[When the cannonfire starts, Koby knows to keep his head down. Tuck himself into a corner of the hold where the pitch and roll of a ship engaged in battle won't send him hurtling head over heels with any other unsecured cargo -- he'd learned that the hard way, early one, bumped and bruised and dizzied from hitting his head one too many times. Now he wedges himself between a barrel and a bulkhead and tries to disappear, hands up over his ears, glasses clutched tight enough in one hand that it'll leave imprints across his palm. Try not to hear the screaming, the explosions, the shouting of Alvida's crew boarding the unfortunate vessel that had fallen into her sights -- probably some merchant ship, or fishing expedition, like the one Koby himself had tried to get on two years before (but no, no he's not going to think about that, about how close he'd been, about how one stupid, stupid mistake had doomed him to this until he worked himself to death or Alvida got sick of him, finally).
Eventually, it'll stop. Eventually there'll be the shudder of anchor, tethering the Miss Love Duck to whatever ship they've overtaken, and the trooping feet of the captive, doomed crew over to kneel on the blood-stained, salt-slick boards Koby's mopped hundreds and hundreds of times. And that'll be his cue to rouse, to swallow down the nausea, to grab the mop and bucket again and force himself to stand up straight and impassive and ready to respond immediately when he's told to clean up the smears of humanity on the deck. Not in five minutes, not in five seconds -- immediately. Alvida has made that extremely clear.
The shudder comes early, today -- maybe it was a private vessel, a daytime pleasure cruise, they have to be close to a village by now, and Alvida is testy, impatient, hungry to be back in the papers, to grab more attention, more infamy. The constant validation and fawning of her crew, of her (miserable, half-starved, perpetually terrified) cabin boy isn't enough anymore. What she wants is fame, desire, from the Pirate Hunter and the Marines and probably the World Government, before she's satisfied. She'll spend some of that anger on the miserable souls no doubt kneeling on her deck, and Koby will clean up their blood and probably half a dozen other things before his nighttime duties and he'll save the horror and helplessness in a tiny, dark, unreachable corner of his numb soul until -- well. Until he dies, probably.
There's a distinct lack of cheering. Alvida demands cheering, when she has a victory. Koby's usually ready with a shout the second he emerges from the hold, lugging the bucket and mop, ready to stand by as witness to the executions. But the words die in his throat as he shoves open the hatch, looks up and sees -- well. There's another crew there, but they aren't bound and kneeling and miserable. In fact, the people bound in misery, overseen by a very tall, very broad red-haired man are -- the crew. Alvida's crew. Because they lost.
They lost.
Koby could've probably slipped back unbidden into the hold, hidden away until the conquering crew (pirates, they have to be pirates, better pirates, real pirates) has plundered and left -- maybe bought himself some time, concocted a better story about his identity. But he's so thoroughly stunned that Alvida is currently kneeling before another captain that his hands go numb and the bucket slips from his fingers, clattering noisily onto the bloodstained deck.]
( it's been at least a decade since shanks was last in the east blue. he rarely has a reason to venture outside the grand line — but during a recent, and perhaps fortuitous, visit to see rayleigh in sabaody, shanks had received a surprising invitation he couldn't ignore: a wedding, to be held in windmill village. makino, whose generous hospitality shanks had probably overstayed once upon a time, is to be wed in six month's time. if he pushes the ship and his crew, they'll make it with a week or so to spare, assuming they don't run into any unforeseen setbacks along the way. it'll still be cutting it close, though, which sets shanks more on edge than he usually is — makino is someone he cares for, someone important who invited him to an even more important event in her life, who invited him even though they haven't spoken in years and shanks never really had any intention of ever revisiting windmill village after the last time he left. he owes it to her, in a way, to be there, especially after how much of her booze they all went through — that, and he's never been very good at saying no to a party. this time, of course, the booze will be on him rather than the house.
the alvida pirates aren't as much a setback as they are a nuisance, but after several delays and more storms than he'd anticipated, shanks is already further behind schedule than he'd like, which means his temper is much more volatile when the first cannonball strikes the hull. at first, he thinks it must be a marine vessel tipped off from the base at sabaody (who else would have the gall to fire on the red force?) until he races onto deck and spots the giant pink figurehead — of, what, a duck? — and the heart-shaped jolly roger. shanks makes it his business to keep tabs on crews he considers a threat; the alvida pirates may as well be a footnote, easily forgotten, easily overlooked, not worth his time.
beck it at his shoulder before he even makes it to the rail — return fire? — but shanks holds up his hand to say not yet. dark energy crackles around him, his voice like a crack of thunder when he shouts across the stretch of sea between their ships to order alvida and her crew to stand down, which is generous considering shanks' mood. she answers with more cannonfire. a mistake. shanks turns from the rail, unsheathing gryphon as he has done a hundred times before, shouting to his crew with a sharp frown: let's go, boys! make it quick!
he doesn't take pleasure in the swift victory like he might have otherwise; the defeat of the alvida pirates is more akin to pulling a splinter from your thumb that wishes it were an arrow through your chest. trivial. shanks and several of his officers are standing on the bloodied deck, alvida and her crew in shackles or bound with rope, all of them watching helplessly as the rest of shanks' crew plunders the miss love duck for whatever riches and stores they might have. shanks has alvida held at swordpoint at his feet, which seems a bit unnecessary given the number of pistols pointed in her direction, but already one of her crewmates has tried to steal the keys to alvida's shackles from beck, who promptly shot him between the eyes. that kind of loyalty is dangerous. that kind of loyalty requires extra precautions.
alvida is screaming at him, but it's mostly white noise, insignificant rage. (these are the things one becomes accustomed to when spending your formative years with buggy shouting in your ear.) shanks is more concerned with the dull aura of a person unaccounted for on deck — and for the first time since boarding, he turns his attention fully to alvida, his voice calm and even but no less threatening: )
Who else do you have aboard this ship? ( alvida seems momentarily perplexed, offended almost, as if the question doesn't make any sense. her mouth twists indignantly, and she's about to say something snide when the sound of a clattering bucket cuts through the crisp sea air. they both whip their heads in the boy's direction, the whistle of pistols aiming at a new target following shanks' line of sight. alvida says something he doesn't quite catch (you little runt, where have you been?) but shanks' full focus is now on the last member of alvida's crew (surely not a stowaway, with the mop; a cabin boy?) — bright pink hair, round eyes made rounder by the circular glasses slipping down his nose, no older than shanks was when he started his own crew. shanks can feel the shock, the terror, the bewilderment rolling off the boy in waves, and for the barest of seconds, shanks offers koby a warm smile as just shanks, as if to say, everything's going to be alright. but then he's turning his head to his crew with a low chuckle, the real shanks hidden behind the guise of boss once more. )
Easy, men. Keep your pistols trained on the lady, would you? ( alvida snarls, that's captain to you, you red-haired bastard, to which shanks shoots her a withering, wholly unimpressed look. it hardly even qualifies as a glare. that would require he feel something more than pity and contempt. his crew, dutifully, aim their pistols back at alvida's face and away from their newest arrival on deck. ) Hardly. ( to the struggling captain, hearty chuckles resounding from his crew. then, to koby only a pace or two away, gesturing at alvida with the tip of his saber: ) Is she always like this? So ... disrespectful? I did warn her not to engage.
( as casually as if they're talking about the weather. frankly, shanks would rather be talking about the weather, but they have other matters to discuss. namely, who this boy is and what to do with him.
fuck you, red hair, the east blue is my sea! tell him, koby. )
Koby... ( said thoughtfully, as if he's getting a feel for the name in his mouth, savoring it like a well-aged wine. he studies the mounting horror on koby's face, the infinitesimal shake of his head nearly lost to a body wracked with indecision and fear, his already wet doe eyes bugging out so far shanks almost thinks the boy's head might explode. and that simply won't do.
alvida is still spitting obscenities like a particularly ineffective snake, most of which shanks has tuned out — koby, you sniveling little coward, do something! or have you forgotten who you belong to? what you owe me? — until he presses the tip of his sword against the hollow of alvida's throat, a slow trickle of blood running down her breastbone into her cleavage. a deep red, almost black aura crackles around him as he stares alvida down, and try as she might, she can't help but quiver at his feet, the rest of her crew thudding to the deck in limp, bloody heaps beside her. on any other day, it might be impressive that a lowly captain in the east blue could withstand even a fraction of shanks' haki, but he's in no mood to be extending that sort of praise to a woman so delusional she thought she could defeat an emperor — and still thinks she might win, somehow, by using this boy against him. )
I think it's best if you don't speak to him anymore, unless you'd prefer to rename your ship the Miss Love Wreck. I'm allowing you the honor of letting you live — ( he glances to koby, who hasn't moved, the dark crackle dissipating as he smiles wryly, but with a kindness in his eyes that's unmistakable, an expression that clearly speaks to how much shanks truly, genuinely values koby's opinion on this matter ) — unless Koby has any objections?
[There’s a lot that happens, all at once, a barrage of input on levels Koby’s unused to – the visual, the blood on the deck, the crewman (Slicer? Dicer? Something stupid and made-up and meant to sound impressive when telling stories at the bar, a reedy, weasel of a man who’d deliberately walk over a just-swabbed deck and then tell Alvida Koby was slacking on his duties just to get him in trouble) with a bullet hole in his head, slumped in a pile on the deck like an empty bag, death in a way that Koby’s unused to. Alvida favors blunt force, the sickening cracking squelch of mace against skull, the pulping of human bodies into something that barely resembles a person anymore. She delights in it, revels in the carnage, the blood. A bullet is so – businesslike. Quick, simple, one wound, one act and then: death.
These are not pirates who waste time, who should be trifled with by any captain in the East Blue – Koby knows that immediately, as surely as he could tell the direction of a high wind, the scent of an oncoming storm, the movement of a strong current. It’s an instinct down to his bones that keeps him frozen in place, even as Alvida commands him to speak, to explain. He’s not usually her mouthpiece, she doesn’t like him to talk – doesn’t like it when he stammers, when he stumbles over his words, doesn’t like how his voice pitches up when he’s anxious. Keep your mouth shut unless it’s “yes captain” or “no captain” had been one of the very first lessons Alvida had taught Koby, punctuated with her hand belting him across the face.
But this is – different. This is not a merchant or a fishing vessel or even another East Blue pirate. And their leader is nothing like Alvida. He exudes power, strength, control in a way that’s completely effortless, completely natural, none of the bellowing or posturing that Koby’s become accustomed to over the last two years. He doesn’t need to do anything but stand there, but turn and look over at the chore boy still frozen halfway out of the hold, and everything inside Koby goes weak and helpless and terrified, like a rabbit pinned in place by a fox, a hawk, a warship with cannons. He barely even registers the pistols turning his direction – honestly, it’d be better to go out that way, rather than via whatever force this red-haired pirate possesses. A bullet would kill him, but this man could unmake him without even trying.
Alvida doesn’t seem to pick up on this at all – or maybe she’s just too enraged, bellowing insults that Koby’s so used to they barely register anymore (useless, ungrateful, worthless, whimpering runt, stop standing and gaping like a coward and do something!). He almost laughs at that, because what does she expect him to do? Tackle the effortlessly powerful pirate captain and mop him to death? There’s a wild, ridiculous giggle bubbling up in his chest at the mental image, but then the pirate is turning, and something, something crackles all around him, like dark lightning, like schisms in the fabric of reality, and the rest of the crew just.
Drops dead.
And suddenly, nothing is funny. Because Koby knows, he knows he’s going to die too. He’d always anticipated it – ever since that first awful day, half-grown and scrawny and just shy of sixteen, hair still choppy from hacking it short by a beach campfire, feeding the long, long braids he’s had since childhood to the flames and deciding who he was going to be, what he was going to do, his whole life unspooling in front of him, full of possibility. A chance conversation with someone at the village port, an offer – we’ll take you as far as Shell’s Town, it’s hard work, but honest, you can help us bring in nets and when we get there, you can enlist – that was so perfect, so good that Koby didn’t question why a fishing trawler would be pink, why it’d have heart-shaped sails, too naive and excited and eager, overflowing with questions, with energy, with hope, him and a handful of other young men, all eager to prove themselves. And when they’d been lined up, when the captain had swanned her way down the steps, had shattered the illusion with the truth (this here’s the most fearsome pirate crew in the East Blue, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll bend the knee to it’s captain here and now, fellas), the others had refused while Koby stayed frozen, too afraid to speak up, too afraid to defy her. But they had – three of them, young and bold and fearless, saying they’d rather die than join a pirate crew.
