[the murmured words into the heated crook of his neck, accompanied with the slow, maddening circle of harry's fingers against his clit, pressing the soaked fabric against the throb of heated pleasure in a way that has koby whimpering -- they're both unbearable, and koby wants to complain, to whine, to say he's been patient, because he's been soaked since he came in here, but he's being given commands and he can -- he can do them. he has to, because despite harry's expert medical opinion, koby genuinely feels like he's going to die or explode or something.

so he scoots back against the pillows, red-cheeked and bright-eyed and eager, hands shaky with excitement, clumsy with nerves, because it's still thrilling, every time, every person, every experience. the sweet, submissive act slips a little, in favor of a genuinely eager, excited grin, a wrinkle of koby's freckled nose as he hooks his fingers in the elastic of his underwear and peels them down, off, away. he's dripping wet, flushed and slick in a way that he'd be embarrassed about if he wasn't so impatient.

swallowing hard, scooting back against the pillows, koby fidgets for a moment, unsure what to do with his hands, knees instinctively pressing together on a quick inhale.] You don't -- I mean, o-only if you, um. Want to? Some people don't. I mean. [he's blushing deeper, thighs slick where they finally spread, part, inviting.] If you want to, that's -- I want to, too.