I can't imagine how THAT'D Jolly Roger would look. A closet and a bed, I guess? Or I'd just use a stolen shirt instead of a flag...
[It's -- kind of fun, actually, to Koby's surprise. He likes the playful, light, easy nature of it, an echo of the easy back-and-forth he's gotten used to with Quentin.]
I do. But I'd have to get up and put something else on and I don't want to. I already did. Twice, this morning.
Rope is useful to have on hand, just in case. Never know when you'll need to tie a knot.
[He actually probably means that in a completely innocent way, too.]
You're the wordsmith, not me. I can't paint a good picture just Tell you the truth. I woke up smelling like you and just Thought it'd be quick. It used to be quick. I didn't use to take so much time.
you're right - you never know when you'll need to tie knots.
you can paint a fine picture. try - for me? sometimes things taking their time isn't all that bad. did you imagine my mouth? my hands? or something else.
i can tell you what i imagined when i smelled your soap on my pillow.
Exactly, yes. What if there's a fire and we need to scale out a window? Better to have rope on hand.
Your hands. For starters. How warm they are, how they always know exactly where to touch when I'm half-asleep. You always take your time. Like you're unraveling me, bit by bit. It's new but it's It's nice.
[More than nice, it's addictive, it's consuming, and if Koby's acting out what he's writing, well. What of it?]
oh, my hands? i do enjoy unraveling you and all those sweet sounds you make. i imagined my hands on your thighs, getting my hands up under your shirt, running them slowly up your hips, your stomach, to your chest.
you know where they'd go next. and i was sad to find you weren't there, with your face in my neck, keeping that love mark nice and dark. don't think i didn't notice.
Your hands, doing just that, yes. The way you fit against my back, the way I can feel you waking up. The way your breathing changes, the way you pull me a little closer. I've thought about you not waiting for me to wake up before just Pushing my shirt up and getting back inside me. Maybe you never left in the first place.
Did you? You left a matching one, on my neck. I haven't bothered covering it up.
and here i was thinking of waking you the other morning with my head between your thighs having my breakfast in bed and savoring it until you woke and then having seconds
i like getting your shirt off of you though up to your chin and watching you squirm when you can't see me around the fabric cleaning up the mess i make on you after with it
oh? walking around with it on parade are you? well then.
Were you? That'd be I wouldn't mind it I mean, I'd like it.
I know. I had it in my mouth this morning, to keep it out of the way. Make sure nobody walking by heard me. They might've anyways, though. Maybe not the first time, but the second, when I stopped being careful.
noted. i'm certain i can find a time to surprise you. put your shirt in my mouth to keep it up sometime, perhaps. though i will be gravely disappointed if you try and hide the little noises you make what if i could have heard them down the hall? robbing me of sweet, sweet music.
why wouldn't it be? it's your body to tell the stories you want. i'm honored to make people wonder a little bit.
oh, really? like what? if was there, where would you have me put my mouth?
i'm sure i'll hear you i know the way you get when you're worked up but i don't mind do you tell people how you got them? how you keep ending up with more?
On mine, for starters. All the places you left marks, all the places you didn't. Lower. Take your time, like you always do.
[There's a pause before the next message, sheets kicked away, shirt left open, because Koby was serious about round three. The next photo is blurry, the unbuttoned shirt framing his marked-up chest, his stomach, his hips, hand slipping down, just out of frame, between his legs.] Can you hear me right now?
Some people. People I trust. It's not that I'm embarrassed, its just I only want to share it with people who deserve it.
[ the picture is infuriating - makes him impossibly hot beneath his skin and makes him slide a hand over his own aching need. so he sends a picture back - the broad palm low on his belly, over the rising black fabric of his pajama pants. ]
i don't hear you yet. take your hand and touch yourself - but you're not allowed to the little button you like so well? don't touch it. think about my tongue working you open tasting you working you up and loose
deserve it? and what makes them worthy? love bites must be serious business.
[That photo-- Koby very nearly just abandons his phone and goes striding purposefully down the hall, half-naked, to resolve that subtle rise of fabric himself.
