pace speeds up, feeling desperately squeezed and milked and sucked dry by the way koby moves over him.
he has enough sense - only just - to lean forward, mouth latching against a collar bone, sucking against the skin and blooming a red mark there. ]
I need to - [ soft, panted, desperate, little low moans tumbling from his hips with every motion of his hips. ] You want it? Inside? [ where? their future will hold so many options - along the line of his stomach, over the sweet scars on his chest, his face, those pouty lips - anywhere, anywhere, anywhere. ]
Koby. [ the urgency to answer him, to allow him relief in return. ]
no subject
So he doesn't tease -- not knowingly, though he does rock his hips lazily in Quentin's lap, rides the urgent thrusts with blissful calm, still shivering through aftershocks and not so oversensitive that it's too much. He finds the damp curls tumbling into Quentin's face, smooths them back with shaky hands, smiles at the need, the hunger in how the man moans his name. That -- Koby could listen to that for the rest of his life, and he feels too damn good to realize how dangerous that feeling is.]
Yeah. [Soft, breathy, a shift of his hips, a shuddering clench around Quentin's cock, coaxing, permitting, inviting.] Inside, you -- [He leans in, catches Quentin's mouth again, cradles his face like he had when doctoring his wounds, when cleaning away blood and watching the weariness and mirth war in those dark eyes. Koby kisses him, twice, three times, breathes against his mouth:] Go on, you can, I've got you. [He's not sure where that last comes from, that promise, that reassurance that's too sweet for a heated, hasty encounter. Maybe it's that Koby doesn't know how to be anything other than a bleeding heart, than an open hand and an earnest voice, than clumsy kisses and the press of his still-shivering body against Qunetin's. Maybe he's sweet all the way through, despite the best efforts of more than one world.]
no subject
i've got you, koby says and something in quentin snaps, one hard thrust and his whole body goes wire-tight, tense and full of white-hot heat. he cums hard and fast, dick twitching and throbbing as he spills deep into koby, hot and desperately, rolling his hips through the mad rush of he orgasm, murmuring the other man's name into their little kisses, his arms wrapping tightly around him and crushing him to his chest.
close, close, close - they can't get any closer than they are now, with their chests flattened together, his cock in that perfect, weeping cunt, their mouths pressing in frantic breathy kisses. his whole body shudders through the aftershock, and only after a few moments of quiet does he come up for air on a breathy laugh, mouth dragging over koby's cheek, his jaw, his chin, then licking slow and languid into his mouth all over again. ]
You're so good, you know that? So, so good. [ his words are a hazy rambling, some of the learned charm falling away to reveal the man who is nothing but a sailor, a navigator, just a man. ] You taste like the sea.
no subject
But then, after the shudder of catching breaths and the slow settling of racing hearts, just barely out of sync, Koby's pressed against Quentin's, thrumming in his chest, his neck, his shaky thighs and the shivery heat still snug around Quentin's cock, there's those hazy words of praise. And they're not needed, because this is the after, this is where they can part, where it can end, where there's no need to woo any longer. Koby had half-expected Quentin to disentangle himself, to kiss once, twice more, to return to his task in water cooled from scalding to lukewarm. He would've...been fine with that (he thinks, he lies).
Instead, though, Quentin murmurs praise against Koby's kiss-bruised mouth, holds him like he has no intention of letting go, and it sends a throb of something dangerous and lovely through the younger man's chest. It makes him smile, without a hint of shyness, just bright and warm and adoring, every emotion painted across his flushed face. You taste like the sea, Quentin says, and Koby actually laughs, catches the corner of his mouth for one more kiss, then shifting back just slightly, shivering a little at the shift of Quentin going soft inside him.]
Not too much? You aren't hurting worse, right? [Fussy, always fussy, trembly hands grabbing for soap, for a washcloth, then settling into Quentin's lap and taking a couple steadying breaths.] You can lean back, but don't fall asleep in the bath, that's dangerous. [Koby smooths Quentin's hair back, away from the mostly-clotted gash on his forehead, thumbing around it gently to make sure it isn't bleeding again.] I'll braid this back, after I wash it, so you don't get it in your face. Okay?
[As if it's already decided. As if it's obvious that the next step after (incredible, earth-shattering, mind-blowing) sex is hair-washing. There isn't even a moment of hesitation.]
no subject
he comes down from the absolute high of his orgasm and sighs, molten and pliable and grinning like a cat who has spilled the cream and drank it up in one go. ] Not hurting at all.
