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quentin toma

NOTES: sailor, navigator, loverboy, war-bringer.

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No, no, never. [Koby says it laughing, bare-armed and bare-chested in the midday sun, something he’d never, never anticipated he’d do – not in front of anyone, not without immediately trying to hide, trying to curl in on himself and disappear. But here he is, not thinking about anything but Quentin’s lips pressed to his thrumming heartbeat, to the pinked warmth of his neck, to the freckles on his shoulder, not caring about anything but catching that mouth with his, kissing this man again and again and again, until he forgets what world they’re in, until he forgets they aren’t on any sea at all.] You’d never let anything bad happen to me. [Matter-of-fact, prompt, earnest, like he’s stating a fact of the universe, inarguable.

The boat is smooth whitewashed board, patched expertly, and Koby shivers a bit against the feel of it on his bare back, along his spine, his shoulderblades working as he reaches up to tug Quentin down, smiling again at the rock of the rowboat. Like this it’s a bit more private, just the sunny sky overhead, the trees far enough away from the shore that they can almost pretend they’re out to sea. Quentin’s mouth finds his, pouting just a bit, just enough to prompt a soft laugh as Koby’s fingers stroke through loose, dark curls, combing them away so he can kiss Quentin’s cheeks, his chin, his lips.] Okay. Show me. [Soft, settling into the hollow of the little boat, settling Quentin into the curve of his body, chest to chest, the way they wake up together so many mornings.

There’s hunger – always, with Quentin, always this barely-controlled desire to touch and hold and feel him, until there’s nothing and nobody else in the world – but there’s also a strange stillness, like a calm sea. Koby could stay right here, he realizes, could spend the rest of the time in this boat, with this person cradled in his arms, with the sun overhead. He could give up everything else, every other world, and that – should be terrifying. It should make him rethink everything.

It doesn’t. Because Quentin is kissing him again, voice soft and sweet and low, and Koby doesn’t want to do anything but kiss him back, playing with his hair, twining a long, silky curl around his finger.] Warn you about what? [Innocent, wide-eyed, guileless, in that soft early-morning voice he gets before anyone else is awake, when Quentin snuggles up on top of him just like this and they talk about nothing in the space between kisses.] I didn’t know to expect you either. I had no idea.

[A pause, Koby leaning back a bit, nose sun-pinked, eyes soft, tracing over every line, every feature of Quentin’s face.] I wouldn’t have changed anything, though. Not one part of it. Not one part of you. Of you and I. You know that, right?

I wouldn't.

[ anything he can control, he can prevent - he will try desperately if it means keeping koby safe. the night they wrapped around one another in their respective nightmares, quentin knew then that something in him was built to protect koby, the soft-faced, pink haired boy with eyes like wide windows to a soft, golden heart. if he could wrap him up in his arms and keep him from the hurts of the world, he would.

he can't, and for now all he can do is protect him from this place, from the small hurts that come and go here. he kisses him softly, slowly, pouring every bit of adoration he can into it, feeling overwhelmed with it now that they're both here, stretched out across the bottom of the patched, little boat. he goes quiet, reveling in the fingers pushing through his hair, the flutter of soft kisses, the words that follow. his eyes, half lidded, stay focused on the wide blues of koby's, soaking him up just like this, all sun-kissed and happy.

they could do anything right now - lay here like this, rock the boat as they fumble to get out of their clothes, jump out and swim - he doesn't care. so he kisses him again, this time chaste but lingering, lips over his and pressing close as his answer. of course he knows koby wouldn't change anything. of course. he knows it, too - that the way they met and how things have gone - it's everything he's ever needed.

and so when he comes up from that kiss, their noses nudging softly, his body blocking the light from koby's face - he sighs a little, voice quiet, almost shy: ]

I know that I love you. Is that enough, Captain?

[ a small smile, and there's a glimmer of unknown in his eyes - of being too forward, in too deep. ]

Do you really understand?

[ he laughs a little, watching tim wriggle out of his underwear, seeing the beginnings of pink blooming where he'd laid his hand before. he reaches for the stinging mark, gently smooths his callused palm over it, up and down, fingers trailing to his low back, resting there .]

