longitudinal | inbox;

I went to your room to find you

It's so hot I need you to come

Are you still in my room?

[ strange, but he's seen people around acting a little oddly. it makes him wonder if it's this house again. it's hard to say, but he's starting toward his room the moment he sends his reply. ]

Yeah. I’ll stay put but please hurry.

[ He’s a good boy and does just what he says he will, he just neglects to mention that he’ll be shedding a few layers before Quentin gets there. Stripping down to his underwear doesn’t do a damn thing to cool him off, it only exposes his raw aching to the world, or the intimate little piece of it Koby and Quentin (and sometimes Tim) have made for themselves in this room. It fills him with a longing that overwhelms him to the point of fear, because he’s no stranger to yearning, but he wants now for no one and nothing in particular, just for touch, for the sake of touching. It burns in him, so hot that it threatens to hollow him out if he doesn’t heed its call.

Quentin won’t judge him for his weakness. That's the thought that keeps him in this room waiting, instead of prowling the halls for the first willing body he comes across, something he’d sorely regret the moment it was over, if not earlier.

The door is barely shut behind him before Tim jumps up, crosses the room in a rush (and with an obvious hardon swinging in front of him) and presses him back against it, descending on his neck and jaw to dot it with wet kisses. ]

You came. Thank you.

[ Breathless, like they’ve been going at it for some time already. ]

[ quentin doesn't know what he expects, but he hardly has time to think before tim has descended upon him. it's reflex that his hands find the dip at tim's waist, that he tilts his head and hums low and graveled beneath the kisses. he'd be a fool to not have noticed the heavy, throbbing need between tim's thighs, too. he's just a man, after all - quentin can't help himself. ]

Tim?

[ he gets one hand to tim's lower back, bringing him flush and close. ]

Who left you like this?

[ possessiveness, a little anger, a little wanting. he reaches his free hand to tim's hair, nails dragging along his nape. ]

Let me help you

No one.

[ he doesn’t...think. No one had gotten him riled up and then left him desperate and wanting, no one had offered him any drinks that might have been spiked or any strange drugs, not since the revenants finally left them in peace. Tim didn’t clock the candy as having any ill effects, and he’s not in the mood right now to retrace his steps until something clicks because he finally, finallyfinally has Quentin’s hands on him. Perfect hands with perfect fingers, the working hands of a sailor. Strong enough to hold him down and keep him there.

The fantasy runs through him like a jolt of electricity, making him shudder against Quentin’s body, making his own skin press against his wherever he can. Grinding into his thigh, Tim moans, soft and relieved. At the sensation, at the anger in his voice - protectiveness, always so fiercely protective, but never patronizing. One of his most attractive qualities, and exactly what he needs so desperately now. In his frenzy, he bites a little harder than he means to, leaving a red mark that will darken over the coming hours, and rises to his toes, pressing his lips to Quentin’s. Hungry, overwhelmed with need to the point of tears. ]

Please. You can fix it. Please.

[ the snare of teeth brings with it a hiss, brings with it the stirring of heat with tim's warm, desperate body against his own. he knows the shape of tim laughlin so well at this point, knows exactly where to feel that wet spot in his underwear, where to drag his nails to make it worse.

he gets his arms around tim and at the searing kiss he reaches his hands low, low, low, gripping roughly at his ass and hoisting him up, encouraging strong thighs around his waist. tim tastes sweet, like chalky candy and the coming of spring and quentin chases it, licking hot and deep and hungry into his mouth, taking his time when tim is absolutely messy in his arms.

another softer time, he might take tim to bed. instead, if tim allows him to hoist him up? he'll turn him and press him hard up against the wall, using his own body to pin him, grinding his hips up against tim's ass. ]

Tell me what I need to fix, sweets.

[ Tim presses into his hand, into his chest, into all of him, every part of him that isn't touching part of Quentin aching terribly. He trembles as if he's already teetering over the edge, despite feeling so painfully far away. With wet streaks on his face, he gasps, nodding with soft, needy sounds as Quentin handles him, obediently wrapping his legs around his waist - or attempting to, sacrificing his balance and control to someone who knows better than him what to do with them.

He whimpers at the impact, hands grasping at the door to steady himself, but there is no steadying himself, there is no normal. He's flying wild, burning up, grinding his ass back against Quentin and praying that he'll offer him relief. Mercy. ]

Fix me. Something's wrong.

[ From their very first meeting, Quentin got to him. Beautiful, sweet, easy to want, easy to accept that he was wanted in turn. But this is too easy, unnaturally so, like he can barely breathe without feeling the other man's breath on the back of his neck. It feels dirty, lacking intimacy in the way that always makes him feel guilty after, because the desire had come before the man. He hadn't sparked it, the feeling simply arose from inside of him, like a monster threatening to swallow him whole. ]

Fuck me. And don't stop talking.

[ Because there's love here, and trust, no matter how much this place tries to taint it and turn it into something tawdry. Tim knows it. It'll just be a reminder. ]

I'm not going to let anything happen to you.

