[The sound Koby makes – half whimpered into the heated, hazy air, half moaned against the pillow as his head drops, tips forward from the force of that delicious, devastating first thrust inside him – is nearly feral, broken and splintered and pleading and so greedy that he almost (almost) feels ashamed. But there’s not room for shame, not with the smack of Quentin’s hips against his ass, not with the tight snarl of Quentin’s hand in his hair, and Koby gasps, shivers molten-hot and slick around the cock plunging inside him, driving to the hilt in a way that his fingers can’t, that nothing else can, nothing in this world or any others. He might actually come from that alone – it’s hard to tell, hard to say, hard to think about anything but arching his back and propping himself up on his elbows so he’s at a better angle, so that Quentin can fuck down into his needy, dripping cunt without hesitation, can fill him up again and again and again.
And his words –] God, Quentin, y-you – can’t just – say that, you – [It’s breathless, laughing, tears in his eyes and a grin on his gasping mouth, one hand slipping down to cover the one teasing at either side of his clit, feeling the throb of each almost-touch in his bones, in the clenching pulse and weep, the filthy, messy sound of Quentin plunging inside him. He’d be sobbing against the pillow if his hair weren’t tangled in Quentin’s fingers, giving him nowhere to hide, nowhere to muffle the words that stream out, filthy and shameless:] Your fault it’s your fault I’m l-like this, you m-make me so wet and leave me empty, need you to f-fill me up so I can taste it, so I can f-feel – fuck, feel you in my throat, please–
[One particularly deep thrust gets a sharp, shuddering gasp, and Koby’s toes curl and his thighs quake and there’s a sense of something building, building in the way his usual climaxes don’t, stirred into a frenzy by the thought of sitting in the library, at breakfast, in the garden and feeling Quentin’s spend dripping down the insides of his legs. He’s almost at something, somewhere, and his thumb slips, disobediently circling that aching bud and the words just tumble free:] W-Want you to, want you to f-fill me up, Quentin, please, please, please come inside me, please, I need it, f-fuck me full, please–!
no subject
And his words –] God, Quentin, y-you – can’t just – say that, you – [It’s breathless, laughing, tears in his eyes and a grin on his gasping mouth, one hand slipping down to cover the one teasing at either side of his clit, feeling the throb of each almost-touch in his bones, in the clenching pulse and weep, the filthy, messy sound of Quentin plunging inside him. He’d be sobbing against the pillow if his hair weren’t tangled in Quentin’s fingers, giving him nowhere to hide, nowhere to muffle the words that stream out, filthy and shameless:] Your fault it’s your fault I’m l-like this, you m-make me so wet and leave me empty, need you to f-fill me up so I can taste it, so I can f-feel – fuck, feel you in my throat, please–
[One particularly deep thrust gets a sharp, shuddering gasp, and Koby’s toes curl and his thighs quake and there’s a sense of something building, building in the way his usual climaxes don’t, stirred into a frenzy by the thought of sitting in the library, at breakfast, in the garden and feeling Quentin’s spend dripping down the insides of his legs. He’s almost at something, somewhere, and his thumb slips, disobediently circling that aching bud and the words just tumble free:] W-Want you to, want you to f-fill me up, Quentin, please, please, please come inside me, please, I need it, f-fuck me full, please–!