( koby hasn't missed their weekly dinner rendezvous since they agreed upon it — and shanks has mostly lived up to his end of the bargain, though last week koby did have to yammer shanks to wakefulness and half-drag him out of bed into the en suite. it's a good thing koby was there, holding shanks accountable, or else shanks most definitely would have had hair of the dog for breakfast instead of real food. still, hiccups aside, it's been going well — and much by accident, they've stumbled into a tradition they have yet to break thus far: shanks with a pink earring or koby with red cufflinks, each of them wearing some subtle representation of the other in a simple exchange of colors.
tonight is no different.
well — at least in the sense that shanks expects koby to be wearing something red at dinner. he'd left a gift (or perhaps a reward for perfect attendance) in koby's room earlier: a simple toy set in a velvet-lined box that he'd quietly liberated from the otherworld, along with a handwritten note in shanks' familiar, wobbly script:
𝒮𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝑜𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉. 𝒲𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁.
-𝒮
the dining room, of course, is always boisterous with conversation and the sound of silver scraping against fine china, the roar of laughter from down the table, the liquid pour of more wine being served. it's loud enough to obscure the quiet hum of a motor or even a gasp if someone was particularly mindful of their breath control. so when shanks slides his hand over koby's thigh under the table just after the first course, when he leans in to whisper something against koby's ear, he isn't concerned in the slightest that someone might overhear: )
How does it feel? ( a question posed with all the self-satisfied cheekiness of someone who knows exactly how it feels, the pulse and thrum of vibration between koby's thighs practically reverberating under shanks' hand, in his chest. when he pulls back to gauge koby's expression, shanks is smiling serenely as if nothing is out of the ordinary, already reaching for his refilled glass of wine. )
[Koby's first mistake had been to assume that he'd seen all the tricks Shanks had up his sleeve -- taking the dinners at face value, just an opportunity to make sure they were both eating at least once daily, accountability, like two soldiers might arrange when trying to reach some training milestone. It's nice to check in, too, to put eyes on the man who so easily disappears from Koby's rapidly-developing senses -- here a flicker, there a flash of crimson aura on the edge of his mind, gone as soon as he's able to focus in on it. Something settles in the knot of anxiety in his chest when he sees -- yes, Shanks is fine, he's always fine.
Even the addition of the colors, accidental at first, a pocket square in red, an ear cuff with pink inlaid filigree, then on purpose, a subtle signal -- I'm here for you, tonight, because I promised, because I gave my word -- hadn't been completely unexpected. It felt right, even, adding a scarf or tie or belt in various shades of crimson. Granted, Shanks had never given a gift for Koby to wear, but even still, the box isn't completely out of the blue. Until he opens it up.
The second mistake was the exact angle of the...item, object, toy. Not that it's painful -- far from it, the sleek, rounded shape nudges up inside him perfectly, slipping through the mess of lube he'd carefully slicked himself up with. He'd never had anything that wasn't a person inside before, and by the time the thick bulb of the toy is settled where it should be, the jeweled base is tucked up against his clit, which seems a perfectly satisfactory place. The pressure is nice as Koby slowly walks down to the dining room, gradually becoming more and more accustomed to the fullness, the stretch, to the strangeness of trying to remain composed around other people.
And the third mistake was taking a sip of his drink right as Shanks reached into his pocket and pressed something that had the toy inside Koby suddenly start vibrating.
Thankfully it's just water, and Koby's coughing is enough to disguise the sharp, pitchy sounds that keep tearing out of his throat, uncontrollably, helplessly. His breath hitches at the hand on his thigh, wide eyes flicking over incredulously to Shanks, jaw dropping at the audacity, the daring. He should be scandalized. He should be completely indignant. Instead, though, Koby just presses his thighs together and draws in a trembling breath, the hum of the toy sending shocks up and down his spine, making all that lube completely unnecessary.]
I-It's fine. [Koby's voice comes out squeaky, swallowing convulsively, hand trembling a little as he reaches for his glass again.] Comp-pletely f-fine. What d-do you m-mean?
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ambiguously forward-dated 😘
tonight is no different.
well — at least in the sense that shanks expects koby to be wearing something red at dinner. he'd left a gift (or perhaps a reward for perfect attendance) in koby's room earlier: a simple toy set in a velvet-lined box that he'd quietly liberated from the otherworld, along with a handwritten note in shanks' familiar, wobbly script:
the dining room, of course, is always boisterous with conversation and the sound of silver scraping against fine china, the roar of laughter from down the table, the liquid pour of more wine being served. it's loud enough to obscure the quiet hum of a motor or even a gasp if someone was particularly mindful of their breath control. so when shanks slides his hand over koby's thigh under the table just after the first course, when he leans in to whisper something against koby's ear, he isn't concerned in the slightest that someone might overhear: )
How does it feel? ( a question posed with all the self-satisfied cheekiness of someone who knows exactly how it feels, the pulse and thrum of vibration between koby's thighs practically reverberating under shanks' hand, in his chest. when he pulls back to gauge koby's expression, shanks is smiling serenely as if nothing is out of the ordinary, already reaching for his refilled glass of wine. )
screaming crying throwing up etc etc etc
Even the addition of the colors, accidental at first, a pocket square in red, an ear cuff with pink inlaid filigree, then on purpose, a subtle signal -- I'm here for you, tonight, because I promised, because I gave my word -- hadn't been completely unexpected. It felt right, even, adding a scarf or tie or belt in various shades of crimson. Granted, Shanks had never given a gift for Koby to wear, but even still, the box isn't completely out of the blue. Until he opens it up.
The second mistake was the exact angle of the...item, object, toy. Not that it's painful -- far from it, the sleek, rounded shape nudges up inside him perfectly, slipping through the mess of lube he'd carefully slicked himself up with. He'd never had anything that wasn't a person inside before, and by the time the thick bulb of the toy is settled where it should be, the jeweled base is tucked up against his clit, which seems a perfectly satisfactory place. The pressure is nice as Koby slowly walks down to the dining room, gradually becoming more and more accustomed to the fullness, the stretch, to the strangeness of trying to remain composed around other people.
And the third mistake was taking a sip of his drink right as Shanks reached into his pocket and pressed something that had the toy inside Koby suddenly start vibrating.
Thankfully it's just water, and Koby's coughing is enough to disguise the sharp, pitchy sounds that keep tearing out of his throat, uncontrollably, helplessly. His breath hitches at the hand on his thigh, wide eyes flicking over incredulously to Shanks, jaw dropping at the audacity, the daring. He should be scandalized. He should be completely indignant. Instead, though, Koby just presses his thighs together and draws in a trembling breath, the hum of the toy sending shocks up and down his spine, making all that lube completely unnecessary.]
I-It's fine. [Koby's voice comes out squeaky, swallowing convulsively, hand trembling a little as he reaches for his glass again.] Comp-pletely f-fine. What d-do you m-mean?