emptynesters | 50 years later meme

50 years later meme

Fast forward into the future of Station 72 where your character has been a part of the Hive for however many years. Are they still themselves? Have they integrated fully with the symbiote? Are they the only ones left of their brood? Have they formed other connections in their brood's absence? Do they remember anything of their life before the station? How do they relate to the other Hosts still around, or to new ones who have come in since others have fallen? What else can you come up with?

HOW TO PLAY
STEP ONE: POST WITH YOUR CHARACTER

STEP TWO: Either set up the scene or give some info of what your character is like X years down the line.

STEP THREE: TAG OTHER PEOPLE'S CHARACTERS

STEP FOUR ?????

STEP FIVE: PROFIT

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[ It has been a long time since either of them were girls. They both joined this body with little understanding of themselves, of agency, turned deceptive in order to obtain anything in resemblance to power, but the one mind never deceived was always the other. They've grown while together, they've grown while apart, but always bound by their beginnings. Their holy writs and shackled wings. Those myths are a whispered history, no longer tragic maidens, but instead capable monarchy.

But Ilde remembers: the pale skin of her first love, the smell of a perfume that dried up many years ago.

It's that scent that accompanies her into the siren's chambers, heralds her presence even though her aura is silent as a shadow when she moves through the Station. ]

( Who am I. )

[ A secret query to unlock a certain behavior from this oracle, to bring the pretty thing to focus in on her, on them. ]

For the most part, he's kept himself... himself. For Katie's sake. If only because she's needed him to be that way. Needed him to be himself. So he's kept himself apart. Except for one specific instance.

For the person who's been there through all this, the person he's let in the most, gotten the closest too. In a lot of ways. The person who encouraged him to, of all things, grow his hair out a little more than usual. These days, it's down at a loose fringe below his chin. Often pulled out of the way. More white steaks it through anymore, but he's accepted that.

Accepted a lot of things. Dealt with a lot of things, thanks to the presence never far from the back of his mind.

One he reaches out to, now, along that familiar channel.

(I'm missing a hair band. Seen it?)

Even for the most mundane things.

( Ilde Vilmaine. )

[ The many voices echo back, her fingers sweep more broaching than sight ever could be. More satisfying to the part that was still one, not many. Along the line of her jaw, up her chin in symmetrical movements of mapping on her face. Thumbs settles in a pair on the middle of her mouth. ]

( From a burning world. )

[ Like a title on an artwork of too many shared moments, what she has seen through Ilde's mind and held in her body. That flicker of images that are butterflies open and closing wings span apart. Quick-slow-broad. Shut again. Of torture and destruction and ruining and worship she has felt like aftershocks from places that made them but would no longer be them. ]

(Gardner. Flower keeper. Scent of - )

[ Her lips part, her limbs shudder, her wings beat once more and in slow drop she inhales like that scent, of years and years ago, of a hallway, a room, of her skin tingling all the way down and her skin doing a different kind of burning. Down, down, down, like she alone could affect buoyancy as her bare feet settle flat to the ground, toes then heel. Rocking back. ]

( - Oh. ) [ she shivers, mouth parted on a drunken feeling of that, and wash after wash of singular memories rinse her of others from her. To this. She shudders, heated and heavy, lips red and dark on her too pale skin that never, never could be coaxed to colour by the sun like those tended flowers, but rather by Ilde alone. ] ( Hello, Ilde. )

Petre balances back and forth between the full connection with the hive. By now he's had explosive experiences with compromising his individuality, and lashed out every time. He has a strong sense of I'm the only me, but it often gets muted when he relaxes and his symbiote reaches out to all the others.

It's like dozing off just long enough to suddenly wake up, realizing you missed the alarm.

He's just as ruthless as before. Impulsive, violent, arrogant, possessive. Less dumb about it, which doesn't mean he's always smart enough to know when he's being manipulated. Petre bullies the newcomers left and right, suffocates the hosts he considers his own. Superiority complex is strong in this one. He also thinks he has loved, but all he does is make sure they don't love anyone but him.

His shape-shifting has more control than ever, and with it he's gained other enhancements. (See: his skin being an unbreakable shield, etc.) Sometimes he takes physical characteristics of other hosts, along with the bleeding of their minds.

