INBOX
feel free to put texts, audio, video, whatever IC communiques would go here.
CUDDLR
JOSEPH KAVINSKY (18)
want 2 see my dragon ;)
cars (to race), dubstep, drinks, pussy, pyrotechnics. the cock may apply. dope is ok. go fast and leave no regrets. keep your sense of fucking humor. i like to entertain
anything else u want i can get |
| JOSEPH KAVINSKY (19)
who gives a fuck |
| JOSEPH KAVINSKY (20)
dream thief, like the fingie tats say. single again. still a cunt. if u dont like how i talk, i can do other things. lovely singing voice. know my way around a gear shift & a sweet engine. fact of life: goin fast doesn't kill you, it's the sudden stop at the end & i do not fucking stop. this rate, im gonna live to be 100 yo fat balding, salads w beer 4 breakfast, covered in liverspotted wife. worse fuckin fates, baby |
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✓ ✕YES
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eudio cuddlr / inbox (cw offensive language, toxic masculinity, edgelord deathy stuff)
no subject
I don't know.
[the way he says it is the way that most people say, i don't care.]
I don't really think about it.
[and it's the i don't care that comes from genuine indifference, rather than the ostentatious loathing that teenagers of kavinsky's kind tend to like waving around so much. it's not that he has no feeling about it, obviously, or no understanding of its etiology in culture and its problems in practice, the ugly contrast between the questions he threw through ronan's bmw like turds and the answer that he wanted ronan to give him. he thought up those questions. he thought about what he wanted. but kavinsky doesn't try and take a step further backward than that, think about his thinking, or not about that anyway; he doesn't even have to try not to think about it.
maybe it's brain damage. or being eighteen. limited intellectual faculties. subconscious freudian bullshit. instead, he thinks about freddie's tattoo, which makes him think about ronan again, which is just a little bit why he says:]
You wanna make out, let's make out.
[he's still driving, and he's still driving fast. the road is losing its kinks, but it's not a good idea, the one that he loads into the sidelong glance. it is probably actually a bad idea.]
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So Kavinsky doesn't care what he is (what he wants), or doesn't know. And those are answers in themselves. Or maybe they just show the difference between a schoolkid hooked on cars and other less shiny things in the American South, who knows maybe one other boy who might be like him, and a boy who was raised on the fringe of the UK's brightest queer scene, but spent half his life forced to keep out of it - hide what he is - and the other half so deeply immersed he might drown.
(And he's everything, and that's everything to him).
Drowning is, pretty much, a risk Freddie's always prepared to take. He can have what he wants, now, mostly. Acts like he owns half the world because half the world acts like it would be happily owned by him. So there have to be risks, or things would just get dull.]
Yeah, that was totally a pick-up.
[He leans the other way instead, turning his face toward the half-open window to test the rush of wind past his face. It makes a fluffy mess of his hair.]
All right.
[The wind swipes the word away, but perhaps not before Kavinsky catches it, and anyway the answer would be more than clear as freddie moves, kneeling on his seat and half across the gap between them. He never did fasten his belt.]
If you flinch [His voice is low, soft, close enough to Kavinsky's ear to be felt as much as heard.] you're going to run us off the fucking road.
[A fireball might just suit his mood tonight but still, the warning's there, and then his mouth is, at the corner of Kavinksy's jawline. A hand raised to rest his fingers against the other side of his chin without any pressure. He'll let Kavinksy pick when, if, he should turn his head.]
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kavinsky didn't flinch when the english kid leaned across and started talking into, up against the side of his head. he doesn't flinch now either, starts off with a damp squeeze of lips, parted a little rather than a lot. he leans in, evacuating one long exhale through his nose, and turns out warm and damp contrast to the tingle of crisp wintry air cutting through the gapped window.
thirty yards, and then his mouth is interlocked on freddie's mouth. sucking on the pink of his lower like it's gummy candy too soft to get a satisfactory bite out of.
ninety yards and there's a tongue in freddie's mouth, delving deep. kavinsky is rough sometimes, but at others, he has a mellifluous touch-- not particularly gentle, just self-assured, smooth from practice, so that what he wants translates neatly into the licks scrawled into freddie's.
headlights ghost through the window. the mitsubishi grunts and rattles over the sprawl of asphalt, her skeletal suspension channeling the fine pits and grain of the road up into the boys. but the dangerous drift of tire over median is mild, subtler than the callused thumb that insinuates itself in the notch of freddie's collarbones, then starts to venture south, scaling his chest in inches, the edge of kavinsky's thumb nail gnawed too short to be tangible as more than a blunt wad of heat traveling over the thin fabric of his t-shirt.]
no subject
(Someone else is going to be wearing their night with Freddie in fingertip patterns on their skin, tomorrow. It won't be Kavinsky, but he'll still be able to taste him if he tries).