Because you want bigger problems, and you've told me? Well. I can't reward you before you're properly punished for that filthy mouth of yours.

[ tim looks back at him and though quentin's face is stern, brow set, there's a fiery hunger in his eyes, masking some of the fondness that would be there otherwise.

he goes back to rubbing that aching red mark, letting the slide of his fingers press briefly along the cleft of his ass, pressing between and back out, teasing but not giving. he follows it up with a sharp smack, right where the other had been before, and again. ]

Head and chest down - ass up. You don't get to make demands. What do you say, Tim?

[ he drags his nails over the mark, then pulls away, as though rearing up for another smack. ]

Mmmhm. [There's a sort of rhythmic, absent hum to that, Koby's fingers carding slowly through Quentin's hair, gently, not fixing or fussing or braiding it up like he does sometimes, in bed or on the couch or on the shores of the lake he can no longer see. Sometimes he thinks about the caution he'd had back home, the stiff tension in his shoulders any time anyone touched him -- even a hand on his arm, a pat on the back -- so unaccustomed to the contact, to the idea of open, easy affection. It seemed impossible, at least for Koby. He'd settled himself with the idea of passing through the world with everyone held at arm's length, with never feeling so safe, so at ease with someone that he could just reach out, touch them. Let them touch him. He'd satisfied himself with never being allowed to have that.

But here -- the sun above, the rock of the water beneath, the silky drag of Quentin's hair through his fingers, the afternoon slow and warm and sunlit before them. And he's allowed to have it, to have this moment be his, as long as it lasts, and nobody's going to take it away and nobody's going to say he isn't good enough. Not this time.

And then Quentin leans up, and kisses him and says -- he says --]

What? [It's very soft, shaky, it comes out as Koby's hands still and his eyes go wide and there's so much aching, bleeding, raw hope throbbing in his chest, because that's -- that's something beyond daydreams, beyond hoping, beyond anything he would've ever, ever let himself ask for. It would've been enough, he would've been okay if all he had was today, this moment, this warmth and softness. Koby could live the rest of his life on the sweetness Quentin's shown him just that afternoon. He could build himself a lighthouse out of it, could let it keep him warm, keep him safe for the rest of time.

But Quentin says I know that I love you and the lighthouse is a beacon is the sun itself, cradled in his arms and Koby looks down into those warm brown eyes and that softly smiling face and Tim was so, so right. His breath catches, and he knows there are tears in his eyes, but he can't stop smiling, can't stop grinning like he's that dumb, lonely, desperately terrified little kid he'd been the last time he hoped for anyone to love him.]

You do? Really?

[ That makes sense. He came here to take his punishment, not to make requests. As Tim slips into his role and sees, hears, feels Quentin slip into his, he feels himself nodding. It's almost subconscious, the way the harsher tone brings it out of him. He's struck by the accusation - filthy mouth - as much as he is by the hand that's literally struck him on the ass. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? He could be on his knees faster than Quentin could get out the request, prove to him that it's good, earn his praise.

He doesn't move, except for the flex as Quentin fondles his ass, inviting his fingers to stay there between his cheeks, and as if that desperation is hooked to a shock collar, he's put in line immediately, the impact of the hand against bare skin making a smacking sound that fills the room. Tim's toes dig into the carpet to keep him grounded, distract him from the urge to chase the touch as it pulls away, look for the comfort after the sting. All that comes is another slap.

A sharp intake of air, and he looks back behind him, nodding again, eager. ]

If that's what you think I need. You get to make demands. Not me.

[ There's no edge of sass to it this time, just repetition, call and response, proving that he understands. As instructed, he moves onto the bed, briefly on all fours, and then slinking slowly down so that his chest and forehead are pressed against the mattress, ass held high. The stretch feels good, does some work to soothe the sting, but not enough. He wonders if he ought to grab a pillow to stabilize himself, but doesn't. It's a luxury. Fisting in the blanket will have to do. ]

I do.