[ there's a simmering in his veins, a tingling on his tongue that makes him dive back in, drink hot and hard and heavy from tim's mouth, messy and noisy, daring to suck at his tongue when the other man even tries to catch his breath.

he hums low and hungry, leaning his weight into tim and gripping so tightly at his ass, spreading him open and allowing his hips to slot into place, grinding his hardening dick up against the clothed seam of him, dragging him harder down into every roll of his hips. ]

You're mine to keep safe. [ a possessiveness he doesn't understand right now, fueled by the sweet candy taste of tim on his tongue. ] I'll help you, but I'm afraid I can't fuck you yet. Not with all of these clothes in the way.

[ he rolls his hips again, fingers likely bruising in how tightly he squeezes at tim's ass, bringing him down on him again and again. ] Go on - tell me how you want to be fucked, sweets. Or shall I surprise you?

[ If he had the wherewithal to wrack his brain for any logic in it, Tim would worry that the hard possessive edge to Quentin’s voice is unusual, coming from him, the very man whose openness and lack of possessive urge coaxed him into the idea of accepting multiple lovers in the first place. But the pieces of his brain that deal in logic and self-preservation have been shut off, replaced with more desire, more heat, moremoremore animal instinct overriding all else. And ’You’re mine’ isn’t a question, it’s not a negotiation. It’s a claim being staked.

It makes him so hard that it's a wonder there's enough blood to keep the rest of him upright.

Tim nods, furiously agreeing, and shoves his underwear down, the front smeared with so much pre that it's gone from white to transparent, until they fall around his ankles and he can really push back, press himself into the bruising grip of Quentin's fingers, the hard, hot line of his cock that should be inside him, why isn't it inside him-- ]

Hard. Please, Quentin.

[ Answering the question, for once, rather than gleefully submitting to what's been decided for him. ]

[ hard tim says and the air leaves his chest. it's good - tim begging, tim wanting him, and all he wants in turn is to relieve the pretty man he has pressed into the door, the pretty man who needs him. the pretty man he wants nothing more than to keep safe from anyone who may make ill use of these moments.

and tim asks so he cannot deny him - instead he buries his face in against tim's neck, sucking a purpling mark into the crook there. it's a distraction, though, especially with tim's sticky underwear hitting the floor between their feet. it means that the next thrust of his hips is a messy slide between the meat of tim's ass, the leaking, flared head of his own cock catching on his hole and sliding past. ]

Hard? Is that right, sweets?

[ he licks a lewd line along tim's neck, mouth moving to his nape, his shoulder blade. ]

You don't want me to get you nice and ready for me? [ he reaches for tim's front again, ignoring the aching line of his dick but instead reaching under and cupping his sac, giving an appreciative squeeze. another roll of his hips, this time getting himself in position, applying the barest hint of pressure against that fluttering ring of muscle. ]

[ Tim can feel him sliding between the muscle, teasing him. The brush of his cock against his hole frustrates more than it satisfies, an impatient grunt rumbles from low in his belly, and he juts his ass out to meet it, to take it the way he wants to. Needs to. Tim's back arches, making himself as appealing as possible because if he doesn't feel Quentin inside him in the next ten seconds, he might just pass out.

Bracing himself against the door with one hand, he spits into the other, and reaches behind him to smear it against his hole. It's a haphazard job, just so Quentin doesn't have any excuse not to fuck him. ]

I'm good.

[ Pressing his balls into his hand, and his ass back into him. He's good. ]

[ seeing tim so desperate and furious for him does something to the temperature of quentin's blood. he laughs, low and appreciative at the lewd way tim readies himself. he gives another appreciative squeeze of his balls and then begins to slowly roll his hips forward. he won't give him the punishing, harried fuck he's promised yet - instead he goes slow, slow, slow. he watches every inch of him sink into tim, hand sliding from deep between his thighs to carefully pet over the hard line of tim's dick. ]

So good.

[ he leans forward, mouth against tim's nape. ]

This what you wanted? [ and he bottoms out suddenly, deeply, letting his hips press flush and hard against tim's ass. ]

[ It's barely readying, just enough so that he has something wet to press his cock on as he pushes into him, painfully slow. It would be perfect, in any other mood, even with the sting of under-preparedness. But now, even though he whimpers, even though his fingers claw at the wall to steady him until there's paint beneath his fingernails, it doesn't feel like enough.

Tim whines, pushing himself back on Quentin's cock, and forth into his hand, rocking with frustrated tears in his eyes. He chokes back a sob and answers. ]

More.

[ it's impossible to keep his dick from throbbing with want as tim fucks himself back on him and then into the circle of his fist. but who is he to deny him more - and as tim drives his hips back he meets them with his own, a hard and rough snap that makes skin slap and chokes a heady groan from him. ]

You asked so nicely.

[ he squeezes his hand around tim, stroking from his sac, from root to tip before his sticky hand joins one on tim's on the door. the other to tim's shoulder, gripping hard and stabilizing himself as he begins to set a punishing pace, his breath coming in little pants and gasps. ]

And you're taking me so well.

inbox;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject