Work Text:
One feels strange: Koby's body processing and coming up short on what to do with this brand new sensation--thick, solid, definitely not supposed to be there. Strange is not unbearable, and it passes soon enough--Smoker takes his time (a running theme, Koby will soon learn) in letting him get used to it. Two takes effort: Smoker suggests he breathe through it, relax as well as he can, and that works. Now there's a sting to it and Koby's glad to be face down so Smoker can't see him bite his lip and screw his brows together--wildly embarrassing as it is to think about his current position. Sprawled over Smoker's splayed thighs, ass up, pillowing his forehead on his forearms on the other side of the rock-solid knee supporting his upper body. His ears have been hot for what feels like hours. Koby is unsure they'll ever cool off again. He's equally sure that Smoker must know, as his other hand rests at the back of his neck, thumbing the flush as it crawls down the muscle towards his back.
So the pause in the steady rhythm isn't unexpected, when Koby twitches just slightly. "Breathe in," he growls--not threatening, it's just that his voice is always a growl, roughened by years of cigars and salt air. Koby does as he says, smells them when Smoker breathes out, pluming another cloud of it into the room. "Good," when he feels the limits of Koby's lungs expanding against his thigh. "Out." Koby does, and muscle loosens; a cap pops, there's another line of cold sliding down to where Smoker's thick fingers spread him open. They move again, and Koby struggles to fill his head with that smoke, to lose himself in it. To keep from tensing again.
He's going to lose his mind entirely if he doesn't. They're still nowhere near done. He's felt (touched (tasted)) what he so boldly challenged himself to take. He makes himself breathe deep and slow, hands clenching on themselves, reducing as much of his motion as he can to the finest tremble in Smoker's lap as his hand moves again. Works unused muscle loose, obscenely open--a merciless spread, a deep and intimate burn that throbs in time with Koby's heartbeat before receding again (and he realizes he's nearly bit his tongue to bleeding).
He wants to move. God, does he want to--he's been agonizingly hard since Smoker first introduced him to his prostate, leaking shamelessly down his length and blotting it into Smoker's uniform slacks. It's heavy, that need, pulling at the pit of his belly, getting its tendrils in his ribs. The slightest twitch rubs the rough cotton-wool across his cock, sends sparks racing up his spine. The very deepest part of Koby wants nothing more than to hump at Smoker's leg until he gets relief.
But, Smoker warned him not to squirm too much--it could hurt him, first, and it would make the whole thing take even longer, second. So Koby suffers, a shiver in his bowed shoulders, drowning in his own heartbeat.
"You're taking it well so far." Smoker's praise seems to come an eternity later, Koby's lost count of how many times he's thrust into him up to the knuckles, only that it's turned the whole substance of him to something like gelatin.
"Uh-huh?" That's all he can muster. He burns even hotter, feeling Smoker pet him for that almost-whine. Koby wrangles his tongue as quick as he can. "It's- it's good. It's r-really, hmh, good--!"
Smoker must have approved of his approval. He drags his fingertips slow and hard across his prostate; Koby jolts, Smoker clamps his hand on the back of his neck to still him, and he is going to fucking die. "Unh, please," he whines, not sure what he's begging for, just that he knows he needs it.
One feels strange, two takes effort--three is as much bliss as it is torture. On one hand, the pain, a mite sharper this time. On the other, the fullness, a tetch too shallow to be fully satisfying, made up for by how deliberate Smoker is about tearing him apart--slow, hard, relentless thrusts with his fingers, grazing that tender spot inside him every few passes.
Koby's past the point of trying to keep his noises inside him. He grips at the couch cushion underneath him, at a stray fold of Smoker's pants, gasping as he lifts his hips into Smoker's hands, just to keep his swollen cock from touching the soaked fabric anymore--it's too much to bear, this sensitive. Like a breath could set him off. He'd take care of it, but the angle is awkward, Smoker's leg is in the way, and his limbs are useless right now anyway.
"Hhhoh, god," he sobs instead, lightheaded and loose, shaking apart. His mouth feels so dry for how slick it is, how wanting. Smoker curls his fingers, punches another broken whine out of Koby's chest. Above him, if he had a lucid corner of his mind left, he would notice that Smoker is far from unaffected himself. His breath comes rougher, the pace of his thrusts losing a step of rhythm. His eyes are riveted to where his fingers are crammed into him. The smoke hissing between his teeth isn't all from his cigars.
Koby doesn't quite realize how fast he's going until he slows, abruptly, as if having noticed it himself and forcibly wresting control away from his need. He gasps at it, mouth gaping, panting shallowly for air that feels too thin. There's sweat dripping down his neck, beading under Smoker's hand--he feels it collecting in the hollow above his tailbone, in the dip between his shoulder blades. He feels electric. Can't measure anything except by the back-and-forth of Smoker's fingers inside him.
"You're almost there." Koby almost moans outright. Smoker sounds insane, voice so deep and rough he almost doesn't hear it so much as he feels it rumble where his side is pressed against Smoker's hard stomach. "Aren't you."
Koby's unsure if he's going to be able to maintain consciousness much longer, so he'd say yes. If his mouth were working. A string of wet slips down his chin. His eyes aren't focusing. All he can do is whine, incoherent, thighs burning with his effort to stay still for him like he'd asked. He hopes Smoker understands it.