Those had been the first deaths he’d swabbed off the seasalt-swollen boards. Alvida had shaken viscera and gore off her mace, handed it off, then looked Koby right in his pale, terrified, blood-splattered and tearful face. She’d seen – something, something she could control, something she could use, and that horrible, hateful smirk had curled her crimson mouth for the first time. You – I have a job for you, sweetie~, she’d cooed, reaching out to smooth his bloodied hair back, making his whole body recoil. Then she’d shoved a mop in his hands, patted his shoulder and murmured: Clean it up. Or you’re next. And he had – because he was a coward, because he was afraid, because it was easier to obey (and obey and obey and obey) than fight back and end up as another bloodied smear on the deck.
And now, apparently, that bought time, bought and paid for with Koby’s blood, sweat and tears (so, so many tears, enough that he’d thought he’d eventually have to run out, he’d have to hit his limit of crying, his limit of being hungry and cold and aching all over, his limit of threats and whispers and being told he was nothing, nothing at all without her, that if, when she finally got sick of him, nobody would mourn and nobody would care and nobody would notice he was gone) has run out. The red-haired pirate is looking at him again, and he’d – smiled, earlier, at Koby, had smiled and repeated his name, and maybe that was good and likely that was bad, and either way it didn’t matter. He was going to die anyway, before or after Alvida, and the entire ship would go to the bottom of the sea and nobody would morn or care or notice, just like she’d told him.
Except – that’s a question. Koby’s being asked a question. The hazy, foggy, frantic snarl of his thoughts snaps to attention, because that’s conditioned, you get a command, you complete it, you get a question, you answer it. The pirate is asking if…he wants Alvida to live or die. He’s giving Koby a choice, a chance to decide her fate. And he thinks about – everything, about every day of the last two years, about the perpetual humiliation and fear and misery, about the blood under his nails and the kicks aimed at his ribs when he’s scrubbing the deck and the way three of his fingers won’t curl all the way because she’s snapped them too many times for imagined slights and the nights in her cabin listening to her talk, listening to her muse about how fortunate he is to be here, how anyone else on the crew would kill for this sort of attention from their beloved captain, how men are like dogs, hungry, hounding and desperate, how if they can’t have her, maybe they’d be satisfied with him, maybe they need an outlet, someone to hurt, someone to ruin, and how it’s only Alvida’s good graces, only her watchful eye keeping Koby safe and unharmed, and how that sort of benevolence should earn her unquestioning, unflinching loyalty for the rest of his life, and how every time Koby would nod and say yes, Captain again and again and again and again, even when she slid her fingers into his hair and left them there, even when she made him stand and watch her eat, watch her bathe, watch her dress, wait to be released, wait to be sent back to the hold, wait to hear her rumbling snoring before he let himself shiver into mindless silently sobbing terror, knowing she was right, knowing that he owed her, and hating himself for it, for allowing it.
All that could be over. All of it could end, right now, with a word from him, with a head shake or a nod. It could be done. He could be free. Or he could spare her, and see if that makes it better, if that changes the hell she’s created on this ship, if she’ll let him go because he spared her life, or – or if it’ll be a thousand times worse if it’s only the two of them, only the nightmare in that cabin magnified, expanded, just Koby the coward and the monster who owns him. The options war in his mind, vivid on his face, on the way he looks at her, at the bloodied sneer that’ll never, never leave his mind for the rest of his life.
And then he looks up, jaw set, eyes hollow, and meets the red-haired pirates gaze.] I don’t care. [It comes out in a whisper, hoarse, shuddering. Alvida laughs, hollow and sharp, and Koby ignores it, somehow, taking a hitching breath. And again:] I don’t care, as long as you don’t leave me here. As long as you take me with you.
( for as uncertain and unsteady as koby's gaze is, shanks' is all the more certain and unwaveringly steady in the face of the decision he's given koby, the decision koby makes, definitively, with as much courage as he can muster. i don't care — and it surprises shanks, the indifference koby lays at alvida's feet. if he were in koby's position, would he have made the same choice? or would he have been more vengeful? perhaps it's simply naivety masquerading as apathy — or, perhaps, it's simply the truth: that koby doesn't care if alvida lives or dies as long as the nightmare ends, as long as he never has to see this ship again. shanks nods, once, his cool expression betraying nothing. )
Very well. ( he turns back to alvida, his expression expectant, as if he's waiting for her find some new way to insult koby. she just laughs, practically keeling over, despite the sword still pointed at her chest. shanks tips alvida's chin back up to look at him, his eyes dark. ) I'd say you owe Koby your life, Captain. ( though there's no courtesy, no respect behind the word, only the well-placed condescension of a man who has earned his rank more than a hundred times over. he sheaths gryphon, turning his attention to beck at his side, who simply says the men are ready when you are, boss. shanks nods, gesturing toward alvida. ) I suppose it's time we show the lady some mercy, eh, Beck? Maybe after all this she'll find it within herself to be kinder to her next crew.
( beck snorts, clearly disbelieving — either the fact that shanks will show mercy or the fact that alvida might ever change her tune — but he doesn't say anything in dissent, just passes the keys to alvida's shackles to shanks and nods for the other officers to follow him back to the red force. shanks kneels before alvida, a sharp smile cutting across his face, with no trace of the kindness he'd offered koby moments before. the air thickens with the same dark energy that eradicated her crew, only this time it feels more oppressive, harder to breathe, like a horrible storm cloud is brewing around him, like he is the eye of the hurricane and everything around him is collateral damage. the ship's railings crack, the masts creaking like they might snap at any moment. shanks stares alvida down, leaning in close to slowly unlock her shackles — and now, suddenly, she finds she has nothing to say, can only stare back at him with the same terror she put in koby's eyes. shanks lowers his voice in hopes koby won't hear, but it can't be helped what the wind might carry. )
Koby is under my protection now. You know what that means. If you ever try to touch him again, I'll cut your hands off. If you even dare speak to him, I'll slit your throat before you can beg me not to. If you so much as look at him, my face will be the last thing you see. Do I make myself clear, Captain?
( the shackles clatter to the deck and shanks stands, the swirling energy dissipating like a wisp of smoke. alvida's eyes burn with fury, but shanks' mere presence keeps her on her knees despite her efforts to push herself to her feet, to lunge toward him with nails as long and sharp as claws. )
Hongo! ( a member of shanks' crew falls back from the others, a blonde man a few inches shorter than shanks with a scar above his eyebrow. he jogs briskly over to join his captain, casually asking, what's up, boss? as if they're old friends catching up and not two pirates who have thoroughly decimated an entire crew. ) Take Koby to the infirmary. I want a full medical report by sundown. ( hongo nods, about to sidestep in koby's direction when shanks sets his hand on hongo's shoulder to give him further orders. ) And have Roux fix him something to eat, he looks like the next gust of wind might blow him away. ( a beat, then one more thing: ) See if Beck and Yasopp can draw him a bath, too. Use mine — I suspect he'll want his privacy — and check with Limejuice, see if he's got anything Koby can change into for the time being, at least until we make it to port.
( shanks releases hongo's shoulder and hongo replies with a quick you got it, boss before he's jogging over to koby with a mildly amused grin, gesturing to the mop still in koby's hands. )
Don't think you'll be needing that anymore, Koby. Come on, doctor's orders.
( hongo leads the way back to the red force with shanks following up the rear, just in case alvida tries anything once they're further away — and when they're halfway across the gangplank, alvida finally manages to push herself to her feet, struggling to the rail of her ship and using the last of her strength to growl, raw and vicious, her voice dripping with acid: )
He'll never be yours, Shanks. You think a mighty Emperor of the Sea can fix what's broken in him? You think he'll bend the knee to you? Even if you kill me, he'll always be mine. ( and then, with another cruel, hollow laugh: ) Remember what I told you, Koby! You're walking right into the lion's den, little pup, and he's going to eat you alive, pick you clean, and then pass you around his whole—
( the hiss of shanks' sword is swift and lethal, one stroke of his blade through the air silencing alvida before she can say another word, a storm of crackling energy barreling toward the the hull, the masts, and anything else in its path. shanks whips around, quickly sheathing his sword again, shouting — ) Go! Now!
( — before the miss love duck groans miserably, the gun decks seconds away from blowing. hongo, without missing a beat, springs into action, quickly apologizing as he scoops koby up and throws him over his shoulder, sprinting across the last stretch of gangplank and leaping onto the deck of the red force, where beck is already throwing shanks a line and barking orders at the crew to haul up the anchor and get the ship moving, now! none of them seem to question that shanks hasn't made it off the gangplank when the first explosion from the miss love duck rocks the hull — nor are they particularly surprised when shanks comes swinging out of the next series of explosions almost wholly unscathed aside from a few scrapes and missing half of his cape, landing in the middle of the deck with little fanfare, the rest of the crew simply carrying on as if this is a completely normal occurrence. he finds his way to where hongo is kneeling next to koby, offering them both an apologetic smile. )
Sorry about all the fuss. ( the fuss, as if that's what one calls casually blowing up an enemy pirate ship. then, to koby directly: ) You weren't injured, were you? ( which seems like a redundant question when the ship's doctor is right beside him, but it's important that shanks makes it clear that he doesn't usually put his guests in immediate danger in the process of rescuing them. ) Hongo will take care of you if you were.
[Almost as soon as he's said it (take me with you, how cliched, how ridiculous, a line from some sort of idiotic book he’d read growing up, where someone gets captured by pirates and spirited away from their home and is rescued by some Marine hunk with rippling pectorals), Koby is certain that he’s going to be laughed back into the hold, that the red-haired pirate’s magnanimity is going to run out and be replaced with the sort of cruelty he’s more accustomed to. Maybe this was all some big test, one he’s summarily failed, one that was supposed to see how loyal he truly was. Maybe Alvida and the red-haired pirate are working together, and the seemingly-dead crew is about to rise from the deck laughing and laughing and laughing, and Koby’s going to face punishment like he’s never experienced before.
The possibility of this (absurd and outlandish as it is) has him recoiling a little as the blond-haired pirate approaches, hands clinging to the mop so tightly they go white-knuckled, holding it between him and the man like it’ll – protect him, somehow. But he’s told to put it down, told to follow the stranger off the Miss Love Duck and onto the considerably more impressive ship alongside it, and somehow his trembling knees unlock enough to obey, to lift one foot, then the other, to walk over the bloodied deck he’s scrubbed on his hands and knees a thousand times and across the gangplank to – to what?
Alvida seems to know. She yells it, bloodied and crazed and crew-less, and Koby reacts like he’s accustomed to, eyes down, shoulders set, accepting the insults and threats like they don’t dig their way down, down into the very core of who he is, like they don’t snag there to ache alongside every other horrible thing she’s told him. Sometimes Alvida goes days without even acknowledging Koby’s existence, but her voice is always there, echoing in his ears, in every panicked beat of his heart as he pushes himself past the limit to keep her placated, as he works his fingers bloody again and again.
Even the content of the threats isn’t anything new – Alvida’s held that exact scenario over Koby’s head since that first day, since she found out exactly who (what) he was. There were no secrets on her ship, not from her, and when she found the bandages Koby’d grown accustomed to wrapping around and around his chest, when she demanded he show her exactly why he needed them – well. There were no secrets from Alvida. She’d made it very clear that if anyone else on the crew found out, she wouldn’t be able to hold them back. This was something just between the two of them, something nobody else would accept about him, something only she knew. It bled into threats, it echoed in the softer, sweeter words in her cabin, when there was almost a streak of perverse fondness in her hand on his hair, his chin, cupping it and clicking her tongue, shaking her head. It’s lucky you’re such a hard worker, Koby, Alvida would sigh, squeezing his face, forcing him to look at the smug, gloating smirk on her face. Because I’m not interested in the only other thing you’re good for. But maybe it’ll prove useful, later on, hm? You could help me bargain my way out of a hard spot.
That concept lodges in Koby’s mind now, the idea that maybe – maybe Alvida’s just bought her freedom, her triumph with him, like she always threatened, and his body threatens to seize up in panic, there on the deck, surrounded by a crew of pirates, of men with unclear motives, unclear desires. He’s about to turn, to scramble back and drop onto his knees in front of Alvida, to beg for forgiveness, because it couldn’t be worse than being alone on a ship of strangers, but – but then there’s an explosion that has him stumbling back into Hongo, grabbing at him instinctively, curling away from the familiar heat and scent of cannon fire.
Except. Except there’s no cannon. There’s just the ship crumbling, the crackling sound of something still resonant in the air, and Koby’s half-turned to look, to see what happened, but Hongo is – scooping him up before he can protest, before he can do anything but grab at his glasses to keep them from falling off his face as the crew of pirates springs into action, bounding off the creaking, groaning deck of the Miss Love Duck as the world itself seems to crack itself into pieces. Koby’s hands are up over his ears, eyes squeezed shut, and part of him realizes he’s been set down, because he scrambles backwards until his back hits something solid, some box or barrel. He wants to stay curled in on himself, hidden from the sight and sound of everything that’s happened in the last handful of moments, but not knowing what’s going on is worse.