But he's too intrigued by this new back and forth, written word, rather than spoken, like sending letters that arrive within seconds, instant gratification. So:]
Understood. But you can't touch yourself either. You always take care of me first, so if I'm imagining that, you wouldn't be using your hands anywhere but on me. Deal?
They'd need to be happy for me, I guess. Understand that it's Special. To me.
[ though it’s no complaint, considering a few moments later, it is indeed a nude picture. he’s wriggled out of his pajama pants, nothing beneath, and if koby looks closely he can see the flared tip of his cock resting on his belly, untouched. ]
it’s my turn for more pictures, isn’t it? and we’ll have to arrange training sessions lots of things to go over i need practice, too.
[Of course he looks closely -- he'd requested so nicely and Quentin had been so kind as to oblige. And there's the smooth plane of his chest, his stomach, the tip of his cock that, when he swallows hard, Koby can still feel nudging at the back of his throat.
And, a few moments later -- another photo in kind, Koby also on his back, knees bent, thighs pressed together, though it's easy to see the soft curls of pink, damp and gleaming in the low light, along with the streak of wetness where his legs press together.]
See? Following orders. You certainly do not NEED the practice, you're a veritable expert already. Practically an admiral of bite marks.
and what am i to do if i cannot touch you? i wish it was my mouth on you now spreading you open with my tongue or maybe i would just make marks on your thighs never get where you want me to be
You say that like you couldn't make me finish just by marking up my thighs. By saying all those wonderful filthy perfect things and making me beg for your mouth. Like I couldn't come right now, just from imagining it.
[The reduced grammar, the lack of punctuation is a clue to what the next photo proves -- thighs spread, fingers slick to the knuckle where they're pressed into slick, wet, unfurling pink folds.]
[ the picture is enough to make his mind spin, make his whole body alight with heat. that koby is taking care of himself so expertly makes a strange sort of possessiveness rush through him. and so there's no answer to the message. only enough time passes for quentin to slide of his bed, throw on some loose fitting pajama pants and head down the hall.
his whole body hurts with the want of it and it's a miracle he makes it to koby's room. he opens the door with little preamble, wastes no time in shucking off the tented pajama pants and moving to climb on the bed. koby laid out on his stomach, rutting into a pillow like something feral has captured him makes his cock absolutely ache with want.
the mattress shifts around him and for a moment he simply admires koby's work - the delicate arch of his hips, the swell of his ass, the very bloom of his pussy slick and pink and puffy from all the work that's been done. he'd taste like honey, he's sure, and as much as he wants to dive in, to press his face between wet folds and drink from him like a man dying of thirst, he doesn't.
he plasters himself along koby's back, letting the hard line of his dick catch some of that slick, pressing between folds but with no intention of sinking into the divine heat. he mouths along koby's back, beard burning the skin as he bites and sucks marks all along his spine, uncaring that the bristle on his jaw will leave angry red marks come morning. he presses his weight against koby's back and breathes hot and husky against his ear, barely able to control the way his hips grind into the pretty flush of koby's cunt. ]
Tell me again what you want. Beg me for what you need, Commander, and I will bend.
[Had this been exactly what Koby had hoped would happen? Yes, of course -- that's the ultimate goal of such text conversations, as he sees it. But between the teasing words and the photos, he's not about to wait any longer, not when his cunt is throbbing and insistent and unbearable, and he's so wet it's puddling in his palm and streaking down his wrist as he works two, three fingers inside himself and damn it, it's not enough, not anymore, not when he's gotten used to the blunt, thick fullness of actually taking a cock inside him, not when he has the photo of Quentin’s still pulled up, on the phone beside his panting mouth, even as he whines and ruts against the pillow, his hand, and chokes out obscenities against the sheets when it isn't enough, when he still needs--]
God, Quentin, I-- [The ragged words break off in an open-mouthed, needy whine at the slip of Quentin’s dick through the mess of his cunt, pulling his slick fingers free to fumble at the thick, hot length, guide it to grind up against his clit, because the rules just said Koby couldn't touch himself there, not that Quentin couldn't. And it's good, it's so damn good, and Koby doesn't think about the door being open, doesn't think about anyone hearing the way he moans into his pillow or seeing how he arches his back and ruts the weep of his cunt along Quentin’s dick snug between his shivery thighs, but it's still not fucking enough. Maybe with another few minutes of movement, of the rasp of teeth and tongue against his back, of Quentin's voice in his ear, but Koby needs it now.