[ well. his cock is sensitive, still buried and going soft inside of koby but he doesn't make any notion to move. the only move he makes his raising one leg which invariably bumps koby a tiny bit, so he can nudge the hot water back on with his toes. they've splashed enough out that top-off won't hurt. he leans back like he's told, which just gives him a better view of koby's body splayed atop his lap. and he admires the look of him, sweaty and damp, hair curling at the ends and body flushed with little traces of his own mouth. the puffy nipples, the scars, the flat plane of his belly and well, yes. where they're joined beneath the water.
his palms slide up, ghosting patterns along koby's sides, down to his thighs where he traces little shapes into his skin. ]
All that and you're warning me on falling asleep? Washing my hair?
[ he laughs brightly, reaching for the hand touching the clotted cut on his brow and dragging it to his mouth, kissing his palm softly. ]
Go on then, sweet little Commander, I won't stop you. I don't think I could if I tried and I'd much rather not garner your wrath. Are you a vengeful sea siren? Do you sing your worrisome little songs to spite my stubbornness?
[ it's a wash cloth and soap he steals from koby's hand, lathering the fabric with the sage smelling bar. if koby doesn't hurry up, quentin's going to start either bathing himself or bathing koby. maybe both. ]
no subject
But --] I'm a very motivated siren, not a vengeful one. [It comes out breathless, on a shivered sigh at the tickle of Quentin's hands on oversensitive skin. Mind and body are at a disagreement, the former focused on the initial goal of cleanliness while the latter just wants to see how long it takes before Quentin's ready for round two. Koby shifts his hips, experimentally tightens around the half-hard length still buried inside him, teethes at his bruised lower lip against a whimpering sigh.
And then Quentin steals the washcloth, and Koby is focused again, frowning and scrunching his nose as he grabs for it, brow knitting in disapproval.] And I don't think anything could stop your stubbornness. I've known you less than a day and that much is evident. [Very snippy for someone still sitting on the man's cock, Koby. But he plucks the lathered washcloth away, softens his snark with a firm kiss to Quentin's cheek, his chin, his nose.] So -- I'll ask nicely.
Let me help you. [Finding Quentin's mouth, free hand coming to his face again, soft, stroking over the bruising there, half from the arena, half from Koby himself.] Please. Just -- lie back and let me take care of you.
no subject
[ he grins a little, almost doggishly in the way he enjoys their banter. koby is as stubborn as a tide ripping into the shore - persistent, of course, and strong. maybe it's that paired with the open eagerness that catches his attention. two things that do not usually go hand in hand and yet here they are, packaged up in a boy who sits in his lap, speared on his half hard cock, covered in little marks.
he's exquisite, really.
he relinquishes the washcloth, opens his mouth to return but is halted by the soft kisses that travel the line of his face, and his breath catches a little, surprised. his eyes flutter closed, leaning into the kiss a little earnestly, breathing him in and letting his hands fall back to koby's hips, idly resting there, thumbing the soft skin at the front of them. ]
Well, then. [ quiet, his eyes half lidded when he pulls back, enough to nudge their noses together. ] You make it very difficult to argue with you.
[ he smiles a little, kissing him softly once more, catching his bottom lip between his and leaning in, chasing the warmth and sweetness of him. it's easier to kiss and touch and fuck and not worry about himself. bumps and bruises and cuts will heal - they always do. it's strange - he usually goes by now - disentangles himself and wishes cutesy little goodbyes with a promise of another night, another day. he means his word, too, but this? this is different.
he gives a sigh in mock defeat and relaxes back as he'd been instructed, dark eyes peering up at him from under heavy, dark lashes. ]
You will be very disappointed after all this care when you find out I'm nothing but a lecherous scallywag. Don't say I didn't warn you, Koby.
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But he wants to. He wants to follow that thread of raw, aching honesty he can still hear in the way Quentinβs breath catches. He wants to push and prod and untangle and confront whatever it is that makes Quentin stunned by kindness, again and again, much as he tries to hide it. Koby is a notorious overthinker, but he's also sharp, observant, putting together patterns somewhere behind those serious, wide eyes. And he's caught it, each time that Quentinβs carefully-crafted facade slips, every time there's a glimmer of something raw and vulnerable beneath.