So he looks up, just in time to see the captain – red-haired, smiling, still smiling, broad-shouldered and powerful and deadly – swing onto the deck like he hadn’t just killed an entire crew and it’s captain without exerting any effort whatsoever. He turns towards Koby, says – something, he doesn’t quite hear it because he’s jerking back against whatever he’s huddling beside, hard enough that his head smacks into the wood, making his ears ring.
But it registers, eventually, and Koby shakes his head hard, breath coming quick, quick as the birdlike race of his pulse, eyes flicking around from one member of the crew to another, always coming back to the captain, like a compass pulled north again and again. He’s dizzy with fear, with the mounting terror of the situation he’s gotten himself into, but beneath it there’s – curiosity, wonder, amazement at what this man had just done, the power he was capable. Swallowing hard, convulsively, he croaks out:] N-No, I’m. I’m f-fine, sir.
[The truth is -- well, what is the truth? Part of Koby is practical, rational, objectively aware that the risks far outweigh anything else, that one of them is heading towards a prosperous career as an intergalactic officer of justice and the other is...not.
But the other part hopes that Fearless says yes. Says yes, of course it's worth it, to see you. That part wins out for a moment as Koby pushes off the door with a soft sigh, pushing his hat back so he can look upwards, solemnly.]
One of us has to. [Reaching out, patting lightly at Fearless's shoulders, his chest, frowning.] You're not hurt, right?
Ignore the eyebrow, that's— couple days ago. Won the match, though, don't worry about it.
[He flashes a smile, taking a step forward, shrinking that distance between himself and Koby. His hand raises as if to try and take Koby's arm, but he falls short, kind of just— grazing his fingers under Koby's wrist.]
Eyebrow? [Koby, of course, immediately looks up at the mostly-clotted wound, frowns in concern, reaching up and tracing the end of the wound with his thumb. Light touches, delicate, almost shy, like he doesn't know (hope, hunger, crave) they'll likely end up in his bunk, eventually. It's the same dance, every time, Fearless touches him first, breaks the veil between their worlds and Koby answers, toes past the stark line he holds to in the light.
Outside there's smoke and stars, inside its only Koby’s hand settling at the sharp line of Fearless's face.] A match. Did you get hurt anywhere else?
[If Fearless saw any reason to be less selfish, he wouldn't let Koby so close. But he is a starving man and attention won from someone who makes him work for it like this is so, so rewarding.
He bites the inside of his cheek, swings his shoulders a little, smiles like he knows the line he's about to try is stupid. He tries it anyway.]
[Koby is always fighting a losing battle with himself, around Fearless -- resisting what he wants, resisting that bashful little smile, the sway of his shoulders, the way his taller form sways forward, closes the distance, until Koby can smell the sweat and cigarette smoke lingering on his clothes, his skin. It slips from the first second they're in the same space, effortless, easier than anything Koby's ever done in his life.
Even the stupid line -- so stupid, so, so stupid -- gets a momentary look of alarm, wide eyes flicking to Fearless's grinning mouth, then a gasp of realization and then, oh, then a laugh, because it's a terrible attempt, but Koby is exactly the right mix of young and enchanted and exasperated to laugh over it.]
That's -- terrible. [Laughing, still, hand dropping to rest on a broad shoulder.] Your poor lip. Do you want -- me to do something about it? [Just as terrible of an attempt, punctuated by Koby's blushing face and his grin and the helplessly fond look in his eyes.]
[Oh, it's delightful. It's perfect. Crashing through Koby's defenses like this is incredibly rewarding, and Fearless doesn't hide his smile. He takes Koby's arms gently, as though to keep Koby from backing away— knowing he won't, anyway.]
Desperately,
[He insists, pouting a little. It doesn't really break up his smile enough to look convincing. Doesn't matter. He's sure he's got Koby right where he wants him.]
[Maybe Koby should back away, should raise the alarm, should stick rigidly to the code that's hammered into him every single day. But he doesn't, and he doesn't want to, and maybe that's more important, maybe he's allowed to chase after dreams that have nothing to do with a uniform and everything to do with being tugged forward into the warm circle of fondness Fearless emits.
Another laugh, still gently exasperated, an eyeroll that does nothing to hide the goofy little grin.] That's terrible. Absolutely terrible.
Do you need stitches? A bandaid? A rousing pep talk? [Now Koby’s teasing, barely contained giggles, a scrunch of his nose, waiting for Fearless to ask -- or just take, it'd be fine if he just reached out and took, in here, in this room. Just for tonight.]
[It's everything, to make someone talk to him like this. Warm and sweet and like he belongs in the room, even though they both know damn well he doesn't. Fearless rests his hands on Koby's waist now that he's closer, tips his forehead toward Koby's.]
Ah, yeah, pep-talk's the only thing that's gonna do it for me.
[He could take. He knows he could. But he teases, baits, because he adores this feeling of being wanted. From being wanted despite how much Koby knows he shouldn't.
He knows, he knows, he knows that he's just going to be a fond little memory of some stupid choices in Koby's future, when he's exactly where he wants to be. He knows it would be better not to get Koby off track. But is it so bad to want to be something to someone so good?
He nearly touches his nose to Koby's, a distraction while he pulls Koby closer by the waist. He purrs;]
Uh-huh. [Another of those huffy, trying-to-be-stern expressions that Koby’s getting worse and worse at, because Fearless moves forward, ducks his head, smiles and smiles and there's a whole list of reasons why this is a bad idea, but they all melt away in light of those hands settling at his waist. Koby nudges his hat back, back, until it falls off, leaving his candyfloss-pink hair fluffy and missed, and he lets himself be pulled closer, blushing and smiling and forgetting to pretend to be stern.] I'll tell you something about how a busted lip just enhances your overall look, how's that?
[Still, he reaches up, looks up with those wide, serious eyes, notes the bruises and cuts with careful brushes of his fingertips, tracing the shape of Fearless's lower lip. The compliment gets a wry laugh, a flicker of something pained in Koby’s expressive eyes.] I think you're the only one who feels that way.
[The military is kinder than the dragons, but yapping, as Koby is prone to, is frowned on in both. And the training is hard already, but Koby pushes himself harder, harder, bandaged and sore and exhausted and still: pushing, pushing. Like he needs to earn his place, somehow.
But it passes, and Koby rises up on his toes until theyre nearly face to face, softens his voice:] Do you want me to keep talking? Or would you rather I do something...um, else?
[Part of Fearless wants to tell Koby that it doesn't matter. That they could do whatever he wants, that he really could just talk to him for hours and it would be something Fearless would look forward to. But that would be too raw, too real, too much like actual feelings— luxuries he cannot afford, and that he certainly doesn't want to burden Koby with the cost of.
...That, and as much as he might like it, he knows better than to encourage it. Talking so much around the wrong people always has the kind of consequences the people Fearless likes— people like Koby— don't deserve. It's always been frustrating, liking it so much and at the same time wishing he'd just shut up and not say what would get his ass kicked.
Besides, what's supposed to happen next is the script Fearless's more used to, and something even easier to perform now that Koby's days under Alvida's thumb are over. How do you get attention from people when you're just some sorry little shit on the street, how to make people like Koby want you over and over, at least until their slumming days are over? ]
I can think of some other things to do with your mouth.
[By being the kind of rebellion they can't resist.]
[Maybe it's a good thing Fearless doesn't say that, because the instant he did, this treacherous, rebellious, helpless thing beneath Koby’s ribs would flare up into a wildfire, would swallow him whole, would make him more than willing to walk away from the ISSF, from the morals and laws he'd sworn to uphold, from everything he'd thought he'd wanted all his life. One word, one inkling that Fearless would do something so bold as take Koby as he is, and he'd be lost.
But even that is a lie -- to himself, to the world, because Fearless grins down at him, teases him, touches him, and Koby knows the script, knows his part is to huff and roll his eyes and tease back. But instead he lets that helpless fondness splash across his face, radiant in his eyes, in his grin as he surges up onto his toes and kisses the corner of Fearless's bruised mouth, kisses him clumsy and sweet and eager, and there's no script for that, there never has been.]
[Koby kisses him and it's like Fearless has been slapped in the face with sunshine, like waking up from a mid-day nap to a glow of gold. Smile still plastered on he leans after Koby just a little when he pulls away, magnetized toward him. It's exactly what he wanted, exactly the permission he was waiting for in their little to-and-fro.]
Oh, uh, I— didn't really catch you the first time.
[He says, bringing one hand up to Koby's cheek and closing the distance between them again, speaking against his lips;]
Let me just—
[And presses them together, keeping Koby closer for just a little longer this time with a gentle touch.]
[That gets a laugh, a muffled, sputtering, fond burst against Fearless's mouth, ends up with Koby red-cheeked and giggling and slipping his arms around the other young man's neck. His mouth's open, soft, warm, softening as this second kiss lingers, stokes something hot and smoldering in his chest.
Fearless doesn't have more than a handful of inches on him, really, but he's solid, immovable, for all that he's lanky and lean, and Koby presses closer, closer, the crisply ironed uniform crinkling, creasing where they're chest-to-chest. He's sure Fearless can feel his heart racing, feel the way his ribs ache from holding his wild pulse back, and he sighs, soft and open-mouthed.]
Better? [It comes out a little dazed, Koby's fingers slipping up into dark, tousled hair, curling there, keeping Fearless close. Close enough to kiss again, quick, sweet, and again, enough times that Koby loses count, gets messy, hungry with it, pushes even closer.]
[See? Just as Fearless was expecting, all that frustration for nothing. He always knew the better way is to just give in and have some fun. And god, is Koby fun like this, kissing him like a starving man gives in to a meal. Fearless, too, eats it up, barely bothering to answer with more than a contented little mmhm, to Koby's question. He has more important things to do with his mouth, answering Koby's kisses with his own hunger. It's impossible for him to pretend that isn't what he wants— Koby's sweetness enveloping him, consuming him whole.
It isn't as though Koby's going to go running off now, so Fearless puts his hands to better work, starting by undoing Koby's tie. The poor boy has to breathe, after all, and those uniform shirt collars are just so tight. He isn't interested in Koby moving too far away yet, though, so he hooks one ankle around Koby's, a cue to keep him close.
He'd honestly ruin Koby's uniform if given the chance, but that would probably ruin a few other things, too, so Fearless opens the button of his collar and after that slides his hands over and up the back of Koby's neck, almost reverently touching his skin, and if he couldn't feel Koby's heart through his chest he sure can feel it now, drumming fast and steady under his thumb.
[Koby is all buttoned-up sweetness in his day-to-day, doe-eyed and solemn and serious, "yes sir" and "no sir" and "absolutely, sir" and maybe that isn't far enough removed from the "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am" of his days under Alvida, but it's his choice, right? That must mean something. That must make it different enough to matter, that he's chosen this version of obedience, rather than having it terrorized or beaten into him.
Regardless, it all slips away when Fearless unties the neat knot of Koby's tie, lets it drape over his shoulders, slips a hand under the open gape of his collar and slips it around, rough and callused and careful, to where his pulse is beating like a rabbit's. There's no need to be sweet or compliant or obedient, no need to do anything except follow the hot rush of instinct that has Koby pressing closer, chest-to-chest, hands curling tight into the fabric of Fearless's shirt, kissing him deeper, hungrier. He's unaware of the way even his most ferocious movements are colored with tenderness, how the sound he makes low in his throat is closer to a purr than a growl.
Because Koby's all sweetness, all the way through, even after years with his hands covered in blood, with his head bowed and his spirit bruised by Alvida's reckless cruelty. He lifts a hand to curl into Fearless's hair and it's tender, soft, thumb shaky over the line of his throat, and the look on his face when he pulls away to breathe is the sort of smitten helplessness that you read about in books. Koby can't help being who he is, and even at his most needy, there's nothing but warmth and affection and adoration in those big sad eyes. He grins up at Fearless, kissdrunk, and rises up on his toes to bump their noses together.] How long can you stay?
[Fearless can do nothing but long for that sweetness, that taste that keeps him coming back for more. It makes him want to do nothing more than say he'd stay forever, that he'd follow Koby like a dog just to feel he belonged at anyone's side.
But Koby's on a better path than what will open up for Fearless. One without such a dead end. He can't doom Koby, not after he's begun to carve a path for himself. But still, but still, he can just take a taste, can't he? sample sweetness from a window and slip away scott-free?]
As long as you want me,
[he teases, dipping in magnetically to Koby's little nuzzles, letting go of Koby's neck and shoulder only to rest his hands on Koby's hips. He doesn't want to force Koby forward— knows he doesn't have to. Koby will give him all the permission he needs. But for just a moment, Fearless wants to bask in that look Koby gives him, and the feeling it gives him like he's something worth being seen.]
[Now that's a dangerous response -- Koby laughs, softly, face flushed, settled chest-to-chest, and he thinks about asking for always, asking for forever, just to see what Fearless will say. In the hazy, warm place he's in, even the prospect of being refused doesn't seem that scary, doesn't seem like it'd shatter apart everything and break him from the inside-out -- though it would. Koby knows damn well it would.
