pikuni | - ic inbox -

[on the other end, Good Stab slow blinks at his screen, thumb cresting over the open, hovering over the curve of Koby's ass for a breath. it lingers to the side, his head tilting in quiet consideration, surprised, maybe, to have received it at all.

his first thought is mouse. prey animal trust, or acceptance. he thinks you shouldn't make it this easy, but then he wouldn't have the image to puzzle over, or to appreciate in the solitude of his shared bathroom. his other knuckles dig into his cheek, working slightly against the skin and the bone. ]

This is good lighting. Like the magazines, yeah?

[not like the skin mags on work sites or rest stop shelves. the knuckles keep grinding in, over and over. then: ]

Are you always that wet, Koby?

[circumstances not being what they are (snow, cold, cramped, whipped into a frenzy by three pent-up roommates), koby argues he would've played coy, longer.

but that would be a lie.]

Is it? I don't really read those. I mean, I haven't ever. I just Liked the lighting.

[hot flush, pitching hotter, that urge again -- is that good is that bad is it okay] Sometimes. Not always. It depends what I'm doing.

[what Koby doesn't need to know is that for the entirety of this message, he thinks of being twenty-two winters and having two wives, and three children, and how every year after losing them he would not remarry, or crawl into the bed of anyone else for the twenty-so years after it. his hand and he are familiar lovers, but before this Summer, he hadn't wanted like this in a long time.

what Koby doesn't need to know, either, is that he feels guilty for wanting. he feels it now, because he is a man, and he wants like a man, and his cock kicks to life in his jeans, traitor-reaction to a pert ass and unmarred thighs. his knuckles stop worrying his cheek, fingers fanning out to drag over his face, thumb pushing into an eye as he sighs out loud, hissing out through his teeth. out loud, he whispers an apology to both his wives, and then to his nephew, and then, to himself. ]

Tell me what gets you wet, Koby. Besides the laundry.

[he doesn't know -- for the better, perhaps, because if he did, he'd hate himself for this, more than the usual guilt and squirmy-shameful rush that comes (still) when he does things like this. when accident or chance collides him with someone he's never spoken a word to, and he offers up ass, mouth, cunt, offers what he has because what makes him wet, so wet, wetter than wet is --]

Being commanded. Ordered. Told what to do. And doing it.

That surprises me. You're usually so bossy to everyone else :-).

[observational behaviour, some of which has made him laugh to himself more than once. ]

Will you do as I say now, then?

[knee-jerk, almost: i am not, which in and of itself is bossy. koby swallows it down, sinks deeper into the bath he's soaking in, toes curling against the copper at the question.]

I suppose I like that it's different. When I'm not in control. It's A relief, I guess? Comforting, maybe. I was a Marine, back home.

[then, swiftly:] Yes. I will. If you want to say it, I'll do it.

Where I’m from, Marine is Navy. Is it the same?

[ marine is, as is most things, not of his people. not a history he would claim. but still, it exists, it’s a bridge of sorts. ]

You should only do it if you want to do it.

Oh, sort of? It's Navy and police and government agency and Well. A lot of things I hadn't anticipated when I enlisted.

[is talking about disillusionment with the military complex more or less sexy than laundry.]

I know. I want to. I really, really want to.

[raw earnestness, potentially a turn off, a bleeding need to settle something anxious and snarling with someone's guidance, oversight.]

[just as sexy, actually, because fuck the government - ]

Well, if you really want to.

[how far is too far; the line feels invisible, really. his dick says the line doesn't exist, but he knows this isn't true. it kicks again in his jeans, and idly he flattens his palm over the bulge, squeezing. ]

Send me another picture. I want to see how you touch yourself.

[he does want to, so bad it burns out any shyness, any shame, so bad he's shoving off his pajama pants, shivering at the way the sodden front peels away slow, reluctant, the way the cool air feels on the flushed, slick, oversensitive pulse of his cunt.

the video sent is quick, silent, any shuddery breaths or sounds muffled, stifled, koby's lips bitten raw by the time he can make his hand stop, can wipe it clean on his shirt and send the clip. it's filthier than anything he's sent before, but -- nobody's asked for proof of him touching himself before either.]

like that [one-handed typing, an answer, a question, hopeful and shy at once.]

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nsfw