And he wonders -- who taught you to hide that? Why? For how long? What can I do to show you that you don't have to anymore?
Koby doesn't say any of that, though, instead just waiting for Quentin to settle back before setting to work soaping up his shoulders, his collarbone and chest. There's -- granted, there's a little bit of lingering, of still-trembly fingertips gently rubbing in circles at dried blood or streaky grime. And Koby is very much still naked, still literally in Quentinβs lap, unable to hide the effect touching him has, the involuntary shivers, the subtle way he shifts his hips and squeezes around Quentin still inside him.
It's -- surprisingly nice, the softening warmth, the sensation of still being full, connected, even as the frenetic heat of moments before has faded. Even once he's finished lathering up Quentinβs front, his chest and stomach and shoulders and all down his (perfect, also perfect) arms, Koby lingers for a moment, taking one of Quentinβs hands. There's not much blood or grime there, but Koby circles his thumbs over the broad, callused palm regardless, looking down at the lines and creases, like he can find the answers to all his questions there.
When he speaks, it's soft, like the curl of his hair where it's still damp against his forehead, like the warmth of Quentinβs other hand at his hip:] I don't think you're going to disappoint me, Quentin. [Koby looks up, blue eyes serious, but still soft, still warm, tracing the calluses of Quentinβs hand like he already has them memorized.] You haven't yet.
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he even enjoys the way koby squirms in his lap, the way the velvety walls of koby's cunt squeeze around him from time to time, bringing some blood back to his sensitive and softened prick. he's a simple man, really, and he hums low in his throat, the sound no doubt vibrating through him. ]
Oh, little Handsome Commander, [ he says lazily, eyes opening and watching the way koby traces the lines of his palm. ] Give me time. It's only been a few hours - at least let me believe that until morning. Afterall, you did all the work here.
[ there's a hand that falls to rest low on koby's stomach, and quentin's own hips give a squirm as a reminder, a little grin pulling over his lips. ] When I get you to bed who knows what fumbles you'll experience.
[ it's easier to shield the soft, fleshy thing in his chest, all vulnerable and human. kept behind lock and key, iron bars and the careful cage of bones. ]
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Itβs too soon to tell if thatβs part of what Quentin feels, if the sidesteps and drawling words are genuine, or if that soft look he gets when he closes his eyes, the way he relaxes into the careful, meticulous touch is the truth instead. Itβs a puzzle, still β but Koby does love those.
So he rolls his eyes fondly, lets Quentin put up his guard, deflect with that grin and the wiggle of his hips, prompting a soft, low gasp at the spark of oversensitivity, at the realization that Koby is very much ready to just β go again, a second round, a third, a fourth. He actually glances over towards his bedroom, the open door, the steam from the bath swirling out and no doubt making the entire suite foggy and heated. But then β no, he has a task to do, and with a deliberate squeeze around Quentinβs cock, once more, Koby slowly rises up on his knees, unable to resist the soft whine of loss.]
B-Back first. [Insistent, firm, like he doesnβt immediately want to sink back down, like there isnβt a near-unbearable emptiness as soon as Quentinβs softened length slides free. Koby shivers, bites at the corner of his mouth, resisting the urge (barely, just barely) and leaning back against the opposite side of the tub, just out of Quentinβs reach. The water is still warm, still nearly scalding, but he still hunches his shoulders against the chill that comes from not being in Quentinβs lap anymore, preoccupying himself with rinsing out the washcloth and soaping it up again.] Turn around, let me get your hair clean too. [Making Quentin do all the work, because heβs too busy pressing his thighs together, resisting the fervent impulse to reach down, to press his fingers up inside his cunt and chase that delicious feeling of fullness again. Maybe later.]
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You're hardly any fun.
[ but there's a softness to his smile as he shifts in the water, careful not to bump koby, turning slowly, presenting his back to him. he's well muscled, years of pulling ropes and climbing and ship work to finely craft the curves of is back and shoulders. there are a few bruises blooming up from the fight, but no cuts - just dirt, sweat, and likely the blood of an opponent.
looking over his shoulder, head tipping up at koby, his eyes wander to his mouth. ]
So you must kiss me for my efforts. I am injured, remember.
[ it's all playful, but the longer he's sat there's a clear bruise rising under the skin of his side where he'd been in pain earlier. give it time and he'll be delightfully black and blue come morning. ]
And when you're finished with me, Commander, I will see to it you're clean and washed up. I would be a terrible guest if I didn't.