So he swallows back the word, kisses the corner of Fearless's mouth instead, slides his hands under the loose collar of his shirt to graze callused and fond over his skin.] He's on shore leave all weekend. Lights-out was half an hour ago. So -- no check-ins for at least another four hours. Is that enough time? [Sweet, doe-eyed, innocent, like he isn't nudging Fearless back towards his bunk, like there's not a hunger in those wide eyes that burns hotter than solar flares. Like Koby doesn't want to risk everything in those next few hours, hands moving down to the hem of Fearless's shirt, tugging at it gently.
There's hopefulness there too, a soft sweetness that says I'll give you these hours, this time, give you everything I can, just don't hate me for it, just don't disappear before the sun rises, just don't leave me alone before I catch my breath. Fearless hasn't done it yet, even though Koby braces himself for it every time, braces for rejection or cruelty or just plain disinterest. He's gotten it from everyone else, everyone except this boy who should be the very first to give it. There's no reason for him to trust the fond warmth in Fearless's grin, the affection in his touch, in the way he looks downward with dark eyes and a soft smile. But he does, all the same.]
[Fearless's cool facade makes way for the dumbest, most vacant grin.]
Four hours?
[He asks, dopey and love-drunk, stepping back in perfect mirror to Koby's lead, putty in his friend's hands. It'd be a terribly easy thing to take advantage of, Fearless's willingness to do whatever Koby asks in this moment. Things could very well go wrong— hell, Fearless wouldn't have room to even blame Koby if he just decided to turn him in after one of these little stunts. But it hasn't happened yet, and well, wouldn't it be worth the risk anyway?]
I can work with four hours.
[He runs his fingertips around Koby's waistband first, taking his time, just analyzing, before he tugs the tails of Koby's shirt free, too, once again mirroring Koby's touch. He lets go, then, by experience; it's around this many steps before he starts getting close to the bunk and well— four hours is a good chunk of time, but not enough time to justify beefing it and knocking his head against space grade aluminum. So he keeps an arm behind him, catching against the mattress, and then sits when he's sure, dragging his other hand down Koby's arm. It's a leading gesture, an attempt to drag Koby into his lap.]
[That grin-- there might've been a thought, a vague, amorphous wisp of a thing, of turning Fearless in, of using this strange, vibrant, thrumming connection against him. It's the kind of thing that some of the higher-ups would probably appreciate, while also being the sort of thing someone like Alvida would do. Weaponize the way this exasperating, frustrating, amazing guy smiled at Koby like he was the best thing in the galaxy, like he lit the stars and hung the moons.
The thought had made him sick. It still does, a pang of horror that Koby covers with a little huff of a laugh, following after Fearless, keeping a careful eye until he's seated, until he hasn't thwacked his head (again) on the underside of the bunk. There's not much room, but Koby's slight enough that when he slides into Fearless's welcoming, waiting lap, there's still enough space that he barely needs to duck. He does anyways, leaning down for another kiss, smiling against the answering grin.]
Well, you don't have to fill the whole four hours. [Smiling, leaning back a little to start unbuttoning his shirt.] We can take breaks. Talk. If -- you want to. [Koby's painfully aware that his ears are flushing deeper pink as he talks, that the blush is spreading over his cheeks, his neck.] I-I mean. I like talking to you too. Um. So.
[No one ever talks to Fearless like this. Like they want him around for more than just a thrill. Maybe that's what keeps him going back to Koby— not the promise of a lay, but everything that comes after that, too. It's just the only way Fearless knows how to express himself.
Koby turning so pink— it's... really cute. Fearless leans back on his palms long enough to take the sight of Koby on his lap in, to really savor it.]
Careful. Keep talking like that and you might never get me to shut up.
[he says, as if Koby isn't the one who talks even more between the two of them. They both know that. But Fearless can't just come out and say that it makes him feel all warm and strange inside to hear Koby talk like he has a place there in his bed with him outside of the task of a good lay. It's dangerous, dangerous, dangerous...
Anyway, more of Koby's skin is revealed and as far as Fearless is concerned, that is an invitation to press his mouth to it, kissing Koby's collarbone, licking, sucking on it.
Bracing himself for impact if Koby decides to remind him that marking is a bad idea. But still taking the risk, regardless.]
[There's an absurd, embarrassing urge to hide his face, to scrunch away from the grinning fondness of Fearless's grin, from the way it sends flutters up and down Koby's spine, makes his breath stutter, knees squeezing in a little. He doesn't want to be so predictable, wants to maintain some air of mystery. Of control.
But he can't, he's not built that way, he wears every emotion across his face like a neon sign, and right that second it shows how much he means it, how much he genuinely enjoys and wants Fearless’s presence, his attention, his affection. How Koby wants all of it and all the rest, wants to chatter about his day settled against this man’s shoulder, his and nobody else’s, wants to feel those callused, roughened fingers toying with his hair as he waves his own in some aimless, unimportant story.
That’s there, as easy to see as the heat, the lust, the desire that flares up every time Fearless touches him. It’s unlike any other crush, any other fixation Koby’s ever had. It’s bigger, brighter, harder to bear, physical shot through with something raw and real and obvious. Still, he doesn’t say anything, just rolls his eyes, huffs out a sigh, tilts his head to one side to make it easier for Fearless to tease at his slowly-revealing skin.]
I couldn’t make you stop talking, even if I wanted to. Because you do things only when you want to and that’s that. [There’s a tremor, a pitching lilt in Koby’s voice as he feels the hot, warm pressure of Fearless’s mouth, his teeth, and yes, marking’s a bad idea, a terrible one, because if someone sees, people will talk and he could end up transferred or Fearless could end up caught or or or–
But it feels good, feeds that building heat, that hunger, that throb of desire that Koby knows is just making him redder and redder, easy to see as there’s nothing on beneath the uniform shirt – layers aren’t necessary on a environmentally-regimented ship like this. He undoes more and more buttons, fabric parting, framing the shudder of his still-too-visible ribs, his stomach, the scars bisecting his chest. It makes him blush even more, but he has to gulp out, has to say it aloud, has to make an almost-plea:] D-Don’t stop.
[What a privilege it is, for Koby to give himself over like this. To let Fearless's hungry hands scan over scarred and unscarred skin, on a body abiding to Koby's own choice. Koby is one of Fearless's favorite types of people, the kind that takes the hand they are given and changes the cards, changes the game, changes themself. Every inch of Koby Fearless touches is reverent in the way only someone who's never seen the inside of a cathedral can be, the wonder-filled awe of someone seeing god without ever knowing one existed. Even with this body that Fearless has touched before, that he's memorized well enough to remember how his fingers trip over the ridges of ribs that match his own, he's still not bored of Koby.
Young as Fearless is and with Koby warm in his lap as he is, he's already stiffening under his pink-haired comrade's rear. He can't help it; even tasting Koby's skin like this, knowing that a bruise is blooming over the bone— the sensation all rushes through Fearless's gut, and he's not even the one being sucked on.
While he's preoccupied with that and while Koby's still so focused on his shirt, Fearless toys with Koby's belt buckle, undoing it by touch and memory instead of sight. He has so much of Koby to touch, after all, and he doesn't want to be patient about it.]
[As always, Fearless's hands, his reverent, warming touch have any residual tension in Koby's spine melting away, any fears of being caught or risking capture fading away like smoke in the wind. He exhales, leans his head back, eyes half-closed, surrendering to the sensation of tongue and teeth and lips against his collarbone, to the thrilling thought of feeling the bruise there for days afterwards, beneath his uniform, a throbbing reminder of this place, this man, this moment.
Of course, he isn't entirely lost -- it's hard to miss the firm stiffness when he shifts slightly, squirming in pleasure. Fearless isn't exactly easy to ignore in that department, after all. Koby grins, pulling back a little to catch his friend's hazy eyes, his own bright with amusement.] So. Did you have any ideas about...what to do next?
[It's an obvious attempt at playing coy, and Koby's smiling far too bright for it to be at all effective, but he also repeats the shift of his hips, the slight grind down, against the slowly-hardening heat beneath him. Spread like this, held like this, Koby wonders if Fearless can tell he's wet yet, if it's noticeable already beneath the properly-belted uniform.]
[Fearless feigns confusion, squinting at Koby and furrowing his brow a bit.]
Thought I was doing you next?
[But he's barely even finished before he's broken back out into his too-cute smile, somehow able to look charming despite how threateningly hard he's getting beneath Koby right now. He doesn't have to feel it to know that Koby must be feeling it— if he wasn't, if he wasn't already warm and slick, Fearless wouldn't be doing this right.
As if to check, but mostly to tease, Fearless sticks his hand between the two of them and slips his fingers past Koby's unfastened waistband, making sure he rubs at Koby's clit on the way down, watching for Koby's reaction as if it's a reward.]
[that line gets a scrunched-up nose, a look halfway between a scowl and a snort of laughter -- because that wasn't even funny, not at all, fearless -- but that grin is back, bright as a solar fire, bright as the moon outside and the sheen of a thousand tiny stars, and koby is helpless now as before as always. fearless is too damn charming, and that's dangerous and that's wonderful and that's going to come back to bite them both someday, maybe.
but there's not room for that now, not with that hand slipping down between them, warm and quick and cleverly familiar. all thoughts of risk or danger have long since fled, replaced with the bolt of pleasure that jerks through koby like electricity at the slip of those callused fingers. down, beneath all the layers, finding exactly the sort of effect he's having. koby makes a sound, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, press his palm to where pleading moans are pressing to escape.
instead he blushes and he swallows back the whimpers and he shakily arches up into the cupping heat of fearless's hand. it's past where his clit's swollen and sensitive and aching, slipping through the messy slick gathered, dripping, soaking his underwear -- evidence that koby either gets wet fast, or he's been turned on this whole time, knee-shivering, heart-pounding, closer and closer to desperate.]
Y-Yeah. That's -- yeah. [all attempts at teasing have melted away, leaving the raw, hopeful sweetness that koby emanates without really trying -- wide sweet eyes and parted panting mouth and his hands finding the back of fearless's neck, cradling, petting at his hair.] D-Do that next, please? Please.
[There's something about desperation that tastes so perfect to someone like Fearless, who normally has to hide from the feeling he might somehow be cosmically undesirable. Perhaps it's because of the fact there can be no more denial, because it's no longer a petty desire but a need, that he's made himself so necessary to the situation his partner— that Koby— can't take it back.
So he's inclined to reward Koby for his desperation— it further insists, after all, how necessary Fearless and his touch is to the situation. His fingers slip lower, rolling side to side over Koby's clit.]
'That' what, you? Or what I'm already up to?
[Fearless plays dumb, like he isn't aching to meet Koby's hips with his own, like his tight tented jeans aren't practically unbearable to be in. It's worth it to tease. The payoff is always so much sweeter when it comes from someone who's so sick of his bullshit and just needs to cum.
Fearless dips deeper until he's able to probe the tips of his two middle fingers into Koby's cunt, no longer a notion of curiosity as much as it is a declaration of intent.]
[koby huffs and scowls and squirms his hips like the insatiable, needy, desperate thing fearless has accused him of being, teasing in that sweet rough voice against his ear, telling him to beg for it, to say just as many filthy things in that stammering, gulping, hoarse voice. and he does, every time, he does because fearless teases his fingers back and forth against, over, alongside his clit and makes heat build and build low in his stomach until koby's drenched, until he's dripping into the cup of that roughened palm. and it's nearly unbearable already, and koby whimpers and drops his forehead against fearless's shoulder and breathes in the sweat-salt scent of him.]
Don't be mean. [it pitches high, whiny, koby's clumsy, shaky hand slipping down to grab at fearless's shirt collar, grip tight, shift his hips to try to get those fingers in deeper. he's so damn wet it's easy, it's effortless, there's no resistance at all, so why won't fearless just --] You know. [what he wants, what he needs, turning and nuzzling into the heat of fearless's neck, exhaling on another of those whimpering sounds, mouth parted against where he can feel the steady, eager beat.
but at least -- he knows fearless is just as turned on as he is, so koby drops his shoulders, one, then the other, lets his unbuttoned shirt slide off over sunkissed shoulders, freckles and fading sunburn, pink as his hair, as the fuzz that leads from his navel down under the open waist of his pants, that curls soaked and fluffy around where fearless's fingers tease him open. koby huffs, rocks his hips, drops his free hand to where fearless is hard, palm cupping, squeezing, breathing out:] Please.
[It's all a bit overwhelming, and perhaps more than someone like Fearless deserves, to have someone fall apart in front of him like this. Koby's desire only feeds his own, and Fearless's inaction starts to stem not from even a desire to tease Koby anymore so much as he is just hypnotized by him. The sounds Koby makes, the heat against Fearless's fingers— it gets his cock twitching, aching, desperate. Still, all of the commands in his head get stuck trying to go at once, until Koby's pleading voice pierces through the horny haze and snaps him back to attention.