So he does as he's told, he grinds his ass back against Quentin and clutches at the sheets and twists to look teary-eyed and desperate over one shoulder and he begs:] In -- inside me, please, please Quentin, I ne--fuck, I need your cock inside me, please.
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no subject
[It's -- kind of fun, actually, to Koby's surprise. He likes the playful, light, easy nature of it, an echo of the easy back-and-forth he's gotten used to with Quentin.]
I do. But I'd have to get up and put something else on and I don't want to.
I already did. Twice, this morning.
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[ oh yes, he knows too well what he's implying there.
but wait. ]
and what did you do when you pretended? paint me a picture.
no subject
[He actually probably means that in a completely innocent way, too.]
You're the wordsmith, not me. I can't paint a good picture just
Tell you the truth. I woke up smelling like you and just
Thought it'd be quick. It used to be quick. I didn't use to take so much time.
no subject
you can paint a fine picture. try - for me?
sometimes things taking their time isn't all that bad.
did you imagine my mouth? my hands?
or something else.
i can tell you what i imagined when i smelled your soap on my pillow.
no subject
Your hands. For starters. How warm they are, how they always know exactly where to touch when I'm half-asleep.
You always take your time. Like you're unraveling me, bit by bit. It's new but it's
It's nice.
[More than nice, it's addictive, it's consuming, and if Koby's acting out what he's writing, well. What of it?]
Yes. Tell me.
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i imagined my hands on your thighs, getting my hands up under your shirt, running them slowly up your hips, your stomach, to your chest.
you know where they'd go next. and i was sad to find you weren't there, with your face in my neck, keeping that love mark nice and dark.
don't think i didn't notice.
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I've thought about you not waiting for me to wake up before just
Pushing my shirt up and getting back inside me.
Maybe you never left in the first place.
Did you? You left a matching one, on my neck.
I haven't bothered covering it up.
I don't mind it.
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having my breakfast in bed and savoring it until you woke
and then having seconds
i like getting your shirt off of you though
up to your chin and watching you squirm when you can't see me around the fabric
cleaning up the mess i make on you after with it
oh? walking around with it on parade are you?
well then.
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I wouldn't mind it
I mean, I'd like it.
I know. I had it in my mouth this morning, to keep it out of the way.
Make sure nobody walking by heard me.
They might've anyways, though.
Maybe not the first time, but the second, when I stopped being careful.
A bit, maybe.
Is that okay?
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i'm certain i can find a time to surprise you.
put your shirt in my mouth to keep it up sometime, perhaps.
though i will be gravely disappointed if you try and hide the little noises you make
what if i could have heard them down the hall? robbing me of sweet, sweet music.
why wouldn't it be? it's your body to tell the stories you want.
i'm honored to make people wonder a little bit.
no subject
[Pause while Koby screams into his pillow at himself, it's fine, it's a canon event, he's new to sexting.]
All the way down the hall?
I could go for round three, I guess. Since you're preoccupied. See if you can hear me.
Really? You don't mind it?
I mean, I don't mind it either.
I like it. A lot.
no subject
if was there, where would you have me put my mouth?
i'm sure i'll hear you
i know the way you get when you're worked up
but i don't mind
do you tell people how you got them?
how you keep ending up with more?
no subject
Lower. Take your time, like you always do.
[There's a pause before the next message, sheets kicked away, shirt left open, because Koby was serious about round three. The next photo is blurry, the unbuttoned shirt framing his marked-up chest, his stomach, his hips, hand slipping down, just out of frame, between his legs.]
Can you hear me right now?
Some people. People I trust.
It's not that I'm embarrassed, its just
I only want to share it with people who deserve it.
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i don't hear you yet.
take your hand and touch yourself - but you're not allowed to
the little button you like so well? don't touch it.
think about my tongue working you open
tasting you
working you up and loose
deserve it? and what makes them worthy?
love bites must be serious business.
no subject
But he's too intrigued by this new back and forth, written word, rather than spoken, like sending letters that arrive within seconds, instant gratification. So:]
Understood.