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Still. Itβs a nice back and itβs a nice moment of softness, which bleeds easily into a moment of concern when Koby sees that forming bruise. He frowns, brow furrowed, even as he rises up on his knees and absently kisses the side of Quentinβs mouth, eyes never leaving the mark.] You are. I remember. Iβll be careful. [One palm presses lightly to the edges of the bruise, feeling for the shift of bone that would speak of breaks, then Koby huffs, pulls his gaze away and leans up against Quentinβs back to kiss him properly.] We should wrap that, when youβre dry. Keep it from aching so much.
[One more kiss, a moment of flushed, heated, wet bodies pressed together, Kobyβs stomach and scarred chest to Quentinβs broad back, then back to the task at hand. The careful, meticulous scrubbing is back, circles to coax away the blood and the grime, then a squeeze of the sodden cloth to rinse. Thereβs a methodical thoughtfulness to it, to the lull in conversation, just the sound of water and suds and the soft βhmβ sounds Koby makes when he encounters a bruise. He always pauses there, switching from the cloth to his hands instead, so he can be especially gentle, so he can thumb away the dirt and dried sweat with the lightest touch possible. Once or twice he lingers, stroking around the edge of one injury or another, noting in his mind β not all of them are fresh. Some are old, scattered over Quentinβs throat or shoulders, same as the bruises on his front. It sparks more questions, more pieces fitting one into another, but Koby doesnβt say anything.
Not until this last comment, given right as heβs rinsing Quentinβs back and shoulders for a final time. He makes a mild, indignant sound, setting the cloth aside and reaching up to gather Quentinβs damp curls back away from his forehead, his neck.] Iβm not the unclean one here. I wasnβt rolling around in the dust trying to punch people. Lie back, get your hair wet. [That huffy, bossy tone is back, even as Kobyβs fingers card gently through each curl, coaxing out dried blood or grime, twining the coils carefully to protect the shape. Once Quentin obeys β how can he not, with such a demanding commander? β Koby cups water with one hand, pouring it gently over the thick mass of dark curls, ensuring theyβre fully soaked. He adds, after a moment, in a soft voice:] If I need cleaning, whose fault is that, hm? [A bit of a cheeky question, considering Quentinβs very nearly lying in his lap, but Kobyβs still throbbing, sensitive inside, well-aware that when he stands it wonβt be just water streaming down his legs.]
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But you've just shared a bath with said dusty, dirty, bloody devil. Never mind I could taste the sweat on your skin. Like I said - you taste like the sea.
[ he does as he's told, however, leaning back until he's in the water, practically in koby's lap. he lets his hair soak but his eyes flit up to koby - where he can see the pout of his lips, the little marks he's left. he has to grab the edge of the tub to sit up after, staying reclined enough so that koby doesn't have to reach for him and so that he can rest against koby's thighs again. ]
To your satisfaction? [ another teasing job, but his eyes shutter, letting the man pour water and run fingers through his hair. it even coaxes out a low, heady groan. ]
But you're right - it's my fault you need cleaning. But I suppose there are more ways than one to solve that problem.
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It's all a little too much to sort out when naked and occupied with untangling the glorious mess of curls, so Koby puts it aside until later. Instead he grabs for the shampoo, something a bit more floral than the soap -- light, not too overpowering, just the faintest scent of lilac and linen. It's subtle enough that Koby doesn't feel like he's suffocating when he uses it, and it's poured liberally into Quentin's now-damp hair, before Koby sets about lathering it up. He'd been skilled with the general bathing, but his fingers positively fly through this, like he's been handling long, tangled curls for years.]
There is. There's a shower right over there. [Koby says it matter-of-factly enough that it'd be easy to assume he's just that oblivious. But it's accompanied with him tugging gently at his grip in Quentin's hair, pulling him back to rest fully on Koby's thighs, so the younger man can smile at him upside-down.] I don't think that's what you meant though, is it? [A shake of his head, clever fingers buried to the knuckle in sudsy curls, then dragging down from root to tip.] You're insatiable, you know. Close your eyes.
[One hand scoops up more water, rinsing out the soap, another moves to shield Quentin's face so he doesn't get shampoo running down into his eyes. It's another of those automatic, careful gestures, all of them layering one upon another to say the same thing, again and again -- this isn't just for sex, isn't just for fun. Koby meant what he said, when he asked to help, when he said let me take care of you, and he means to make the most of the time he's allowed.]