Petre's roles in missions is to infiltrate and destroy the building blocks from the inside. He always wants to eat someone and take their place, especially if they're important within the society. All the more shit he can get away with.

I don't have any specific scenarios in mind, but you can give me a starter or prompts (written, pictured, etc.) My life is a wild ride right now, so I beg thee for patience with my slowness.

[Kavinsky laughs, tight and tense in the back of his throat. Sam's hands take liberties, resting on his hip before slipping their fingertips beneath the beltline of his jeans. Nearly any other man, and Kavinsky would take the hint--run all the way to the bank with it, if they were his type. But the line in the sand that Sam drew has withstood the flow and ebb of time. There are long hours K forgets who he is and borrows Sam's memories, yet he can't trust he's reading him right now.]

( You know I can't get in the guerrilla warfare mood if I'm not going commando. )

[Not the truth in the strictest sense; things started off hectic that morning and Kavinsky also neglected to put on socks.]

( You're not going to let it wait, are you?)

[He loses the uncertainty quickly; it never fits him well. Sam's in the way, but Kavinsky wriggles his fingers between the older man's and his fly. He'd rather be the one to take any chances with the zipper opening against his bare flesh.]

[ Sam should have figured that out months ago, honestly. That if anyone was going to be the one to step over that line - to erase it completely - it was going to have to be him. But it isn't until now that it really hits him, and it makes him smile with slow, pleased affection.

Tonight's as good a time as any. ]

( You know me better than that. )

[ Of course Sam isn't going to let it wait. He hooks his thumbs back under the waistband of Kavinsky's jeans as he waits for him to unzip them, and then tugs them down, careful over his injury. He leaves them just above Kavinsky's knees, running his hands back up Kavinsky's thighs.

The calluses on his hands from dozens of different kinds of guns are rough, he knows, but his palms are warm and his touch is gentle. He brackets Kavinsky's body from the cold wind on the balcony, until there's barely a handful of inches between them, until he's close enough that he can press his lips to Kavinsky's temple. There's a brief pulse of warmth from his symbiote ability, soothing away some of the pain without quite healing yet. ]

( Relax. It's gonna hurt worse if you tense up, man, trust me. You know I'll take care of you. )

[ Sam doesn't need to see where the shrapnel in Kavinsky's thigh is - he can feel it. So he doesn't pull back as his fingers close around the metal, gently working it free. ]

Sam's laughter sparks between them, warm and unhampered by Bucky settling more on top of him - for all that he makes some exaggerated noises like the air's being knocked out of him. It's definitely a good thing they commandeered these quarters for themselves, because he's pretty sure it would echo in the small pods of the standard living quarters.

Light blooms across their minds, streaming through the feathers that surround them both, glinting off wisps of snow that still linger.

( Nah. That's you, sunshine. )

But if Sam's so light, then obviously Bucky won't mind him rolling closer, sprawling himself over Bucky. He doesn't remember what it feels like not to be in damn near constant physical contact with Bucky. Years ago, he'd done it for more than just because he liked it, because he knew that Bucky hadn't had a whole lot of physical contact like that, the kind that was gentle - or at least affectionate. He'd wanted to give Bucky as much of it as Bucky would let him.

Now it just doesn't feel right, to be in the same room as Bucky and not be in contact with him. Even among the new Hosts - he shield his thoughts from them, shield the strength of his connection with Bucky, but he never hides the way he gravitates towards Bucky.

His palm rests on Bucky's chest, fingers tracing idle patterns over his heart.

( Sounds familiar. )

[Kavinsky opts not to elaborate, though he knows exactly where he's heard that before. Namely the first time he let loose and slept with another man. As early as the second, he scoffed at gentle words and made his less savory preferences clear. The sting of bitten nails and the blunt press of teeth did so much more for his arousal than condescending kindness. But Sam is fucking with him, not into; if he wants to pepper Kavinsky with sweet words, he's earned the right a long time ago.

No matter how conscious Sam is about easing down his pants, Kavinsky hisses as the material peels off of his skin. Blood had matter the denim down, fusing over time to the torn flesh. He grits his teeth and his lips pull back to show them. He grins through the pain.