[ quentin laughs a little, sheepishly looking away for a moment in the face of koby's shock. he doesn't want to come on too strong, doesn't want to imagine hanging this man his anchor and telling him to hold it - keep a line out that always leads back to him, pulling his ship and guiding his sails to a harbor he finds he wants nothing more than to settle in.

but this is what it feels like - overwhelming, consuming, distracting. the desperate need to be around someone and breathe in the very scent of them first thing on the morning. to go out and cast a net and always return to calm seas and clear skies. he'd imagined he'd always be alone, wandering port to port to familiar faces and come back to the ship as his anchor. his focal point. but everything has shifted in the short time he's known him - and for the first time in his life, he feels truly understood. seen. ]

Sorry, if it's too much. [ a little laugh, and his face flushed red for a change. his weight settled on koby's, arms around him, his fingers involuntarily flex. like trying to hold on in case he might flee, or run, or swim. he could see reason for it - sailors don't tie themselves down like this, and yet loving koby has never felt an impenetrable knot, a rough tide or a rusted, trapped anchor on unfriendly shores. ]

But it's true. It's why I wouldn't change a single thing about you.

It's not. [Immediate, so quickly the words trip out on a laughing sort of sobbing sound, because of course Koby's crying, of course the tears don't just well up and stay put, they well up and well up and well up and overflow down his sunkissed face. His hands find Quentin's face, the tickle of his beard and the smooth line of his jaw and the curve of his cheekbones, each feature so familiar, so adored. He doesn't think there's a place on Quentin's body he hasn't touched, hasn't pressed his lips to, hasn't traced his fingers over in sleepy, warm moments, just before dawn. Is it possible to know someone, to memorize them until they feel a part of you, and not end up loving them?

Koby leans down, presses his lips to Quentin's, thinks about that first kiss near the arena, about the taste of dust and sweat and blood, about the tangle of heat and pleasure and tangled sheets and spilled bath water that followed. About the first night he'd ever spent with another person curled in his bed, how he'd woken up fully rested for the first time in years, looked up at Quentin's face and knew he was in trouble. It wasn't just time, it wasn't just the knitting together of a hundred thousand tiny moments over the past weeks, trapped in the beautiful, dangerous pressure cooker of this house, this estate, this world -- though that was definitely what built the way he feels now, the fanning of a tiny spark into a flame.

But the spark had been there, when Koby woke up in Quentin's arms and realized he hadn't had nightmares for the first time in years. That he felt truly, completely, wholly safe with this man, that all he wanted was to slide back into the warm, sweet, perfect comfort of his presence and never, never leave it again.]

It's n-not. [Repeated as Koby pulls away, sniffles, pets back Quentin's hair and looks at him like he's the sun, the stars, the waves and the wind and the sea.] I d-do too. I mean -- [A quick breath, because he's thought about how to say it, how to make it special. But what's better than this, than the sound of their ocean and the rock of the water?] I love you too. So -- so much. I have since --

[A laugh, that day, that night, that morning flaring bright as cannonfire in Koby's chest.] The start? Maybe?

[ the arena had simply been a way for quentin to shut off his mind and do something to keep him from wandering back to the horrors of his home. it's difficult to think when your body has to work, has to exist in fight or flight, and he'd had every intention of going back in to win the round. or at least make the attempt. but something about koby stopped him - his insistence he stay, get medical care, his soft hands on his face and body, cleaning his wounds.

a gentleness with the firm hand of someone who has faced a lot of darkness. it resonated with him. how he ended up gravitating back to him, he'll never know. but his mornings turned into quiet moments wrapped around a warm body, kisses and whispers and stories shared over breakfast, the easy way he can slide into koby's bed when he's restless, the yearning to see him at least once, his smile soothing an ache in his chest.

but koby's crying and quentin wipes at his tears, laughing a little watery himself when koby lights up. he's not much of an anxious person himself, but waiting on koby's response feels akin to drowning - a fullness in the chest, lungs burning, heart pounding. but he says it - and quentin laughs, immediately leaning in and kissing him messy and hard, laughing behind it until koby speaks again. ]

The start? I thought you'd throw me back into the arena itself that night.