That disruption is punctuated by Koby's grip, which eases the lowest little gasp out of Fearless before he nods an affirmative. That's right, he absolutely does need to be inside of Koby like, say, ten minutes ago.]
Yeah. Yes. Let's.
[With a little more thought beginning to process in his poor head again Fearless sets back on task so dutifully, only drawing his hand away from the warmth and wetness that Koby is giving him to drag his fingers over his tongue and then to set about getting Koby's shorts all the way off. They are absolutely, positively in his way right now.]
Move your leg a second—
[He directs, not really waiting for Koby to comply before he continues. He's certain Koby will understand, and lean on him for balance if needed.]
[koby's busy trying to kiss fearless again, and he makes a soft, grouchy sound of protest at being shifted away from this task, until it clicks what he's trying to do. then there's another soft grumble, but koby also snuggles into fearless's shoulder, leaning his slight weight against him, kissing the tip of his ear and mumbling:] Don't -- drop me, okay? I'll get mad and bite your ankles while I'm down there.
[there's a giddy playfulness in his voice, in how he wiggles out of his shorts, slipping them over his slick-streaked thighs, then nimbly tugging one leg, then the other out. the blush on his face, his neck, over his shoulders, is echoed in the pink, damp curls at the apex of his thighs, the flushed folds dripping down his legs, but there's no embarrassment now. not when koby's preoccupied, hands slipping up to undo fearless's pants, then nudging under the waist, finding where he's hard, squeezing gently.]
You don't want to waste any time, right? [sweet, soft, earnest as ever, like he's giving a pep talk or a motivational speech, not being a tease, naked and shivery and needy in fearless's lap, free arm hooking around his neck for stability as he teases his cock with callused fingers.] Because -- well, because if you don't, you should say it. You should ask nicely, maybe. Good manners. [there's a grin on koby's flushed face as he leans back, bites his lower lip.] Don't you think?
ok i reread the book and have more icons i am BACK
[Torturing him. Torturing him, Fearless would claim. But Fearless can take this kind of torture, find it as sweet as pressing a bruise. Good things really do come to those who wait, and there's nothing to really complain about when his cock is twitching in Koby's touch.
Fearless kisses at Koby's chin, at his cheek—]
Fiiiine.
Please?
[Fearless's voice is absolutely saturated with the wideness of his smile, yet tinted by the huskiness of his arousal;]
[and koby beams, nuzzles into the kisses like an affectionate cat, his wickedness and teasing melting away in the face of how openly he craves that sort of contact. he’s weak to touches, to caresses, to being treated like someone worth treating sweetly – fearless no doubt knows that, remembers the earlier days, when koby was still tense and jumpy, flinching at shadows. he’d been vague about his past, his history with the syndicate, but it’s written over his body in old scars, in the haunted look in his big sad eyes, in how when fearless decides to stay, koby curls up tight on his chest and trembles through bad dreams, all night long.
none of that fear is here now, though. instead it’s only softness, sweetness and light, koby’s pouty mouth kissing fearless’s over and over and over, hands clumsy as they push his pants down, out of the way, enough so that he can fish out the hot, hard shape of his cock.] Good. [breathed against fearless’s mouth, punctuated with a laugh, with koby’s freckled, blushing nose bumping fearless’s cheek.] G-Good, lemme just –
[not much room to tease, not here, not so close and warm and impatient. koby breathes in, lines himself up, nudges fearless against the slick heat of his opening, then slowly sinks down onto his cock on the exhale. it pitches up, into a whimpering, pleading sound, and koby’s forehead drops to fearless’s shoulder as he keeps going, unflinching, unceasing, taking him all the way to the base in one smooth motion.]
[If that good is music to Fearless's ears, Koby's laughter is a symphony. For people like the two of them, these comfortable experiences are rare, something to be treasured. Their scars are similar in some places, in others near identical. And even where the experiences aren't the same, they're the only ones who understand, sometimes.
Each of these moments is a treasure, something they're never guaranteed to experience again. So Fearless savors it when Koby's wet heat envelopes him tip to base, but he also savors the weight of Koby's forehead against his shoulder, the warmth of Koby's back underneath his fingertips.
He has to let out a slow, shuddery breath, though, keeping himself evened out as not to lose himself in the feeling too fast. He's ached, waiting to have Koby again.]
God damn, Koby,
[he murmurs, affectionate, awestruck, like he's being blessed.]
I-It’s – good? [this isn’t the first time – it’s not even the tenth, or fifteenth, because whenever they see one another it’s like a switch gets flipped, like koby suddenly can’t get close enough to fearless, can’t be satisfied unless he’s wrapped up in him, on him, beneath him, in his lap like this. he wants to say it’s just youthful horniness – and yes, that’s a very significant part of it.
but it’s more. it’s the way fearless says his name, keeps him close, holds him, and koby’s never felt quite as safe as he does when fearless does that. it makes the rest of the world disappear, narrow down the the shuddery breath of fearless in his ear, the shudder of his long, lean body pressed to koby’s own.
and yes, it’s the incredible, deep, full feeling of fearless buried to the hilt inside him, satisfying that insatiable need that burns deep and fervent and hungry. koby shifts his hips, whines low in his throat, still panting against fearless’s neck as he manages:] F-Feels – good, r-really…really good… [he’s not much of a dirty talker, not consciously – he just means to be honest, to convey just how good he’s feeling right that moment.
then, swallowing hard, he leans back, all big eyes and soft, panting mouth and flushed cheeks, catches fearless’s eyes with his own and slowly rocks his hips. breath shuddering, gaze hot –] D-Does it – do y-you feel good too?
[Fearless really could revel in it all, the feeling of Koby's warmth around him— not just in the slick of his pussy, but the way Koby holds Fearless close. The way he's so honest with his body, with his mouth— how he drapes Fearless in want and care. It's selfish to indulge in, stupid, too, but Fearless knows that the starving need every crumb they can get.
He tucks his nose into Koby's hair, comforted by the scent of it, kept grounded in the pressure of Koby's arms around his neck.]
Incredible,
[He answers through a sigh, shifting his hips forward. Those dark eyes of his latch on to Koby's like a lifeline. He's better, a little at dirtytalking, or he thinks so anyway— but dirty talking isn't the point, he's sure. It's this opportunity to be painfully honest, just for a moment, knowing later both of them will have to go back to pretending they know better.]
Just what I've been— mnh. waiting for.
[Aching for. Desperate for. Another roll of his hips testifies to that need, pushing against Koby's rhythm.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hail the conquering hero | for @redforce
Eventually, it'll stop. Eventually there'll be the shudder of anchor, tethering the Miss Love Duck to whatever ship they've overtaken, and the trooping feet of the captive, doomed crew over to kneel on the blood-stained, salt-slick boards Koby's mopped hundreds and hundreds of times. And that'll be his cue to rouse, to swallow down the nausea, to grab the mop and bucket again and force himself to stand up straight and impassive and ready to respond immediately when he's told to clean up the smears of humanity on the deck. Not in five minutes, not in five seconds -- immediately. Alvida has made that extremely clear.
The shudder comes early, today -- maybe it was a private vessel, a daytime pleasure cruise, they have to be close to a village by now, and Alvida is testy, impatient, hungry to be back in the papers, to grab more attention, more infamy. The constant validation and fawning of her crew, of her (miserable, half-starved, perpetually terrified) cabin boy isn't enough anymore. What she wants is fame, desire, from the Pirate Hunter and the Marines and probably the World Government, before she's satisfied. She'll spend some of that anger on the miserable souls no doubt kneeling on her deck, and Koby will clean up their blood and probably half a dozen other things before his nighttime duties and he'll save the horror and helplessness in a tiny, dark, unreachable corner of his numb soul until -- well. Until he dies, probably.
There's a distinct lack of cheering. Alvida demands cheering, when she has a victory. Koby's usually ready with a shout the second he emerges from the hold, lugging the bucket and mop, ready to stand by as witness to the executions. But the words die in his throat as he shoves open the hatch, looks up and sees -- well. There's another crew there, but they aren't bound and kneeling and miserable. In fact, the people bound in misery, overseen by a very tall, very broad red-haired man are -- the crew. Alvida's crew. Because they lost.
They lost.
Koby could've probably slipped back unbidden into the hold, hidden away until the conquering crew (pirates, they have to be pirates, better pirates, real pirates) has plundered and left -- maybe bought himself some time, concocted a better story about his identity. But he's so thoroughly stunned that Alvida is currently kneeling before another captain that his hands go numb and the bucket slips from his fingers, clattering noisily onto the bloodstained deck.]
no subject
the alvida pirates aren't as much a setback as they are a nuisance, but after several delays and more storms than he'd anticipated, shanks is already further behind schedule than he'd like, which means his temper is much more volatile when the first cannonball strikes the hull. at first, he thinks it must be a marine vessel tipped off from the base at sabaody (who else would have the gall to fire on the red force?) until he races onto deck and spots the giant pink figurehead — of, what, a duck? — and the heart-shaped jolly roger. shanks makes it his business to keep tabs on crews he considers a threat; the alvida pirates may as well be a footnote, easily forgotten, easily overlooked, not worth his time.
beck it at his shoulder before he even makes it to the rail — return fire? — but shanks holds up his hand to say not yet. dark energy crackles around him, his voice like a crack of thunder when he shouts across the stretch of sea between their ships to order alvida and her crew to stand down, which is generous considering shanks' mood. she answers with more cannonfire. a mistake. shanks turns from the rail, unsheathing gryphon as he has done a hundred times before, shouting to his crew with a sharp frown: let's go, boys! make it quick!
he doesn't take pleasure in the swift victory like he might have otherwise; the defeat of the alvida pirates is more akin to pulling a splinter from your thumb that wishes it were an arrow through your chest. trivial. shanks and several of his officers are standing on the bloodied deck, alvida and her crew in shackles or bound with rope, all of them watching helplessly as the rest of shanks' crew plunders the miss love duck for whatever riches and stores they might have. shanks has alvida held at swordpoint at his feet, which seems a bit unnecessary given the number of pistols pointed in her direction, but already one of her crewmates has tried to steal the keys to alvida's shackles from beck, who promptly shot him between the eyes. that kind of loyalty is dangerous. that kind of loyalty requires extra precautions.
alvida is screaming at him, but it's mostly white noise, insignificant rage. (these are the things one becomes accustomed to when spending your formative years with buggy shouting in your ear.) shanks is more concerned with the dull aura of a person unaccounted for on deck — and for the first time since boarding, he turns his attention fully to alvida, his voice calm and even but no less threatening: )
Who else do you have aboard this ship? ( alvida seems momentarily perplexed, offended almost, as if the question doesn't make any sense. her mouth twists indignantly, and she's about to say something snide when the sound of a clattering bucket cuts through the crisp sea air. they both whip their heads in the boy's direction, the whistle of pistols aiming at a new target following shanks' line of sight. alvida says something he doesn't quite catch (you little runt, where have you been?) but shanks' full focus is now on the last member of alvida's crew (surely not a stowaway, with the mop; a cabin boy?) — bright pink hair, round eyes made rounder by the circular glasses slipping down his nose, no older than shanks was when he started his own crew. shanks can feel the shock, the terror, the bewilderment rolling off the boy in waves, and for the barest of seconds, shanks offers koby a warm smile as just shanks, as if to say, everything's going to be alright. but then he's turning his head to his crew with a low chuckle, the real shanks hidden behind the guise of boss once more. )
Easy, men. Keep your pistols trained on the lady, would you? ( alvida snarls, that's captain to you, you red-haired bastard, to which shanks shoots her a withering, wholly unimpressed look. it hardly even qualifies as a glare. that would require he feel something more than pity and contempt. his crew, dutifully, aim their pistols back at alvida's face and away from their newest arrival on deck. ) Hardly. ( to the struggling captain, hearty chuckles resounding from his crew. then, to koby only a pace or two away, gesturing at alvida with the tip of his saber: ) Is she always like this? So ... disrespectful? I did warn her not to engage.
