[there’s a coltish sort of awkwardness in koby’s movements, even now, because will’s so damn good at unpeeling his layers, at making him feel seen in a way that’s fucking terrifying and fucking bliss at the same time. there’s no need to pretend, no need to fake it, no need to be anything but will graham’s good boy, and while he’s been cagey about the why and what and how, koby’s let slip a few things – that he’s lonely, that he’s miserable, that his adoptive mother has a grip on him both terrifying and inescapable. that he does anything she asks, seduces or threatens or robs anyone she points to, because he doesn’t know how to do anything else anymore.

more telling, perhaps, is the way koby’s eyes go glazed and heated when will’s hand slips into his hair, when he grips and tugs up, secure, safe, held. whatever he does, whatever comes next, koby wants, wants it laced with the haze of whatever drug is pumping through his system even now, wants it any way will chooses. it’s an escape, an addictive one, and koby doesn’t really wanna think about how he’d be without it.

a soft huff, reaching up to slide his hands over the familiar shape of will’s dick in his pants, palming the thick heft of it, then squeezing, before moving to undo his belt.] Doesn’t mean you gave me Xanax, doc. I’m not stupid. [koby rolls his eyes upwards, sticks out his tongue, lets the stud catch the light, leave his lips plush, wet.] Gonna let me suck you off or what? Once this shit really hits I won’t have the coordination to do anything but get fucked over your desk, y’know.