With the advantage of a higher angle, he fists a hand at the nape of Kavinsky's neck, where his hair's soft and too short to spike but long enough to be caught sharply between Freddie's fingers.
Conversely, the press of his mouth gentles. He breaks away just enough to use the turn of his head to nudge Kavinsky's focus toward the road, where the car sways drunkenly sideways. He doesn't - can't - drive, but he rests his free hand over the one Kavinksy still has on the wheel. There's the fountain, marbled and pale, rising like a ghost ahead of them.]
You can pull over, if you like.
no subject
the right thing, apparently. good job freddie. kavinsky snaps his head around again the next instant, his coarse hands knuckling white around the wheel, bones peaking sharply under the skin. but he only laughs, a hearty gust of air that barely dries the kiss-slick mess that they made out of his too-full vulgarity of his mouth. the other car passes them by, the driver gesturing at them with indecipherable fury.] Why the fuck would I wanna do that? [he asks, but he's already slowing as the headlights flash over the lip of the fountain. it's a valid question. they were on their way to some kind of a gay club, you know, and no kind of club is this.
but then he snaps the wheel again, other direction this time. rubber catches, squeals an objection to its handler's abuse, but they've slowed down enough that neither of them are at risk of going into or through glass. instead, the pitch and shift of the vehicle threatens to toss freddie across kavinsky's lap, even as the bulgarian jams his heel down on the brake to squash the car to a final stop.
freddie might whack his pretty blond head on the window. or freddie might scratch the back of kavinsky's neck, or bang up his thighs with his knees, or possibly skew and accidentally stab one into somewhere-- worse than that. kavinsky is not a particularly elegant choreographer when it comes to flirtation, but he does have impressive pain tolerance, for a lad.]
no subject
Kavinksy might lose a few strands of fine dark hair as Freddie's tugged back and tossed forward. It's not enough to have anyone through a window, no, and the impetus throws him the opposite direction even if it were. But his elbow jarrs hard against the headrest a few inches shy of breaking anyone's nose, and his knees skid from the edge of the seat he'd been perching on, one leg twisting underneath, the other kicking loose and flailing into the footwell, finding purchase there to provide some steadying force.]
The fuck was that? [There's some heat to that question, Freddie's breath hot and quick against the side of Kavinsky's face. Somehow he managed to avoid direct collision, there. Dizzy pain ricocheting up his arm he pulls back to drop it, shaking his fingers out, testing movement.
Then he reaches to tip the seat Kavinsky's in back into recline, bringing his knee up to press between Kavinsky's as he leans over him, head dipped like a wolf over its kill. He coughs out a laugh as the shock ebbs to certainty there's no harm done and a swift rush at having escaped any nastier possibilities.]
You don't have to be so melodramatic. I was going to get in your lap anyway.
no subject
it helps, too, that freddie doesn't seem to mind a lot. he'dve enjoyed himself either way, probably, but it's different, taking pleasure in a shared joke instead of in somebody's pain, having a boy in his lap instead of hanging bloodily in the window. he looks up at the blond boy, not apparently minding the erratic trickle of breath on his face. his eyes are very dark and very bright at once. freddie's hair and face are light enough that he can make himself out like tiny icons in their liquid reflections.
in the meantime, kavinsky puts a paw on his hip. sneaks a forefinger under the hem of his shirt, which would seem sly, were it not for his short nail biting in the next moment.]
I gotta compete with a whole fucking nightclub of nasty queers, [he says.] Seemed like the right time. [for drama. his thighs don't move, relaxed, inseams lined up on either side of freddie's knee.]
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[Freddie's focus finds itself levelled on Kavinksy's mouth as he speaks, the tone of what he says perfectly matching the spit and snarl of his laugh: not a pleasant thing, by most people's terms. It's the kind of language that could get him in trouble, if there weren't so many higher priorities on that list. And here he is with a boy in his lap, his legs splayed enough to accommodate the press of Freddie's knee up between his thighs as he shifts deliberately higher.
Here he is, with all these little tries for skin contact and swift duck backs. What a tangle. What a snarl-up of a boy.
Freddie's heard worse (by far) and it's hard to offend him with slurs. But, similarly, he knows the dangers that lay under remarks like that, offered as if they're innocuous. Just a joke.
His own hand drifts, palming down Kavinsky's chest to pull and snap at the fly of his jeans and then... go no further. He just presses down, the heel of his palm rubbing through the fabric. He sniffs, still catching up with his own lost breath.]
Had most of them. It really narrows the field.
[Not that there are no repeats but, as mentioned, he came out looking for something specific. His lips curl around a smile, and he casts a glance down between their bodies, feeling Kavinsky out through the seam of his pants with a touch that promises skill.]