But you can't touch yourself either.
You always take care of me first, so if I'm imagining that, you wouldn't be using your hands anywhere but on me.
Deal?
They'd need to be happy for me, I guess.
Understand that it's
Special. To me.
no subject
very well then, hands off
i’ll imagine what i’d be doing to you
i can almost taste you on the back of my tongue
[ he almost wants to ask more lewd questions, press on and on and get koby wailing a few doors down. but the next message takes him by surprise. ]
special?
well then. i’ll have to make it my priority that you don’t ever go without those marks
and i expect you to repay it in kind.
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But I need proof you're obeying, of course.
[nudes plz~
Though he does pause a moment before replying.]
Yeah. Special.
Deal. I'll take it as a solemn challenge.
I might need a lot of practice, though.
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[ though it’s no complaint, considering a few moments later, it is indeed a nude picture. he’s wriggled out of his pajama pants, nothing beneath, and if koby looks closely he can see the flared tip of his cock resting on his belly, untouched. ]
it’s my turn for more pictures, isn’t it?
and we’ll have to arrange training sessions
lots of things to go over
i need practice, too.
no subject
And, a few moments later -- another photo in kind, Koby also on his back, knees bent, thighs pressed together, though it's easy to see the soft curls of pink, damp and gleaming in the low light, along with the streak of wetness where his legs press together.]
See? Following orders.
You certainly do not NEED the practice, you're a veritable expert already.
Practically an admiral of bite marks.
no subject
i wish it was my mouth on you now
spreading you open with my tongue
or maybe i would just make marks on your thighs
never get where you want me to be
no subject
By saying all those wonderful filthy perfect things and making me beg for your mouth.
Like I couldn't come right now, just from imagining it.
Do you want me to?
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what have you done to earn such a delicious prize?
i can't touch myself and the thought alone of you coming so empty
why it makes me quite sad for you.
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you should come
and stop me
[The reduced grammar, the lack of punctuation is a clue to what the next photo proves -- thighs spread, fingers slick to the knuckle where they're pressed into slick, wet, unfurling pink folds.]
or help
up to you
no subject
his whole body hurts with the want of it and it's a miracle he makes it to koby's room. he opens the door with little preamble, wastes no time in shucking off the tented pajama pants and moving to climb on the bed. koby laid out on his stomach, rutting into a pillow like something feral has captured him makes his cock absolutely ache with want.
the mattress shifts around him and for a moment he simply admires koby's work - the delicate arch of his hips, the swell of his ass, the very bloom of his pussy slick and pink and puffy from all the work that's been done. he'd taste like honey, he's sure, and as much as he wants to dive in, to press his face between wet folds and drink from him like a man dying of thirst, he doesn't.
he plasters himself along koby's back, letting the hard line of his dick catch some of that slick, pressing between folds but with no intention of sinking into the divine heat. he mouths along koby's back, beard burning the skin as he bites and sucks marks all along his spine, uncaring that the bristle on his jaw will leave angry red marks come morning. he presses his weight against koby's back and breathes hot and husky against his ear, barely able to control the way his hips grind into the pretty flush of koby's cunt. ]
Tell me again what you want. Beg me for what you need, Commander, and I will bend.
no subject
God, Quentin, I-- [The ragged words break off in an open-mouthed, needy whine at the slip of Quentin’s dick through the mess of his cunt, pulling his slick fingers free to fumble at the thick, hot length, guide it to grind up against his clit, because the rules just said Koby couldn't touch himself there, not that Quentin couldn't. And it's good, it's so damn good, and Koby doesn't think about the door being open, doesn't think about anyone hearing the way he moans into his pillow or seeing how he arches his back and ruts the weep of his cunt along Quentin’s dick snug between his shivery thighs, but it's still not fucking enough. Maybe with another few minutes of movement, of the rasp of teeth and tongue against his back, of Quentin's voice in his ear, but Koby needs it now.
So he does as he's told, he grinds his ass back against Quentin and clutches at the sheets and twists to look teary-eyed and desperate over one shoulder and he begs:] In -- inside me, please, please Quentin, I ne--fuck, I need your cock inside me, please.
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