( as casually as if they're talking about the weather. frankly, shanks would rather be talking about the weather, but they have other matters to discuss. namely, who this boy is and what to do with him.
fuck you, red hair, the east blue is my sea! tell him, koby. )
Koby... ( said thoughtfully, as if he's getting a feel for the name in his mouth, savoring it like a well-aged wine. he studies the mounting horror on koby's face, the infinitesimal shake of his head nearly lost to a body wracked with indecision and fear, his already wet doe eyes bugging out so far shanks almost thinks the boy's head might explode. and that simply won't do.
alvida is still spitting obscenities like a particularly ineffective snake, most of which shanks has tuned out — koby, you sniveling little coward, do something! or have you forgotten who you belong to? what you owe me? — until he presses the tip of his sword against the hollow of alvida's throat, a slow trickle of blood running down her breastbone into her cleavage. a deep red, almost black aura crackles around him as he stares alvida down, and try as she might, she can't help but quiver at his feet, the rest of her crew thudding to the deck in limp, bloody heaps beside her. on any other day, it might be impressive that a lowly captain in the east blue could withstand even a fraction of shanks' haki, but he's in no mood to be extending that sort of praise to a woman so delusional she thought she could defeat an emperor — and still thinks she might win, somehow, by using this boy against him. )
I think it's best if you don't speak to him anymore, unless you'd prefer to rename your ship the Miss Love Wreck. I'm allowing you the honor of letting you live — ( he glances to koby, who hasn't moved, the dark crackle dissipating as he smiles wryly, but with a kindness in his eyes that's unmistakable, an expression that clearly speaks to how much shanks truly, genuinely values koby's opinion on this matter ) — unless Koby has any objections?
no subject
These are not pirates who waste time, who should be trifled with by any captain in the East Blue – Koby knows that immediately, as surely as he could tell the direction of a high wind, the scent of an oncoming storm, the movement of a strong current. It’s an instinct down to his bones that keeps him frozen in place, even as Alvida commands him to speak, to explain. He’s not usually her mouthpiece, she doesn’t like him to talk – doesn’t like it when he stammers, when he stumbles over his words, doesn’t like how his voice pitches up when he’s anxious. Keep your mouth shut unless it’s “yes captain” or “no captain” had been one of the very first lessons Alvida had taught Koby, punctuated with her hand belting him across the face.
But this is – different. This is not a merchant or a fishing vessel or even another East Blue pirate. And their leader is nothing like Alvida. He exudes power, strength, control in a way that’s completely effortless, completely natural, none of the bellowing or posturing that Koby’s become accustomed to over the last two years. He doesn’t need to do anything but stand there, but turn and look over at the chore boy still frozen halfway out of the hold, and everything inside Koby goes weak and helpless and terrified, like a rabbit pinned in place by a fox, a hawk, a warship with cannons. He barely even registers the pistols turning his direction – honestly, it’d be better to go out that way, rather than via whatever force this red-haired pirate possesses. A bullet would kill him, but this man could unmake him without even trying.
Alvida doesn’t seem to pick up on this at all – or maybe she’s just too enraged, bellowing insults that Koby’s so used to they barely register anymore (useless, ungrateful, worthless, whimpering runt, stop standing and gaping like a coward and do something!). He almost laughs at that, because what does she expect him to do? Tackle the effortlessly powerful pirate captain and mop him to death? There’s a wild, ridiculous giggle bubbling up in his chest at the mental image, but then the pirate is turning, and something, something crackles all around him, like dark lightning, like schisms in the fabric of reality, and the rest of the crew just.
Drops dead.
And suddenly, nothing is funny. Because Koby knows, he knows he’s going to die too. He’d always anticipated it – ever since that first awful day, half-grown and scrawny and just shy of sixteen, hair still choppy from hacking it short by a beach campfire, feeding the long, long braids he’s had since childhood to the flames and deciding who he was going to be, what he was going to do, his whole life unspooling in front of him, full of possibility. A chance conversation with someone at the village port, an offer – we’ll take you as far as Shell’s Town, it’s hard work, but honest, you can help us bring in nets and when we get there, you can enlist – that was so perfect, so good that Koby didn’t question why a fishing trawler would be pink, why it’d have heart-shaped sails, too naive and excited and eager, overflowing with questions, with energy, with hope, him and a handful of other young men, all eager to prove themselves. And when they’d been lined up, when the captain had swanned her way down the steps, had shattered the illusion with the truth (this here’s the most fearsome pirate crew in the East Blue, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll bend the knee to it’s captain here and now, fellas), the others had refused while Koby stayed frozen, too afraid to speak up, too afraid to defy her. But they had – three of them, young and bold and fearless, saying they’d rather die than join a pirate crew.
Those had been the first deaths he’d swabbed off the seasalt-swollen boards. Alvida had shaken viscera and gore off her mace, handed it off, then looked Koby right in his pale, terrified, blood-splattered and tearful face. She’d seen – something, something she could control, something she could use, and that horrible, hateful smirk had curled her crimson mouth for the first time. You – I have a job for you, sweetie~, she’d cooed, reaching out to smooth his bloodied hair back, making his whole body recoil. Then she’d shoved a mop in his hands, patted his shoulder and murmured: Clean it up. Or you’re next. And he had – because he was a coward, because he was afraid, because it was easier to obey (and obey and obey and obey) than fight back and end up as another bloodied smear on the deck.
And now, apparently, that bought time, bought and paid for with Koby’s blood, sweat and tears (so, so many tears, enough that he’d thought he’d eventually have to run out, he’d have to hit his limit of crying, his limit of being hungry and cold and aching all over, his limit of threats and whispers and being told he was nothing, nothing at all without her, that if, when she finally got sick of him, nobody would mourn and nobody would care and nobody would notice he was gone) has run out. The red-haired pirate is looking at him again, and he’d – smiled, earlier, at Koby, had smiled and repeated his name, and maybe that was good and likely that was bad, and either way it didn’t matter. He was going to die anyway, before or after Alvida, and the entire ship would go to the bottom of the sea and nobody would morn or care or notice, just like she’d told him.
Except – that’s a question. Koby’s being asked a question. The hazy, foggy, frantic snarl of his thoughts snaps to attention, because that’s conditioned, you get a command, you complete it, you get a question, you answer it. The pirate is asking if…he wants Alvida to live or die. He’s giving Koby a choice, a chance to decide her fate. And he thinks about – everything, about every day of the last two years, about the perpetual humiliation and fear and misery, about the blood under his nails and the kicks aimed at his ribs when he’s scrubbing the deck and the way three of his fingers won’t curl all the way because she’s snapped them too many times for imagined slights and the nights in her cabin listening to her talk, listening to her muse about how fortunate he is to be here, how anyone else on the crew would kill for this sort of attention from their beloved captain, how men are like dogs, hungry, hounding and desperate, how if they can’t have her, maybe they’d be satisfied with him, maybe they need an outlet, someone to hurt, someone to ruin, and how it’s only Alvida’s good graces, only her watchful eye keeping Koby safe and unharmed, and how that sort of benevolence should earn her unquestioning, unflinching loyalty for the rest of his life, and how every time Koby would nod and say yes, Captain again and again and again and again, even when she slid her fingers into his hair and left them there, even when she made him stand and watch her eat, watch her bathe, watch her dress, wait to be released, wait to be sent back to the hold, wait to hear her rumbling snoring before he let himself shiver into mindless silently sobbing terror, knowing she was right, knowing that he owed her, and hating himself for it, for allowing it.
All that could be over. All of it could end, right now, with a word from him, with a head shake or a nod. It could be done. He could be free. Or he could spare her, and see if that makes it better, if that changes the hell she’s created on this ship, if she’ll let him go because he spared her life, or – or if it’ll be a thousand times worse if it’s only the two of them, only the nightmare in that cabin magnified, expanded, just Koby the coward and the monster who owns him. The options war in his mind, vivid on his face, on the way he looks at her, at the bloodied sneer that’ll never, never leave his mind for the rest of his life.
And then he looks up, jaw set, eyes hollow, and meets the red-haired pirates gaze.] I don’t care. [It comes out in a whisper, hoarse, shuddering. Alvida laughs, hollow and sharp, and Koby ignores it, somehow, taking a hitching breath. And again:] I don’t care, as long as you don’t leave me here. As long as you take me with you.
no subject
Very well. ( he turns back to alvida, his expression expectant, as if he's waiting for her find some new way to insult koby. she just laughs, practically keeling over, despite the sword still pointed at her chest. shanks tips alvida's chin back up to look at him, his eyes dark. ) I'd say you owe Koby your life, Captain. ( though there's no courtesy, no respect behind the word, only the well-placed condescension of a man who has earned his rank more than a hundred times over. he sheaths gryphon, turning his attention to beck at his side, who simply says the men are ready when you are, boss. shanks nods, gesturing toward alvida. ) I suppose it's time we show the lady some mercy, eh, Beck? Maybe after all this she'll find it within herself to be kinder to her next crew.
( beck snorts, clearly disbelieving — either the fact that shanks will show mercy or the fact that alvida might ever change her tune — but he doesn't say anything in dissent, just passes the keys to alvida's shackles to shanks and nods for the other officers to follow him back to the red force. shanks kneels before alvida, a sharp smile cutting across his face, with no trace of the kindness he'd offered koby moments before. the air thickens with the same dark energy that eradicated her crew, only this time it feels more oppressive, harder to breathe, like a horrible storm cloud is brewing around him, like he is the eye of the hurricane and everything around him is collateral damage. the ship's railings crack, the masts creaking like they might snap at any moment. shanks stares alvida down, leaning in close to slowly unlock her shackles — and now, suddenly, she finds she has nothing to say, can only stare back at him with the same terror she put in koby's eyes. shanks lowers his voice in hopes koby won't hear, but it can't be helped what the wind might carry. )
Koby is under my protection now. You know what that means. If you ever try to touch him again, I'll cut your hands off. If you even dare speak to him, I'll slit your throat before you can beg me not to. If you so much as look at him, my face will be the last thing you see. Do I make myself clear, Captain?
( the shackles clatter to the deck and shanks stands, the swirling energy dissipating like a wisp of smoke. alvida's eyes burn with fury, but shanks' mere presence keeps her on her knees despite her efforts to push herself to her feet, to lunge toward him with nails as long and sharp as claws. )
Hongo! ( a member of shanks' crew falls back from the others, a blonde man a few inches shorter than shanks with a scar above his eyebrow. he jogs briskly over to join his captain, casually asking, what's up, boss? as if they're old friends catching up and not two pirates who have thoroughly decimated an entire crew. ) Take Koby to the infirmary. I want a full medical report by sundown. ( hongo nods, about to sidestep in koby's direction when shanks sets his hand on hongo's shoulder to give him further orders. ) And have Roux fix him something to eat, he looks like the next gust of wind might blow him away. ( a beat, then one more thing: ) See if Beck and Yasopp can draw him a bath, too. Use mine — I suspect he'll want his privacy — and check with Limejuice, see if he's got anything Koby can change into for the time being, at least until we make it to port.
( shanks releases hongo's shoulder and hongo replies with a quick you got it, boss before he's jogging over to koby with a mildly amused grin, gesturing to the mop still in koby's hands. )
Don't think you'll be needing that anymore, Koby. Come on, doctor's orders.
( hongo leads the way back to the red force with shanks following up the rear, just in case alvida tries anything once they're further away — and when they're halfway across the gangplank, alvida finally manages to push herself to her feet, struggling to the rail of her ship and using the last of her strength to growl, raw and vicious, her voice dripping with acid: )
He'll never be yours, Shanks. You think a mighty Emperor of the Sea can fix what's broken in him? You think he'll bend the knee to you? Even if you kill me, he'll always be mine. ( and then, with another cruel, hollow laugh: ) Remember what I told you, Koby! You're walking right into the lion's den, little pup, and he's going to eat you alive, pick you clean, and then pass you around his whole—
( the hiss of shanks' sword is swift and lethal, one stroke of his blade through the air silencing alvida before she can say another word, a storm of crackling energy barreling toward the the hull, the masts, and anything else in its path. shanks whips around, quickly sheathing his sword again, shouting — ) Go! Now!
( — before the miss love duck groans miserably, the gun decks seconds away from blowing. hongo, without missing a beat, springs into action, quickly apologizing as he scoops koby up and throws him over his shoulder, sprinting across the last stretch of gangplank and leaping onto the deck of the red force, where beck is already throwing shanks a line and barking orders at the crew to haul up the anchor and get the ship moving, now! none of them seem to question that shanks hasn't made it off the gangplank when the first explosion from the miss love duck rocks the hull — nor are they particularly surprised when shanks comes swinging out of the next series of explosions almost wholly unscathed aside from a few scrapes and missing half of his cape, landing in the middle of the deck with little fanfare, the rest of the crew simply carrying on as if this is a completely normal occurrence. he finds his way to where hongo is kneeling next to koby, offering them both an apologetic smile. )
Sorry about all the fuss. ( the fuss, as if that's what one calls casually blowing up an enemy pirate ship. then, to koby directly: ) You weren't injured, were you? ( which seems like a redundant question when the ship's doctor is right beside him, but it's important that shanks makes it clear that he doesn't usually put his guests in immediate danger in the process of rescuing them. ) Hongo will take care of you if you were.
no subject
The possibility of this (absurd and outlandish as it is) has him recoiling a little as the blond-haired pirate approaches, hands clinging to the mop so tightly they go white-knuckled, holding it between him and the man like it’ll – protect him, somehow. But he’s told to put it down, told to follow the stranger off the Miss Love Duck and onto the considerably more impressive ship alongside it, and somehow his trembling knees unlock enough to obey, to lift one foot, then the other, to walk over the bloodied deck he’s scrubbed on his hands and knees a thousand times and across the gangplank to – to what?
