Koa
Isn't it messed up,
How I'm just dying to be him?
How I'm just dying to be him?
And then they're making out, properly, Koa's mouth on Jude's exposed neck, the heady perfume of hormones mixed with alcohol singing that sinful siren song of more, more, more. Who is Koa to deny nature, to do anything but oblige and fulfil Jude's wants? He's a public servant, after all.
Gods know it wouldn't be the first time he's serviced someone publicly.
Somehow they find their way to a room, mostly thanks to muscle memory on Koa's part. And then there's a door slammed shut by a distracted foot, and a flurry of fingers undoing buttons, and the Dragoon has pushed Jude down to the bed, his own shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, light bouncing deliciously off the ridges of his muscles, leaving a tantalizing shadow near the button on his pants.
Copper eyes rove over the boy before him, hungry, consuming every bare fleck of skin. From beauty mark to beauty mark he traces a path, unabashed desire in the hooded gaze. And yet somewhere beneath the haze of need and inebriation, a little voice has begun to scream. To point out that this isn't a good idea. That maybe, maybe, Koa should stop, before they do something they can't take back. That Jude is good and pure and sweet and doesn't deserve the pain of a broken heart, which is inevitably where tonight will lead.
He ignores it like an annoying gnat, swats it down because he's young and reckless and wild with hormones, but still it remains. Nagging, doubting, making him hesitate as he hovers above the bed, a spider's web of self control the only thing keeping him from swallowing Jude whole.
Gods know it wouldn't be the first time he's serviced someone publicly.
Somehow they find their way to a room, mostly thanks to muscle memory on Koa's part. And then there's a door slammed shut by a distracted foot, and a flurry of fingers undoing buttons, and the Dragoon has pushed Jude down to the bed, his own shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, light bouncing deliciously off the ridges of his muscles, leaving a tantalizing shadow near the button on his pants.
Copper eyes rove over the boy before him, hungry, consuming every bare fleck of skin. From beauty mark to beauty mark he traces a path, unabashed desire in the hooded gaze. And yet somewhere beneath the haze of need and inebriation, a little voice has begun to scream. To point out that this isn't a good idea. That maybe, maybe, Koa should stop, before they do something they can't take back. That Jude is good and pure and sweet and doesn't deserve the pain of a broken heart, which is inevitably where tonight will lead.
He ignores it like an annoying gnat, swats it down because he's young and reckless and wild with hormones, but still it remains. Nagging, doubting, making him hesitate as he hovers above the bed, a spider's web of self control the only thing keeping him from swallowing Jude whole.
I'm just a notch in your bedpost,
but you're just a line in a song
but you're just a line in a song
