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 |
|
✓ ✕YES
NO
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eudio cuddlr / inbox (cw offensive language, toxic masculinity, edgelord deathy stuff)
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]