As always, the hum of Sam's power is both welcome and not--soothing to a fault. Kavinsky relies on his ability to bear things. Comfort comes with a price.

He leans into the taller man, pressing his face into his shoulder. The shrapnel wriggles to the surface, then clinks against the balcony floor as K's body rejects it.]

( Prettiest fucking nurse I know, man. )

[ It's not that he doesn't know any other way - it's just that it's his favorite, murmuring kindnesses and appreciations and promises on what he's gonna do, mixed in with taking someone apart piece by piece. He wonders if Kavinsky will squirm when he holds him down and mouths affection across his skin, bets he'll look so damn gorgeous if he does.

Sam heals him just enough that they both have identical wounds on their thighs, as though the shrapnel had grazed them both instead of buried itself in Kavinsky's leg. He could heal it all, yeah, and part of him is tempted to - but he doesn't like pain the way Kavinsky does, and Sam'd rather not be in danger of ripping open a healing wound on his own leg with the kind of thing he's looking to get up to.

He also knows just how to mix the sting of teeth and the press of palms, rough and gentle, never enough of either one and too much of both. He thinks - he's pretty sure - it was something he knew before the Station, but he's only gotten better since.

So his fingers drag over the newly healing gash on Kavinsky's leg, feather light across the skin of his inner thigh, skipping up to push under his shirt, resting warm on his rib cage. ]

( Damn right. ) [ You like what you see?, he doesn't say, because he's known the answer to that for years, but it drifts through their bond anyway. He feels up Kavinsky's ribs, pressing in a little as if he's checking for the slide of bone against bone, making sure nothing's broken. ] ( That the only place you got hit? )

[Less selfish members of the Nest would refuse Sam's help, knowing the symbiote would wound Sam in turn. But Kavinsky has had his protests fall on deaf ears before. Besides, his chances of escaping the planet without an assist--especially while injured--are slim. Misato's pragmatism wraps around him like an old and tattered cloak; he doesn't say or think a word as Sam does his work.

Before he was chosen by the Hive, Kavinsky lived a life of distraction. Loneliness gift-wrapped in constant motion, a raging storm of a crowd, and all physical vices consumed at once. Elements of that old life remain, persistant as cockroaches. They scuttle about, fearing the days when someone like Sam steps in and treats K to something better.

They are connected.

Kavinsky sucks in a breath so fast his chest aches. It's count to his nature to continue leaning in and worrying his nose into Sam's shoulder. Soft, physical solace feels like a brother to weakness. This must be Sam's influence.

He shudders; the fingers climbing over his body eke out a chuckle. Was he always ticklish, or is that a broodmate ruining his reputation?

Another swift inhale, followed by what they both expected. He shoves back, setting his weight on the railing.]

Don't get me all excited.

[The distance of spoken language tastes unnatural travelling over his tongue. Thick and waxy. The cocaine isn't enough to calm his nerves when Sam has him half disrobed.

Beneath them, hundreds of feet below the balcony, other people know exactly what they want. Mostly, it's not to die.]

[ In this case, Sam's grateful for Kavinsky's sense of selfishness, for the echo of Misato's pragmatism. It makes it easier for him to just do his job, to take care of Kavinsky the way he wants to take care of him.

Well. One of the ways he wants to take care of him.

There are so many things that Sam wants to show him, that Sam's always wanted to show him. How many better distractions there were, how much less lonely he had to be. It's gotten easier, the closer they've all gotten to each other, the stronger their connections grow, but even now it's rare that Kavinsky lets himself have comfort like the way he leans in to Sam's shoulder. His eyes slide shut, just for that moment, and he presses a kiss to Kavinsky's temple.

He presses forward when Kavinsky shoves back, not chasing after him so much as moving with him, because yes, they both expected it. Sam's always been free with his physical affection, albeit never quite like this, but it's not the first time that Kavinsky has shoved back away from it.

It could be an accident that his uniform-clad leg settles between Kavinsky's - and honestly, it kind of is, though that doesn't mean Sam isn't going to take advantage of it, shifting his leg so the fabric catches over Kavinsky's bared cock. His hands splay across Kavinsky's chest, thumbing over a nipple before he lets the blunt edge of his thumbnail press against it. ]

Why not?