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this is all different, of course, and he closes his eyes on command, not that it's hard to. he sighs deeply, so much of his tension leaving his body as koby's hands work, and he hums, amused, at the little tug. ]
Mm, a shower? No. But keep doing that and I'm not sure we'll leave this tub. Which would be a shame because then I really couldn't do much about getting you cleaned up.
[ there's the implication that he likes the hair pulling (oh, he does), and the implication of course that he would like to spend time with his head and newly washed hair pressed between koby's thighs (he very much wants this). but for the moment he settles, breathing evening out a little as koby works, as he settles against the boy in the heat of the back, skin on skin.
it's wildly intimate - and he's had softer encounters with his port stops throughout his life. tender barmaids and sweet pageboys, the ones who know how much it means to be cared for on a rough sea. the ones who travel and know that a tiny fleck of humanity goes such a long way. but this feels like much more - let me take care of you, koby said, and quentin believes him. how can he not with his open, wide eyes and his quick reactions, his kneejerk snipping. ]
You're good at this.
[ the wine may be hitting now, too, making him pliant and lazy, his head tipping back and a hand skirting the line of koby's leg beneath him. thank goodness the tubs are big. ]
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More than that, he enjoys watching the tension leave Quentin's face, smooth out from between his brows, loosen from around his smirking, teasing mouth. One roughened thumb strokes over one temple, tracing slow circles there, as if to ward off any worry. As if that'd be enough.] I wouldn't mind being a fish. Or maybe a dolphin. [Koby's voice goes softer, the faint accent easier to parse out now, a bit of a twanging drawl that would mark him as East Blue, were he in the real world. But he isn't. He's in this one, warm and wet and pleasantly sore, that spark of wanting stirred back up by the weight of Quentin against his lap, by the inky cling of curls between his fingers.
There's that urge to lean down, to kiss Quentin again, to send the day hurtling back towards the steamy, hazy heat of their bodies entwined, to collect on the teasing implication hidden in that smiling, rumbling voice. There's also an urge to ask Quentin to stay, to spend the night, to let Koby keep looking after him, keep showing him again and again that he'd made the right choice following a scrawny, nervous, awkward little sailor up the steps, into his room, into his arms. At the heart of both is something that's been throbbing like a bruised rib this entire time -- he doesn't want this to be the only time he sees Quentin. One way or another.
A slow inhale, then Koby starts dividing Quentin's hair into sections, starting at the crown of his head and beginning to braid, an intricate pattern that gathers more and more sections as he braids down towards Quentin's neck. A French braid, it'd be called in some pockets of the universe, but Koby has no idea what France is.] My hair used to be much longer. I got good at braiding it to keep it out of the way. [A beat.] It wasn't as pretty as yours, though.
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[ he hums, teasing him again and stretching languidly in koby's lap, the fingers weaving in and out of his curls so soothing in a way he's never experienced. ]
It feels like you'll get yourself in a tangle like this.
[ but koby explains and he hums thoughtfully, listening to his story and trying to imagine the fair-faced boy with long hair. it would suit him in a way, and quentin wonders what it would be like to thread his fingers through it and give little tugs and pulls. but he can immediately connect why the long hair went, why the koby he's meeting now is different from the one who came long before. ]
I like your hair. The color. Unusual, but memorable. I could never forget a fellow navigator with pink hair - with those big eyes and glasses - no less that stubborn tongue. You are stuck to the very roof of my skull, whether you wish to be or not, my fellow navigator.
[ he laughs a little, feeling the way the braid starts to come to an end. he's miserably impatient, but pleasantly sated. he shouldn't turn, he shouldn't roll to his stomach in the bath, in koby's lap but he does anyway, arms reaching for the tub to bracket koby in, legs sprawled behind him in the water as he pulls himself up into koby's space and kisses him hard, slow, his own body still burning from the afterglow. ]
It means I must spend all night scrubbing the very image of you out of my mind. It will be a long, laborious task. One that will mean I need supervision from the lands' finest medic.
[ he nudges their noses together, playful and tired and laughing against koby's mouth. ] You simply cannot kick me out. Your bed is far closer than mine - you wouldn't want me to get injured on the way to my rooms would you?