"Relax," Smoker insists again. In this new tone it almost sounds like a threat. His hand hasn't stopped moving. Stretching, filling him, leaving him terribly empty just as easily. Koby doesn't quite recognize the noise he makes at the first deliberate grind against his prostate. "You did good. Come on, kid, it'll help," and Koby's body understands, even if his higher cognitive functions are completely fried.
Again. Again. Each rocking thrust and something snaps high up in Koby's mind eventually, jaw loose, these full-bodied moans wrenched out of him that he knows he's going to be deathly embarrassed of when he recalls them later.
"Smoker," he cries, the corners of his eyes stinging, his hands moving so his hips won't. He sinks his nails into the upholstery, claws Smoker's wrist at his nape for purchase, the calf of his jackboot. The leather doesn't yield. He digs in hard. "Vice-Admiral- sir- I can't, I can't, I-"
Smoker shifts, deliberately putting pressure on that overworked bundle of nerves, and Koby stops trying to fight it.
"That's it." Low-throated approval as Koby pounds a fist against Smoker's shin, overwhelmed, and lets his weight drop, rutting the thigh holding him up for all he's worth. Smoker helps him through it, merciless, until he melts into a mess of trembling limbs and his shouts have turned to thin whines.
He has this one fleeting, adrenaline-fueled thought a little later, feeling Smoker's hand clamp down on his waist, the pad of his thumb pressed alongside his tailbone. It's not going to fit, Koby's brain signals to him wildly, jumped up under his lungs--it's not going to fit, he's going to break under this--Smoker had warned him, the solid foot and a half of height difference between them had warned him, and the pride that he had clawed together two years running now and clung to fiercely had taken it as a goddamn challenge.
You idiot, he's thinking to himself--he will never hear the end of it if he sustains injury from this (a real possibility, Smoker had reminded him), he can feel himself threatening to spiral imagining it (so stupid). Until, at least, finally, the head of Smoker's cock breaches him and flushes all thought from his head entirely.
"Oy."
Higher function snaps back online at the sound of that gruff growl--Koby, hardwired to associate it with authority, with do not disobey, with you're in trouble, scrambles to catch up. What this amounts to is that he flinches at his lapse and makes this little sound high in his throat that he's fairly sure was supposed to be a 'yes?' Smoker sighs in a sort of weary, used-to-this-reaction way. His thumb rubs another circle into Koby's tailbone--an effort, Koby realizes belatedly, to relax him.
"Breathe. Loosen up. You're gonna squeeze it off if you stay that tense."
A fine visual that makes. Koby notices now that there's an edge of set-jaw discomfort in the words--backtracks and remembers exactly how hard he's clenched, everywhere. "R-right," he gasps, and forces himself to take a deep breath. "Sorry. Uh, sir." Lets his mind blank out, pack up the uneasy and set it off to the side, like he was taught to do.
"Told you to cut it out with that 'sir' shit." Koby packs up the chagrin and puts it somewhere else too.
In, out. Second by second he feels himself melt, aided by the steady kneading--hot, firm hands spreading him apart, fingertips rubbing taut muscle. And when all the rest of it is gone, Smoker moves again.
Koby's instantly fighting, flexing his fingers into Smoker's pants at the knees so he won't tighten up again and undo all his hard work, breathing deliberately deep, if perhaps a bit too quick. Holy fuck. Holy fuck. He has to go so slow which means there's ample time for Koby to process how his nerves are screaming. The absurd gape of his fluttering hole around it. The heat of it, the fucking weight. There's spit pooling into the space under Koby's tongue, threatening to leak out of his panting mouth.
This is so much more than he accounted for. So- he's everywhere. Vice-admiral's everywhere, strong hands inexorably pulling him back into his lap to be impaled, preventing him from squirming away. And he is squirming, once Smoker passes a certain point, and his sheer size means that he can't not drag over that sweet spot deep in him. That- is yet another thing that Koby hadn't considered until just this moment. Breathlessly, almost crazedly the implications of it hit him.
"Oh," he croaks weakly, feeling obscenely open, utterly certain he's going to die by the end of this and equally as certain that it's going to be incredible. "Oh my god."
Smoker puffs a nondescript breath. Maybe a chuckle, who knows. Koby's not thinking about that. Or much of anything. He's bottomed out and so full he doesn't have room for anything else in any part of him. Not breath, not thought, just the crackle of static climbing up his spine and digging into a filthy part of him right at the base of his skull, demanding more. It's that pride again. He can take it. He still feels like he's going to break and it doesn't matter a damn.
"Oh my god," he repeats for good measure. It's significantly more wrecked than before. Holy fuck. "You- I-"
"Easy, kid." Smoker squeezes his waist. Koby's used to looking up at people but he's never felt so fucking small in a way like this. (Kid, on repeat in his head, kid, kid, remembering that the man behind him is all he is twice over, twice his age, twice his weight-) He swallows before he drools over the nice uniform slacks his hands are fisted in. Like it matters. They’ve already been messed up and it's only going to get more so from here.
"Oh my god," he whines a third time, twitching back into Smoker's lap. "Please move."
Smoker obliges.