Still. That's the thing about this place, isn't it. There's always something new around the corner.
no subject
great intellectual thoughts does kavinsky have, at moments like these. there aren't too many words in his mind, actually. it's more like thunder, the push and pull of blood from the heart, chemistry flowing through. he's been clean for a fair few weeks at this point, but sometimes-- and this is important, in therapy-- he doesn't need it to feel something, and it's like this, the cadence of a freight train or a bottled sea roaring in his ears. he looks up. freddie's face is architecturally perfect. it's not like ronan, who has a strong nose and something violent inherent to his eyes, scarred hands, a slightly terrifying efficiency about the way that he moves. lately, he thinks he'd cave ronan's eyes in, given a chance.
freddie's face moves him to a different sort of urgency. the hand on his dick, through his pants, lines up with that. there's a tactile response-- a shift against freddie's palm. oversexed eighteen-year-olds do not necessarily require a great deal of encouragement. kavinsky's pupils crawl out toward the edges of his irises and a smile spans his mouth.
he leans forward. his narrow face dishes upward. he's quiet, compared to the growl of the car.] Nothing's that fucking new, [he says, and by then his lips are half an inch from freddie's, the moist smell of cigarettes wandering back up the englishman's nose. kavinsky's hand tightens on his thigh, thumb coasting the oblique muscle through the layer of his trousers, before he starts to venture around the horizon of freddie's hip.
he's not ducking back now. instead, he's hitching up nearer, groin to knee, mouth to mouth.]
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Not always though. And that's the thing, the small grace that knowing he's wanted allows him. He'll never push. Consent might be this city's byword, but for Freddie (in the vast majority of cases) nothing short of enthusiasm will do. And he's been unsure about Kavinsky.
He's less unsure now. Nerve endings trace the path of the hand palming his leg as it edges higher. He smiles - teeth neatly pressed together - as Kavinksy rocks up against his knee and, at the same time, into the cup of his own hand. He could content himself tracing the outline of the swell of Kavinksy's cock through fabric but doesn't tease like that. A deft curl of his fingers and he's wrapped a hand round it, a tight grip to stroke up the length of his shaft in a pace that's not designed to draw things out.
Oversexed 18-year-olds don't generally need a lot of encouragement in more than one way. Freddie's incitement is near brutal in its efficiency.]
No? You must be looking in the wrong places.
[He allows one more kiss before pressing Kavinksy back, free hand keeping him neatly pinned to the chair while the rhythm being worked at by the other remains undisrupted. It's like having a captive audience, only in reverse.]
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kavinsky's hand winds up thumping clumsily into the glass of the driver's side window, his palm squeaking streaky cloud patterns across the concave. his throat convulses once-- like he's about to say something, but his mind is failing to catch up with what it is, exactly, that freddie means to do, because it was never the what that was unclear of course. by the time he processes the how of his intent, he's on the edge of orgasm, looking surprised but the furthest thing from objecting.
one is supposed to last at least a few minutes. longer, ideally. point of pride, convention of the act, because that phrase— one pump chump bears weight that is hurtful to the egos of young men such as kavinsky. which is something he can worry about later!
right now, it is profoundly very much too late for any of that. his shoulder jerks under freddie's hand, his hips twist. his narrow face is, for an instant, desperate, eyes flooded with black and mouth open, a sheen in the pit of his throat, shadows sharpening under his clavicles. it's fortunate they're in park because his feet twist an indeterminable pattern around the pedals behind freddie and he says,] —fuck-- [and,] --shit— [stupid things like that. he comes in freddie's grip, willing. wet and warm over the edge of freddie's hand, coating his fingers in dewy white mess.
afterward, his breathing has the cadence of a train. his eyes wander across the front of freddie's chest without seeing to see the form of fabric or the shape of him underneath.]
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Whether or not it suits Kavinsky is only slightly inconsequential. He's certainly not complaining. And Freddie hadn't complained (overmuch) about being flung into that window, had he. So. Fair's fair.
He stops, muscle freezing up the line of his arm, wrist to shoulder, when Kavinsky shoots over his hand. He glances down at the resulting mess with a slight tick of irritation at not having thought this through to the inevitable conclusion, then shrugs and wipes his palm over Kavinsky's still jean-clad thigh.]
Well, thanks for the lift. And for these.
[His pocket is tapped as he opens the driver-side door of the Evo and bends in close as he climbs over Kavinksy and out of it.]
Here's fine, I feel like a walk.
no subject
Don't forget to break open your fucking piggy bank.
[his head is slow, almost lazy turning to fix freddie with his stare. it's neither principle nor kindness, that precludes him equating handjob with payment. it just doesn't really occur to him. sex as a transactory kind of currency is something that he might consider later, but he's always favored other, more sordid kinds of deeds to all that. cash, in absence of creepy options. thus: piggy bank. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, starts to lean forward. his back is sweaty, shirt sticking to himself or the seat leather, he's not sure.
but he doesn't look much more than comfortably mussed, draping his arms over the steering wheel. he blinks at freddie and then, abrupt as hitting a switch, he smiles.]