[ he laughs and kisses him again, a series of little ones over and over, arms wrapping tightly around him and keeping their bodies pressed close in the afternoon sun. ]

I knew you were special then. I didn't understand it. And now I wake up and think of you when you're not there, I come find you on days when I don't wake up to you. I feel safe with you, Koby. It's easy for everything else to feel leagues away when you're there, bright as the sun itself.

[ he's a little breathless with the emotion, touching their foreheads together and nuzzling their noses. ]

Will you share beds and baths and jam with me for a little while longer? I'd very much like it if you would.

Oh, you're learning, but I think you can do better.

[ he watches tim climb up onto the bed, sprawled and naked before him, all smooth freckled skin and a flop of downy brown hair. it's the look over his shoulder - the wide, brown eyes - that softens him for a moment, gives tim a second to feel the stretch and relief. but it's short-lived, quentin reaching a hand to drag along the back of tim's calf, his thigh, nails pressing and biting the skin - leaving little red marks behind. he drags his nails over the bloom of read where he spanked him before. ]

Count.

[ it's not a request, more a demand. he climbs up onto the bed, the towel slipping low around his hips. he presses a hand between tim's shoulder blades, keeping him firmly planted to the mattress and a fraction of a second later, he begins to slap each of tim's presented cheeks, alternating - the sound of skin on slapping skin echoing in the quiet of the room. as he spanks him, the strikes grow more intense, increasing in impact and strength. ]

To twenty.

[ he pauses between some - making tim anticipate them, wait in the silence for when the next hand will land on red, tortured skin. ]

[It'd be easy enough to chart things out, to tally up the mornings Koby's woken up with Quentin's tangled curly head pillowed over his heart, the constellations of marks left scattered over his thighs, up his neck, across his collarbone, an echo of the ones he's left on Quentin in return. He could try and quantify it, could turn it into data or notes or inventory, how many sweet mornings, how many heated nights, how many of those bright, warm smiles does it take to fall in love?

But it wouldn't translate. It wouldn't put into words the way everything in Koby is settled, calm, at peace, here in this boat, here with Quentin kissing him. It wouldn't make sense of how he'd found himself in the middle of this, the middle of them before he'd even recognized he'd begun. And for the first time, Koby doesn't want to try. He doesn't need to untangle the threads of who and how and why, to believe that every word Quentin says is true. And it's not going to fall out from beneath him, not going to crumble to pieces, not going to wash away with the tides. More than loving, he trusts Quentin, trusts that he isn't going to suddenly change or disappear or decide Koby isn't enough. Perhaps that's even more marvelous.

Now, though, Koby sniffs and tears up and is kissed all over, told he's the safe one, he's the trusted, beloved, sought-after one, and it makes him laugh, watery and amazed and giddy, pressing his forehead to Quentin's and nodding again and again.] Yes. Yes, I'll -- as long as you'll have me. As long as you want. [The unknowns loom, dangerous and fanged and burning, but Quentin is here, in his arms, and Koby can forget about the what-ifs, for a little while.] I love you. I love you. [Over and over, like he'll never get used to the words, laughing again and nuzzling their noses together.] Sorry, I -- nobody's ever said that to me before. Ever. My entire life.

[ quentin bundles him up against his chest, drags him close and wants nothing more than to intertwine and wrap around him, so that they may never part. koby is warm in the sun, their bare chests smushed together, legs tangled. he peppers soft kisses against that plush mouth, humming when their noses brush. ]

For the foreseeable future, how's that sound, hm?

[ he doesn't know what it holds for them, but so long as they're here, it's koby he wants at his side. it's koby he wants to return home to, it's koby he wants to love. all it takes is for the man to repeat those words i love you and quentin laughs brightly, kissing him again, longing and hard and deep - committing ever moment of this to his memory.

their noses nudge together and his face hurts for the smile pulled across it. ]

That's their loss. My gain. [ he reaches to run a hand back through koby's hair. ] There is so much about you to love. Your curiosity for the world. Your hunger to know more, to do right, to do well. Your heart as big as the sea itself. Your laugh, your stubbornness, your smile, the little freckles I can kiss when you're in the sun too long. The chapped skin on your bottom lip. The ink on your fingers and the taste of strawberries on your tongue.