Alvida seems to know. She yells it, bloodied and crazed and crew-less, and Koby reacts like he’s accustomed to, eyes down, shoulders set, accepting the insults and threats like they don’t dig their way down, down into the very core of who he is, like they don’t snag there to ache alongside every other horrible thing she’s told him. Sometimes Alvida goes days without even acknowledging Koby’s existence, but her voice is always there, echoing in his ears, in every panicked beat of his heart as he pushes himself past the limit to keep her placated, as he works his fingers bloody again and again.
Even the content of the threats isn’t anything new – Alvida’s held that exact scenario over Koby’s head since that first day, since she found out exactly who (what) he was. There were no secrets on her ship, not from her, and when she found the bandages Koby’d grown accustomed to wrapping around and around his chest, when she demanded he show her exactly why he needed them – well. There were no secrets from Alvida. She’d made it very clear that if anyone else on the crew found out, she wouldn’t be able to hold them back. This was something just between the two of them, something nobody else would accept about him, something only she knew. It bled into threats, it echoed in the softer, sweeter words in her cabin, when there was almost a streak of perverse fondness in her hand on his hair, his chin, cupping it and clicking her tongue, shaking her head. It’s lucky you’re such a hard worker, Koby, Alvida would sigh, squeezing his face, forcing him to look at the smug, gloating smirk on her face. Because I’m not interested in the only other thing you’re good for. But maybe it’ll prove useful, later on, hm? You could help me bargain my way out of a hard spot.
That concept lodges in Koby’s mind now, the idea that maybe – maybe Alvida’s just bought her freedom, her triumph with him, like she always threatened, and his body threatens to seize up in panic, there on the deck, surrounded by a crew of pirates, of men with unclear motives, unclear desires. He’s about to turn, to scramble back and drop onto his knees in front of Alvida, to beg for forgiveness, because it couldn’t be worse than being alone on a ship of strangers, but – but then there’s an explosion that has him stumbling back into Hongo, grabbing at him instinctively, curling away from the familiar heat and scent of cannon fire.
Except. Except there’s no cannon. There’s just the ship crumbling, the crackling sound of something still resonant in the air, and Koby’s half-turned to look, to see what happened, but Hongo is – scooping him up before he can protest, before he can do anything but grab at his glasses to keep them from falling off his face as the crew of pirates springs into action, bounding off the creaking, groaning deck of the Miss Love Duck as the world itself seems to crack itself into pieces. Koby’s hands are up over his ears, eyes squeezed shut, and part of him realizes he’s been set down, because he scrambles backwards until his back hits something solid, some box or barrel. He wants to stay curled in on himself, hidden from the sight and sound of everything that’s happened in the last handful of moments, but not knowing what’s going on is worse.
So he looks up, just in time to see the captain – red-haired, smiling, still smiling, broad-shouldered and powerful and deadly – swing onto the deck like he hadn’t just killed an entire crew and it’s captain without exerting any effort whatsoever. He turns towards Koby, says – something, he doesn’t quite hear it because he’s jerking back against whatever he’s huddling beside, hard enough that his head smacks into the wood, making his ears ring.
But it registers, eventually, and Koby shakes his head hard, breath coming quick, quick as the birdlike race of his pulse, eyes flicking around from one member of the crew to another, always coming back to the captain, like a compass pulled north again and again. He’s dizzy with fear, with the mounting terror of the situation he’s gotten himself into, but beneath it there’s – curiosity, wonder, amazement at what this man had just done, the power he was capable. Swallowing hard, convulsively, he croaks out:] N-No, I’m. I’m f-fine, sir.
[Shanks. Alvida had called him Shanks.]
for @prodigalgun
Sure, smart. If you get caught here, I'll get dishonorably discharged and you'll get arrested or worse. Smart.
[Peeking through his fingers now, scowling.] Is it worth it? That kind of risk?
no subject
Iiiiiii'm getting the impression you want me to say no, buuuut...
[He definitely disagrees though. He wouldn't bother if it wasn't worth the risk.]
Look, you worry too much about shit that hasn't happened yet.
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[The truth is -- well, what is the truth? Part of Koby is practical, rational, objectively aware that the risks far outweigh anything else, that one of them is heading towards a prosperous career as an intergalactic officer of justice and the other is...not.
But the other part hopes that Fearless says yes. Says yes, of course it's worth it, to see you. That part wins out for a moment as Koby pushes off the door with a soft sigh, pushing his hat back so he can look upwards, solemnly.]
One of us has to. [Reaching out, patting lightly at Fearless's shoulders, his chest, frowning.] You're not hurt, right?
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Ignore the eyebrow, that's— couple days ago. Won the match, though, don't worry about it.
[He flashes a smile, taking a step forward, shrinking that distance between himself and Koby. His hand raises as if to try and take Koby's arm, but he falls short, kind of just— grazing his fingers under Koby's wrist.]
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Outside there's smoke and stars, inside its only Koby’s hand settling at the sharp line of Fearless's face.] A match. Did you get hurt anywhere else?
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He bites the inside of his cheek, swings his shoulders a little, smiles like he knows the line he's about to try is stupid. He tries it anyway.]
I mean, kinda busted my lip.
Still hurts, y'know.
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Even the stupid line -- so stupid, so, so stupid -- gets a momentary look of alarm, wide eyes flicking to Fearless's grinning mouth, then a gasp of realization and then, oh, then a laugh, because it's a terrible attempt, but Koby is exactly the right mix of young and enchanted and exasperated to laugh over it.]
That's -- terrible. [Laughing, still, hand dropping to rest on a broad shoulder.] Your poor lip. Do you want -- me to do something about it? [Just as terrible of an attempt, punctuated by Koby's blushing face and his grin and the helplessly fond look in his eyes.]
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Desperately,
[He insists, pouting a little. It doesn't really break up his smile enough to look convincing. Doesn't matter. He's sure he's got Koby right where he wants him.]
It's been bothering me all day.
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Another laugh, still gently exasperated, an eyeroll that does nothing to hide the goofy little grin.] That's terrible. Absolutely terrible.
Do you need stitches? A bandaid? A rousing pep talk? [Now Koby’s teasing, barely contained giggles, a scrunch of his nose, waiting for Fearless to ask -- or just take, it'd be fine if he just reached out and took, in here, in this room. Just for tonight.]
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Ah, yeah, pep-talk's the only thing that's gonna do it for me.
[He could take. He knows he could. But he teases, baits, because he adores this feeling of being wanted. From being wanted despite how much Koby knows he shouldn't.
He knows, he knows, he knows that he's just going to be a fond little memory of some stupid choices in Koby's future, when he's exactly where he wants to be. He knows it would be better not to get Koby off track. But is it so bad to want to be something to someone so good?
He nearly touches his nose to Koby's, a distraction while he pulls Koby closer by the waist. He purrs;]
I could listen to you talk for hours.
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[Still, he reaches up, looks up with those wide, serious eyes, notes the bruises and cuts with careful brushes of his fingertips, tracing the shape of Fearless's lower lip. The compliment gets a wry laugh, a flicker of something pained in Koby’s expressive eyes.] I think you're the only one who feels that way.
[The military is kinder than the dragons, but yapping, as Koby is prone to, is frowned on in both. And the training is hard already, but Koby pushes himself harder, harder, bandaged and sore and exhausted and still: pushing, pushing. Like he needs to earn his place, somehow.
But it passes, and Koby rises up on his toes until theyre nearly face to face, softens his voice:] Do you want me to keep talking? Or would you rather I do something...um, else?
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...That, and as much as he might like it, he knows better than to encourage it. Talking so much around the wrong people always has the kind of consequences the people Fearless likes— people like Koby— don't deserve. It's always been frustrating, liking it so much and at the same time wishing he'd just shut up and not say what would get his ass kicked.
Besides, what's supposed to happen next is the script Fearless's more used to, and something even easier to perform now that Koby's days under Alvida's thumb are over. How do you get attention from people when you're just some sorry little shit on the street, how to make people like Koby want you over and over, at least until their slumming days are over? ]
I can think of some other things to do with your mouth.
[By being the kind of rebellion they can't resist.]
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But even that is a lie -- to himself, to the world, because Fearless grins down at him, teases him, touches him, and Koby knows the script, knows his part is to huff and roll his eyes and tease back. But instead he lets that helpless fondness splash across his face, radiant in his eyes, in his grin as he surges up onto his toes and kisses the corner of Fearless's bruised mouth, kisses him clumsy and sweet and eager, and there's no script for that, there never has been.]
Like that? [Breathless, giddy.]
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Oh, uh, I— didn't really catch you the first time.
[He says, bringing one hand up to Koby's cheek and closing the distance between them again, speaking against his lips;]
Let me just—
[And presses them together, keeping Koby closer for just a little longer this time with a gentle touch.]
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Fearless doesn't have more than a handful of inches on him, really, but he's solid, immovable, for all that he's lanky and lean, and Koby presses closer, closer, the crisply ironed uniform crinkling, creasing where they're chest-to-chest. He's sure Fearless can feel his heart racing, feel the way his ribs ache from holding his wild pulse back, and he sighs, soft and open-mouthed.]
Better? [It comes out a little dazed, Koby's fingers slipping up into dark, tousled hair, curling there, keeping Fearless close. Close enough to kiss again, quick, sweet, and again, enough times that Koby loses count, gets messy, hungry with it, pushes even closer.]
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It isn't as though Koby's going to go running off now, so Fearless puts his hands to better work, starting by undoing Koby's tie. The poor boy has to breathe, after all, and those uniform shirt collars are just so tight. He isn't interested in Koby moving too far away yet, though, so he hooks one ankle around Koby's, a cue to keep him close.
He'd honestly ruin Koby's uniform if given the chance, but that would probably ruin a few other things, too, so Fearless opens the button of his collar and after that slides his hands over and up the back of Koby's neck, almost reverently touching his skin, and if he couldn't feel Koby's heart through his chest he sure can feel it now, drumming fast and steady under his thumb.
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Regardless, it all slips away when Fearless unties the neat knot of Koby's tie, lets it drape over his shoulders, slips a hand under the open gape of his collar and slips it around, rough and callused and careful, to where his pulse is beating like a rabbit's. There's no need to be sweet or compliant or obedient, no need to do anything except follow the hot rush of instinct that has Koby pressing closer, chest-to-chest, hands curling tight into the fabric of Fearless's shirt, kissing him deeper, hungrier. He's unaware of the way even his most ferocious movements are colored with tenderness, how the sound he makes low in his throat is closer to a purr than a growl.
Because Koby's all sweetness, all the way through, even after years with his hands covered in blood, with his head bowed and his spirit bruised by Alvida's reckless cruelty. He lifts a hand to curl into Fearless's hair and it's tender, soft, thumb shaky over the line of his throat, and the look on his face when he pulls away to breathe is the sort of smitten helplessness that you read about in books. Koby can't help being who he is, and even at his most needy, there's nothing but warmth and affection and adoration in those big sad eyes. He grins up at Fearless, kissdrunk, and rises up on his toes to bump their noses together.] How long can you stay?
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But Koby's on a better path than what will open up for Fearless. One without such a dead end. He can't doom Koby, not after he's begun to carve a path for himself. But still, but still, he can just take a taste, can't he? sample sweetness from a window and slip away scott-free?]
As long as you want me,
[he teases, dipping in magnetically to Koby's little nuzzles, letting go of Koby's neck and shoulder only to rest his hands on Koby's hips. He doesn't want to force Koby forward— knows he doesn't have to. Koby will give him all the permission he needs. But for just a moment, Fearless wants to bask in that look Koby gives him, and the feeling it gives him like he's something worth being seen.]
How long 'til your roommate gets back?
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So he swallows back the word, kisses the corner of Fearless's mouth instead, slides his hands under the loose collar of his shirt to graze callused and fond over his skin.] He's on shore leave all weekend. Lights-out was half an hour ago. So -- no check-ins for at least another four hours. Is that enough time? [Sweet, doe-eyed, innocent, like he isn't nudging Fearless back towards his bunk, like there's not a hunger in those wide eyes that burns hotter than solar flares. Like Koby doesn't want to risk everything in those next few hours, hands moving down to the hem of Fearless's shirt, tugging at it gently.
There's hopefulness there too, a soft sweetness that says I'll give you these hours, this time, give you everything I can, just don't hate me for it, just don't disappear before the sun rises, just don't leave me alone before I catch my breath. Fearless hasn't done it yet, even though Koby braces himself for it every time, braces for rejection or cruelty or just plain disinterest. He's gotten it from everyone else, everyone except this boy who should be the very first to give it. There's no reason for him to trust the fond warmth in Fearless's grin, the affection in his touch, in the way he looks downward with dark eyes and a soft smile. But he does, all the same.]