[ all that to say: please invite me to stay. our time can't be up yet. ]
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Quentin smiles up at him, sleepy and fond and sweet-scented, Quentin calls him unforgettable, in so many words, and Koby's smiling before he can stop it. There's an ache in his chest the shape of that grin, and Koby knows better than to hope for impossibilities -- but then, he's hidden away under layers and uniforms and scrunched shoulders for so, so long. But: he's here now, unveiled, unmasked, bare-chested and soft-smiled, with Quentin bright and beaming in his lap. There's something impossible.
Koby's about to reply when Quentin moves, and there's a brief frown of concern, both hands reaching out to ease the movement --] Careful, you're hurt -- [--but then Quentin is there, warm and broad and glorious, like some sort of sea god, rising from the depths to bewitch and beguile poor sailors.
Poor sailors who immediately reach out, who lean forward and curl both arms around said sea god's necks, pull them closer and kiss them deep. Stupid, foolish sailors who surrender immediately to the tricky twist of wind or fate, who murmur:] You shouldn't be doing anything laborious. Not while you're recovering.
[And, eyes wide, lashes damp from the steamy air, thumb finding Quentinβs cheek and tracing the sharp shape:] You should stay. If -- you want to. [An inhale, chest pressing against Quentinβs, the contact like the wind filling sails, the snap of rope and canvas and the scent of salt.] I want you to.
Stay.
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[ he hums when kobyβs arms wrap his neck, when he cannot help but sweep one of his own arms behind the smaller man, dragging their bodies closer again, the warmth of him against the cooling bath water enough to make hime want to stay pressed close. he imagines what it would be like setting sail with koby - wind in their hair and the seas open before them. but that will always be a sailorβs dream, wonβt it?
he sighs against kobyβs mouth, nudging their noses together playfully. ]
Iβd like to stay. So itβs settled. I will be taking over your bed for the night, fellow navigator. I hope your ship is well prepared and your sails deployed, I suspect weβre in for a long evening.
[ he grins, goofy and almost boyish, before sliding back away. his side aches of course, but he still pushes himself up slowly, standing from the water and stepping over the edge, uncaring that heβs dripping water all over the tile. itβs tile for a reason, after all.
he turns to koby and offers him his hand, ignoring the sting in his own side, instead admiring. ]
Youβll have to lead me through the books and the maps - Iβd hate to take a wrong turn. Your bed looked comfortable on the horizon.
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If it's the latter, Koby almost feels like it's worth it, with the nudge of Quentin's nose against his, the taste of Quentin on his tongue, the warm rumble of Quentin's voice in his chest.]
Let's hope you don't get seasick. [It's perhaps a weak attempt at keeping up with Quentin's easy, rollicking metaphor, but in Koby's defense, that's right about when the other man's moving away, climbing out of the tub in all his cautious, carefully cleaned glory. And while he'd been beautiful before, even bloodied and grimy, Koby is genuinely struck quiet in awe by the sight of Quentin fresh from the bath, broad shoulders and a sailor's physique, the gleaming ripple of sinew and skin. He just stares for a moment, eyes dragging slowly over every single inch of Quentin, still sitting on his heels in the cooling water. Subconsciously, Koby pulls that full lower lip into his mouth, bites down hard, shoulders shivering on a breath. He looks about two seconds from lunging out of the tub and consuming Quentin.
But then his gaze catches the bruise and he's himself again, rising from the water and letting it drain as he takes the offered hand, brow knitting in concern.] Towel, first. And medicine. I promise it's nothing dangerous, I've taken it for headaches since I got here. [The former -- fluffy and thick and freshly-laundered -- Koby grabs from a teetering stack, then presses into Quentin's hands, back to his fussy, busy self. Then he stands on tiptoe to run a smaller hand towel over Quentin's braided hair, squeezing the water out.] Dry off, let me get it. Okay?
[Leaving the towel draped over Quentin's head, Koby grabs one for himself, simultaneously drying off, running water into a glass, pulling open the cupboard to one side of the tub. It's crammed full of things -- medicine and bandages and packaged food and extra paper and pens and stacks of notes that don't fit in the bedroom. Koby's been fortunate that his suitemate hasn't complained about him taking up space in the bathroom as well. He wraps the towel around his body, tucking it in so it stays put around his waist, then grabs a bottle of some painkiller that had been recommended by the staff.] Not too many, I don't trust it that much, but like I said, it's helped before -- but we should still wrap it up, especially after -- after moving so much, but -- you need to rest first, that's the most important thing, we can always wrap it tomorrow before -- I mean, i-if you want to stay until tomorrow, but if you don't, that's fine too, but --
[He'll keep going until he's stopped, Quentin, sorry. He'd put aside caretaking in favor of the intoxicating tangle they'd made in the water, but now he's making up for lost time.]