[ his mouth slides against koby's jaw, to his ear, where he murmurs against it. ]

Your light helps me remember that there are good things in the world. Good people. I love that your heart shows on your sleeve - I love your tired kisses in the morning, the way you wrap your legs around me, the way you trust me with your body because it is perfect and beautiful. I love your scars, the wrinkle between your eyebrows.

[ he sighs softly. ] Do I make myself clear, Captain?

Yeah. [It comes out in a whisper, teary and grinning and giddy, one hand reaching to wipe away his tears, knowing he probably looks like a red-faced, crying mess, almost apologizing for it, but – but Quentin’s looking at him like nobody has, like even Koby at his messiest is beloved, and there’s no room for doubt in the face of that. The hissing, snarling, malevolent voice that lives in his mind is silent again, no sneaking tendrils of doubt in the way Koby feels when Quentin promises him as long as the future might last. There’s no fear about what if and what about and when he gets bored, when he leaves, what’ll be left?

There’s a lot about this place that Koby is cautious of, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the ground to fall out beneath him. But he’s somehow never doubted that Quentin cares about him, that his affection and tenderness was genuine. Because it’s been genuine from Koby since that very first day, because of the way everything went quiet, went calm and blissful and safe the first time Quentin touched him.

So he doesn’t curl away or try to poke holes in what Quentin says, doesn’t try to deflect the compliments, even if they make him blush deeper, squirm a little, hiding his bright red cheek against Quentin’s as the kisses trail up towards his ear. Koby shivers, inhales shakily, knowing he’s not as good at words, that he fumbles and stammers his way through anything serious. But Quentin’s voice, his warmth, sunkissed and adoring and the safest, safest Koby’s ever felt in his life – he wants to try, to say something.] I don’t – you’re so smart and you make me laugh and you find so much to be happy about, you’re always finding the sun, you’re always pointing me to it and. [He falters, laughs, squeezes his arms around Quentin’s neck, breathes him in through those dumb, incessant tears and he chokes out:] I don’t hate myself, when I’m with you. I don’t, and if I can – somehow be that for you, if I can keep being the place you go when you’re afraid, when you need that reminder that I – I love you, when you need to hide from the world for a little, then. Then I’ll be that as long as I can.

[Another sniff, and it’s probably good Quentin isn’t wearing a shirt because Koby would’ve cried a big wet patch into it by now, nuzzling his teary messy face closer and hiccuping out:] L-Loud and clear.

[ as koby speaks he laughs softly, brushing the other man's neck with kisses, trying to sooth him as he hiccups and cries into his neck, his shoulder. quentin would stay in this boat, adrift on the lake forever if it meant he could have koby for the rest of his life, not only his life here in the house. so he continues to kiss every inch of skin he's able to, smooths his hands down the man's sides, his hips, his chest, tracing the scars and anything he can. ]

You're all of that for me, there's no somehow. No trying. No Ifs. I wake up beside you and find all I can think of is your light. I feel frightened or sad or scared and you're the firelight from shore. I want nothing more than to sail home to you and press against your hearth, breathe in your warmth and kindness and maybe learn a little of my own.

[ he draws his head back, kissing koby again and again, sweet little things, a hand reaching again to wipe away those tears over and over. when quentin looks down with his own wet, happy eyes he smiles, genuine and unguarded and so immensely happy. ]

I love you. Loud and clear.

[ he leans in again, bumps their noses together, allows another kiss to pass through them, slow and yearning and hot, savoring and enjoying the fire burning between them. ]

[He wants to say more, wants to say that Quentin's the first person who's ever laughed when he cried and meant it in kindness, that the world has to be basically good, basically loving because he's in it, that the way his hair smells drives Koby insane, except -- well, that hair is tumbling down in loose, silky, heavy curls, and he's only human, after all. Instead he takes you're all of that and my true north and I love you and burrows the words deep into his marrow, for the bad days, for the nightmares.

