[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?
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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?