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Four hours?
[He asks, dopey and love-drunk, stepping back in perfect mirror to Koby's lead, putty in his friend's hands. It'd be a terribly easy thing to take advantage of, Fearless's willingness to do whatever Koby asks in this moment. Things could very well go wrong— hell, Fearless wouldn't have room to even blame Koby if he just decided to turn him in after one of these little stunts. But it hasn't happened yet, and well, wouldn't it be worth the risk anyway?]
I can work with four hours.
[He runs his fingertips around Koby's waistband first, taking his time, just analyzing, before he tugs the tails of Koby's shirt free, too, once again mirroring Koby's touch. He lets go, then, by experience; it's around this many steps before he starts getting close to the bunk and well— four hours is a good chunk of time, but not enough time to justify beefing it and knocking his head against space grade aluminum. So he keeps an arm behind him, catching against the mattress, and then sits when he's sure, dragging his other hand down Koby's arm. It's a leading gesture, an attempt to drag Koby into his lap.]
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The thought had made him sick. It still does, a pang of horror that Koby covers with a little huff of a laugh, following after Fearless, keeping a careful eye until he's seated, until he hasn't thwacked his head (again) on the underside of the bunk. There's not much room, but Koby's slight enough that when he slides into Fearless's welcoming, waiting lap, there's still enough space that he barely needs to duck. He does anyways, leaning down for another kiss, smiling against the answering grin.]
Well, you don't have to fill the whole four hours. [Smiling, leaning back a little to start unbuttoning his shirt.] We can take breaks. Talk. If -- you want to. [Koby's painfully aware that his ears are flushing deeper pink as he talks, that the blush is spreading over his cheeks, his neck.] I-I mean. I like talking to you too. Um. So.
Yeah.
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Koby turning so pink— it's... really cute. Fearless leans back on his palms long enough to take the sight of Koby on his lap in, to really savor it.]
Careful. Keep talking like that and you might never get me to shut up.
[he says, as if Koby isn't the one who talks even more between the two of them. They both know that. But Fearless can't just come out and say that it makes him feel all warm and strange inside to hear Koby talk like he has a place there in his bed with him outside of the task of a good lay. It's dangerous, dangerous, dangerous...
Anyway, more of Koby's skin is revealed and as far as Fearless is concerned, that is an invitation to press his mouth to it, kissing Koby's collarbone, licking, sucking on it.
Bracing himself for impact if Koby decides to remind him that marking is a bad idea. But still taking the risk, regardless.]
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But he can't, he's not built that way, he wears every emotion across his face like a neon sign, and right that second it shows how much he means it, how much he genuinely enjoys and wants Fearless’s presence, his attention, his affection. How Koby wants all of it and all the rest, wants to chatter about his day settled against this man’s shoulder, his and nobody else’s, wants to feel those callused, roughened fingers toying with his hair as he waves his own in some aimless, unimportant story.
That’s there, as easy to see as the heat, the lust, the desire that flares up every time Fearless touches him. It’s unlike any other crush, any other fixation Koby’s ever had. It’s bigger, brighter, harder to bear, physical shot through with something raw and real and obvious. Still, he doesn’t say anything, just rolls his eyes, huffs out a sigh, tilts his head to one side to make it easier for Fearless to tease at his slowly-revealing skin.]
I couldn’t make you stop talking, even if I wanted to. Because you do things only when you want to and that’s that. [There’s a tremor, a pitching lilt in Koby’s voice as he feels the hot, warm pressure of Fearless’s mouth, his teeth, and yes, marking’s a bad idea, a terrible one, because if someone sees, people will talk and he could end up transferred or Fearless could end up caught or or or–
But it feels good, feeds that building heat, that hunger, that throb of desire that Koby knows is just making him redder and redder, easy to see as there’s nothing on beneath the uniform shirt – layers aren’t necessary on a environmentally-regimented ship like this. He undoes more and more buttons, fabric parting, framing the shudder of his still-too-visible ribs, his stomach, the scars bisecting his chest. It makes him blush even more, but he has to gulp out, has to say it aloud, has to make an almost-plea:] D-Don’t stop.
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Young as Fearless is and with Koby warm in his lap as he is, he's already stiffening under his pink-haired comrade's rear. He can't help it; even tasting Koby's skin like this, knowing that a bruise is blooming over the bone— the sensation all rushes through Fearless's gut, and he's not even the one being sucked on.
While he's preoccupied with that and while Koby's still so focused on his shirt, Fearless toys with Koby's belt buckle, undoing it by touch and memory instead of sight. He has so much of Koby to touch, after all, and he doesn't want to be patient about it.]
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Of course, he isn't entirely lost -- it's hard to miss the firm stiffness when he shifts slightly, squirming in pleasure. Fearless isn't exactly easy to ignore in that department, after all. Koby grins, pulling back a little to catch his friend's hazy eyes, his own bright with amusement.] So. Did you have any ideas about...what to do next?
[It's an obvious attempt at playing coy, and Koby's smiling far too bright for it to be at all effective, but he also repeats the shift of his hips, the slight grind down, against the slowly-hardening heat beneath him. Spread like this, held like this, Koby wonders if Fearless can tell he's wet yet, if it's noticeable already beneath the properly-belted uniform.]
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Thought I was doing you next?
[But he's barely even finished before he's broken back out into his too-cute smile, somehow able to look charming despite how threateningly hard he's getting beneath Koby right now. He doesn't have to feel it to know that Koby must be feeling it— if he wasn't, if he wasn't already warm and slick, Fearless wouldn't be doing this right.
As if to check, but mostly to tease, Fearless sticks his hand between the two of them and slips his fingers past Koby's unfastened waistband, making sure he rubs at Koby's clit on the way down, watching for Koby's reaction as if it's a reward.]
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but there's not room for that now, not with that hand slipping down between them, warm and quick and cleverly familiar. all thoughts of risk or danger have long since fled, replaced with the bolt of pleasure that jerks through koby like electricity at the slip of those callused fingers. down, beneath all the layers, finding exactly the sort of effect he's having. koby makes a sound, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, press his palm to where pleading moans are pressing to escape.
instead he blushes and he swallows back the whimpers and he shakily arches up into the cupping heat of fearless's hand. it's past where his clit's swollen and sensitive and aching, slipping through the messy slick gathered, dripping, soaking his underwear -- evidence that koby either gets wet fast, or he's been turned on this whole time, knee-shivering, heart-pounding, closer and closer to desperate.]
Y-Yeah. That's -- yeah. [all attempts at teasing have melted away, leaving the raw, hopeful sweetness that koby emanates without really trying -- wide sweet eyes and parted panting mouth and his hands finding the back of fearless's neck, cradling, petting at his hair.] D-Do that next, please? Please.
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So he's inclined to reward Koby for his desperation— it further insists, after all, how necessary Fearless and his touch is to the situation. His fingers slip lower, rolling side to side over Koby's clit.]
'That' what, you? Or what I'm already up to?
[Fearless plays dumb, like he isn't aching to meet Koby's hips with his own, like his tight tented jeans aren't practically unbearable to be in. It's worth it to tease. The payoff is always so much sweeter when it comes from someone who's so sick of his bullshit and just needs to cum.
Fearless dips deeper until he's able to probe the tips of his two middle fingers into Koby's cunt, no longer a notion of curiosity as much as it is a declaration of intent.]
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Don't be mean. [it pitches high, whiny, koby's clumsy, shaky hand slipping down to grab at fearless's shirt collar, grip tight, shift his hips to try to get those fingers in deeper. he's so damn wet it's easy, it's effortless, there's no resistance at all, so why won't fearless just --] You know. [what he wants, what he needs, turning and nuzzling into the heat of fearless's neck, exhaling on another of those whimpering sounds, mouth parted against where he can feel the steady, eager beat.
but at least -- he knows fearless is just as turned on as he is, so koby drops his shoulders, one, then the other, lets his unbuttoned shirt slide off over sunkissed shoulders, freckles and fading sunburn, pink as his hair, as the fuzz that leads from his navel down under the open waist of his pants, that curls soaked and fluffy around where fearless's fingers tease him open. koby huffs, rocks his hips, drops his free hand to where fearless is hard, palm cupping, squeezing, breathing out:] Please.
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That disruption is punctuated by Koby's grip, which eases the lowest little gasp out of Fearless before he nods an affirmative. That's right, he absolutely does need to be inside of Koby like, say, ten minutes ago.]
Yeah. Yes. Let's.
[With a little more thought beginning to process in his poor head again Fearless sets back on task so dutifully, only drawing his hand away from the warmth and wetness that Koby is giving him to drag his fingers over his tongue and then to set about getting Koby's shorts all the way off. They are absolutely, positively in his way right now.]
Move your leg a second—
[He directs, not really waiting for Koby to comply before he continues. He's certain Koby will understand, and lean on him for balance if needed.]
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[there's a giddy playfulness in his voice, in how he wiggles out of his shorts, slipping them over his slick-streaked thighs, then nimbly tugging one leg, then the other out. the blush on his face, his neck, over his shoulders, is echoed in the pink, damp curls at the apex of his thighs, the flushed folds dripping down his legs, but there's no embarrassment now. not when koby's preoccupied, hands slipping up to undo fearless's pants, then nudging under the waist, finding where he's hard, squeezing gently.]
You don't want to waste any time, right? [sweet, soft, earnest as ever, like he's giving a pep talk or a motivational speech, not being a tease, naked and shivery and needy in fearless's lap, free arm hooking around his neck for stability as he teases his cock with callused fingers.] Because -- well, because if you don't, you should say it. You should ask nicely, maybe. Good manners. [there's a grin on koby's flushed face as he leans back, bites his lower lip.] Don't you think?
ok i reread the book and have more icons i am BACK
[Torturing him. Torturing him, Fearless would claim. But Fearless can take this kind of torture, find it as sweet as pressing a bruise. Good things really do come to those who wait, and there's nothing to really complain about when his cock is twitching in Koby's touch.
Fearless kisses at Koby's chin, at his cheek—]
Fiiiine.
Please?
[Fearless's voice is absolutely saturated with the wideness of his smile, yet tinted by the huskiness of his arousal;]
Pretty please?
A GIFT AND A TREASURE FORRRRR MEEEE
none of that fear is here now, though. instead it’s only softness, sweetness and light, koby’s pouty mouth kissing fearless’s over and over and over, hands clumsy as they push his pants down, out of the way, enough so that he can fish out the hot, hard shape of his cock.] Good. [breathed against fearless’s mouth, punctuated with a laugh, with koby’s freckled, blushing nose bumping fearless’s cheek.] G-Good, lemme just –
[not much room to tease, not here, not so close and warm and impatient. koby breathes in, lines himself up, nudges fearless against the slick heat of his opening, then slowly sinks down onto his cock on the exhale. it pitches up, into a whimpering, pleading sound, and koby’s forehead drops to fearless’s shoulder as he keeps going, unflinching, unceasing, taking him all the way to the base in one smooth motion.]
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Each of these moments is a treasure, something they're never guaranteed to experience again. So Fearless savors it when Koby's wet heat envelopes him tip to base, but he also savors the weight of Koby's forehead against his shoulder, the warmth of Koby's back underneath his fingertips.
He has to let out a slow, shuddery breath, though, keeping himself evened out as not to lose himself in the feeling too fast. He's ached, waiting to have Koby again.]
God damn, Koby,
[he murmurs, affectionate, awestruck, like he's being blessed.]
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but it’s more. it’s the way fearless says his name, keeps him close, holds him, and koby’s never felt quite as safe as he does when fearless does that. it makes the rest of the world disappear, narrow down the the shuddery breath of fearless in his ear, the shudder of his long, lean body pressed to koby’s own.
and yes, it’s the incredible, deep, full feeling of fearless buried to the hilt inside him, satisfying that insatiable need that burns deep and fervent and hungry. koby shifts his hips, whines low in his throat, still panting against fearless’s neck as he manages:] F-Feels – good, r-really…really good… [he’s not much of a dirty talker, not consciously – he just means to be honest, to convey just how good he’s feeling right that moment.
then, swallowing hard, he leans back, all big eyes and soft, panting mouth and flushed cheeks, catches fearless’s eyes with his own and slowly rocks his hips. breath shuddering, gaze hot –] D-Does it – do y-you feel good too?
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He tucks his nose into Koby's hair, comforted by the scent of it, kept grounded in the pressure of Koby's arms around his neck.]
Incredible,
[He answers through a sigh, shifting his hips forward. Those dark eyes of his latch on to Koby's like a lifeline. He's better, a little at dirtytalking, or he thinks so anyway— but dirty talking isn't the point, he's sure. It's this opportunity to be painfully honest, just for a moment, knowing later both of them will have to go back to pretending they know better.]
Just what I've been— mnh. waiting for.
[Aching for. Desperate for. Another roll of his hips testifies to that need, pushing against Koby's rhythm.]