And for now, he leans up, mumbles love you, I love you between a thousand kisses, matching Quentin's slow sweetness with open arms, with hunger, with kindling for that fire. Emotion is physical, for Koby, always has been -- he's sad, he cries, he's angry, he cries, he's happy, he cries. Everything is out on his sleeve, there for anyone to see, bleeding bright and vivid and inescapable where anyone can see. He thinks vaguely about haki, oddly, about the idea that emotion is a color, a taste, a sound, about reaching out and feeling someone else's like trailing fingertips over skin.

He stops thinking when his needy, insistent arch up towards that kiss makes the boat rock, getting a startled gasp, teary and laughing and shaken momentarily out of the heady haze.] I -- forgot where we were for a minute, I'm. Whoops. [Another laugh, red-faced and bright-eyed and reaching up to stroke his fingers down the curve of Quentin's face.] Sorry, keep going. You wanted to show me -- show me. [There's a quirk of a grin, that bright wickedness Koby has sometimes (mostly around Quentin, mostly when faced with his irrepressible, brilliant, addictive self), and he repeats, softer, knees nudging closer on either side of Quentin, wanting him closer, wanting to drown in him:] Show me.

[ the demanding tone does a lot to ease Tim’s nerves. He knows, of course, that it was him who asked for this, that there’s a twisted desire in him to punish himself for any perceived slight or minor sin. He can't see himself objectively enough to apply the proper punishment, that’s what a priest is meant to do, but in the absence of one, Quentin will do fine, despite Tim’s bratty poking at the boundaries. It sounds like he knows what to do, and it feels like it too, the hand pressing down between his shoulder blades keeping him steady, grounded in his body as he nods. Counting, a simple rule, a task he can succeed at. ]

One.

[ He grits his teeth through the gasp that might have otherwise left his mouth, determined to be on time with his count, but he’s not so controlled on the next one. It comes quicker and sharper than he’s expecting it, without enough time to breathe, so he flinches away from it as he counts out two with a voice far more steady than he feels. Hurriedly, he corrects himself, jutting his ass back out, curving his body to make it as appealing a target as possible.

So it continues, the smack of Quentin’s hands against his blotchy red cheeks stinging harder each time, whether he means them to or not, as Tim’s skin grows more sensitive. To push past the pain, he pulls his focus to other parts of his body. His hands, twisted in the blankets, balling them around his fists. His eyes, the lesser sting of tears forming, as of yet unshed, but he’s only at eight now, rubbing his face against the bed so he can diligently keep up with his count. His toes curling with a sort of arousal he can’t explain, that he ought to be ashamed of, but he can’t bring himself to feel that right now. Tim’s not feeling anything now except for his body, his vessel for all things good and bad, perfect in God’s image. He feels in tune with it because of the pain, it pulls him back into his body when he would otherwise retreat into his mind and all the confusing mess housed within it.

The next slap, even harder than the last, doesn't make Tim gasp or yelp, but moan, deep and gutteral. His face, already flushed almost as red as his ass, goes darker, reacting to being perceived as getting off on this all on his own despite his blissful mindlessness. ]

Ten.

[ Breathless. His cock, hard and bobbing beneath him, is dripping a sticky line of pre onto the bed that he hasn't noticed or tried to relieve. ]

[ while this kind of play isn't new to him, it's been a while, and the first handful of strikes always leave him wondering if the person is enjoying it. or at least finding the pleasure they wish in it. but he sees the way tim's cock begins to grow, the way he leaks and smears the sheets, and so he continues.

it's only five more strikes before he stops short - he'd said twenty, but he's itching to change the pace for a moment, work tim up a little differently while his ass cheeks bloom scarlet, so flushed and pretty. he smooths his callused palm against the skin, pressing a little firmly on the spots smacked red, the skin warm to the touch, inflamed. a cool bath later, perhaps.

for now, he squares up on him, dips to kiss the bend of tim's lower back, then mouth over one furious cheek, the muscle flexing deliciously against his tongue. ]

You realize I can punish you any way I see fit?