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[ and here they are - the fussing part of this song and dance he knew would come based on earlier - that the warm, hazy thing they'd experienced would fall the moment they left the tub waters. he stands ready and waiting, even as koby's eyes roam his body. it's very flattering, and to say he isn't doing the same when the other man climbs out would be an utter lie.
but he takes the towel, idly drying off but making a surprised noise when koby wrings out the water in his braid. in the air of tomfoolery he leaves the towel atop his head, continuing to dry himself with the large, fluffy towel. it's warm, which is intriguing - like a towel warmed by a fire or stove. he doesn't know what magic it is, but he's pleased all the same.
the cupboard above the sink has him looking up at it, stepping up a little closer to koby, disappointed that he's wrapped the towel around himself. ah, well, it's all simple to remove later. he reaches for the bottle of painkillers, turning them over in his palm, curious. his world has some tablets and tinctures made up by magicians, apothecaries, but nothing that looks like this.
not that he has time to worry over it - koby prattles on and on again and with a sigh he tilts his head back, letting the towel fall to the floor, dropping the large fluffy one he'd been handed, and he bends, reaching to sweep koby off his feet, one arm cradled at his back, the other under his knees. there's light in his eyes, even if there's strain in his body. ]
Rest is for the dead, Commander. So, shall you navigate to our good vessel or shall I tread in unknown waters and hope for the best?
[ he's close, close enough to kiss koby again but this time? he doesn't. he simply smiles just out of reach, and starts moving for the door. ]
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But then -- there are arms around him, scooping him right off his feet, and Koby makes an undignified squawking gasp and freezes, eyes very wide as he tries to register what's happened. He's being held, cradled against Quentin's still-damp chest, like he weighs nothing, like it's the easiest thing in the world. For years, he's hated being small, being perceived as weak or powerless, but this is -- different. This is very, very different.
Blinking a couple times, Koby slowly looks upwards with those huge, wondering eyes, taking in the drops of water coursing down Quentin's neck, dripping from the loose curls escaping his braid, tickling as they slip down his chest and onto Koby's still-warmed body. He swallows hard, audible, and forgets entirely what he was talking about, forgets about everything but the heat where his bare skin meets Quentin's, but the throbbing pulse of yes, yes, yes that shoots right down his spine and pools between his legs. There's still an ache, a slight tenderness there, but Quentin's arms around him are rapidly fanning that into a hungry emptiness that demands to be filled. Fast.
Slowly, Koby drags his tongue over his lips, takes a shaky breath.] You can -- knock over anything you want. It doesn't matter. [His voice comes out low, husky, and he reaches out, stopping a coursing drop of water as it leaves the hollow of Quentin's throat, pressing his fingertips there instead.] I'll fix it later. [Fingers, then palm, smoothing slowly over the curve of collarbone and shoulder and pectoral, those eyes dark and unflinching.] Just -- take me to bed. Please.
[Interrupting the fretting spiral: a resounding success, Q.]
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Your wish is my command.
[ he teases, though even his own voice has gone ragged with want, and carefully, he carries koby back into the bedroom. he's nimble, despite his injuries, ignoring the twinge in his chest to twist and turn over piles, nary touching a one as he approaches the unkempt bed. he kneels up on the edge, holding koby still, so that when he sets the man down it's in the center of the plush mattress. he's careful, gingerly placing him, but he doesn't stay away for long. in fact, he walks up on his knees, straddling koby's hips with his thighs and leaning down to bring their chests flush and heavy, kissing him with a desperate intensity, tasting him on his tongue and remembering the way swollen, bitten lips feel against his own. ]
Is this to your liking, Commander?
[ there's an easy wag of his brows, head tilting to bite at koby's neck, letting his tongue explore the bath-warmed skin, rediscovering marks he left there but moments earlier. ]
Let me thank you for the bath. Please. [ spoken against his clavicle, then the hollow of his throat. ] I would very much like to show my gratitude.
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