[ the same tone, the same firmness. his mouth moves to the other cheek, laving his tongue over the heated skin once, twice, before pulling away. the air of the bedroom may sooth the spots made spit-slick for a few seconds before he smacks one cheek alone, grabbing it, then the other, squeezing the furious handfuls of him.

he bends to press one long stripe of his tongue from his sac to his puckered hole, repeats the motion twice more before letting go of him altogether - the utter lack of sensation. ]

[ By twelve, he can no longer stifle the leaking from his eyes either, his face flushing blotchy and red to match the angry, red color of his ass. Furiously, Tim rubs his face against the sheets, trying to swipe away any evidence that he might not be able to handle it. He can. He wants to, he needs to, if he can't pay his penance, if he can't finish this out, or have faith that Quentin's decided on an appropriate punishment, then he'll never get back to his own room free of the baggage of the last few weeks. The last few months. ]

Fif-teen.

[ On a shuddering inhale, his body tensing from the sharp pain of another strike against slapped-raw cheeks. Tim takes the moment to savor it, to feel it as he ought to, even as it gets close to being too much. To be so aware of his body is its own kind of pleasure, he keeps drifting to these other parts of him, spreading the sharpness throughout. His thighs, flexing to keep his ass up in the air and exposed. This throat, gone dry from all his open-mouthed gasping. His cock, hanging heavy but ignored, until Quentin says otherwise.

Tim tenses with the hand on him, expecting another hard smack on angry flesh, but it's gentler, if only just. He soothes the sharp pain into a throbbing ache, like pressing into a bruise. The needy mewling that squeaks out of his mouth as Quentin's mustache tickles against those sore spots would be humiliating if it were anyone else. ]

Y-yes, you can.

[ As Tim asked, as he stressed the need for. He reaches for the pillow after all, something to muffle the low, whorish noise into, only to pull away from it again, devoted to the rules they've set. Sixteen, seventeen. But the tongue makes him tremble, and cry out, forget all decorum and chase the wet heat on his hole as soon as it's gone, jutting his ass out and in the air even higher, the arch of his back more dramatic as he babbles simple phrases in the absence of any touch. Yes, thank you, please, oh God, Quentin, and variations thereof. ]

I had a dream about you last night. It was very...vivid.

Was it?

Tell me more. What does Timothy Laughlin dream about?

Getting on my knees for you at the gym. You stopped me before I could make you finish and asked me to fuck you instead.

You are so very pretty like this, you know?

[ tim looks so perfect like this, arched back and ass up, pretty tuft of warm, downy hair at his nape. he can see the way tim's cock hangs untouched and angry between his legs. it matches the pretty flush of his cheeks, the little moles and freckles sparsely spread along side tim's back.

he's a pretty man, that much he can't deny, and hearing him beg the way he is only fuels him. he doesn't want to spank him - seventeen is more than enough, and instead he leans over tim's back, lining kisses along his spine, all the way down to the cleft of his ass again, beard undoubtedly tickling along his skin. ]

You're being so good, Tim. [ he murmurs, reaching again to smooth his hands over his red cheeks before he spread them again, pressing his mouth over taht waiting hole and circling it with his tongue, lapping at it slowly, thumbs caressing the sore skin of his ass cheeks.

he hums, and with a level of mischief, sucks hard at the little pucker of muscle once, twice, before gently nudging with his tongue. ]

I see.

I'm very sad it was just a dream. Did you wake up hard and bothered? Do you need someone to come sit upon your throne?

I did, actually.

My throne? Is that what you think it is? I'm flattered.

You take care of yourself already then?

It's impressive. Like the way it fits in my hand - bet I'd enjoy it in my mouth, but you've put an impressive image in my head, you know.

I took a cold shower.

You'd be welcome to it somewhere other than your hand, if you wanted it.

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un: t.laughlin

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