( Aww. Want me to cry about it? )

[Kavinsky beckons her near, yet watches her move keenly, like a cat judging the range of a child that's pulled his tail before. He gambles with himself, egging her on when she could reach inside his chest and pull out something worse than the heart he was born without. His nostrils flare with heavy breaths--in and out.

He's had hooded bedroom eyes since he was fourteen. Showing concern, sincerely or in jest, isn't his strong suit.]

[It isn't a one-sided street. Despite being the king and judge of his own kingdom, Kavinsky has found himself wanting to do something for Sam. His affection comes in waves--this time a gift he made in his sleep, the next time invaded space and vicious compliments. Sam's status is continually checked during missions he helps supervise while Kavinsky waits for the outcome after placing his bombs. They don't normally end up together like this when Sam is prime offense and Kavinsky is dynamite--you know, literally--support.

But Kavinsky wants to see Sam flushed and breathing at the end of things.

He often forgets the boy he told it's "just us" in a dream in Virginia. He'll never forget each place Sam heals him. He becomes frustrated when his broodmates borrow the memories.]

Fucker--!

[Half-declaration, half-groan. Sam's thigh rubs at his dick and tells a story of power squats and ten mile runs. Kavinsky's grown, but he's his mother's son; slim and heavy-eyed. He can't be sure Sam will even feel it when instinct clamps his legs around the one making nice with his cock.]

I'm serious. Keep it up and I'm gonna...

[As far as threats go, it doesn't have much steam to it. K wraps his hands around Sam's wrists with all the force of a one-winged butterfly. This is a test he will inevitably fail.]

I'm high, man. I'm so high.

[He means that this isn't funny. He means Sam is going to make him hard.]

[ Sam has never needed Kavinsky's gifts, though he doesn't turn them down. But he's taken Kavinsky's affection in any form that it comes, been content with his company and satisfied in every moment that Kavinsky stays alive. In the little ways he's chilled out, over the years, in every moment that he feels something that could be considered contentment coming from the kid.

Well. Not a kid any more; he hasn't been a kid for a long time. But Sam's only wanted Kavinsky to be happy.

And maybe somewhere down the line he's wanted Kavinsky to let Sam make him happy, somewhere across all the times they've kept track of each other in battle and all the different injuries Sam's healed, the times they drank or smoked or watched movies together, the times Sam sat with him while he came down, and once or twice, when Kavinsky fell asleep in Sam's arms on the way home from a mission.

Sam likes the way Kavinsky fits in his arms, honestly. And he likes the way he fits against him right now, slim legs and long fingers. He doesn't take his hands away when Kavinsky grabs his wrists, but he doesn't try to keep exploring, either. ]

I can fix that.

[ There's the tiniest pulse of his symbiote ability, sending warmth through Kavinsky's veins, though he doesn't actually take away any of the drug. He would, if Kavinsky asked - Sam's grown used to feeling the effects of whatever drug Kavinsky's on over the years, even if Kavinsky no longer needs the constant stream of them.

But Sam's got another offer for him, and this time he pinches Kavinky's nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger as he shifts his leg again. ]

I could take you higher.

Bucky drinks in the sound of Sam's laughter. There's not enough of it these days, or the light that blossoms across the shared space between their minds. They don't hide the natural gravity pulling them together, but they do try to shield the strength and vibrance from the other Hosts. Once upon a time, Bucky would've shied away from the affection, whether in private or public, but after years he's grown used to it, familiar and comfortable, and seeks out Sam when he walks into a room. He curls one arm lazily around Sam, brushing his knuckles along his broodmate's skin. Each pass of his fingers sends a gentle pulse of comfort up his arm, soothing the shrill cry of the Nest.

Burying his face into the crown of Sam's head, he breathes in deep musk that has become comforting in its own way. He remembers once being separated on a mission and how finding rags of Sam's pack kept him going for what felt like an eternity. Or how when they finally reunited how he refused to let go of Sam for days on end.

( You sleep okay? ) He already knows the answer, but he still likes to ask.

[ There are many, many different forms of happiness. It has taken her so long to understand that, after decades of chasing after the one idea that eludes her still, but never mind. This is enough. Losing the Hosts that she grows to care for hurts, but that is the cost of loving, and she is willing to pay the price every time. The fear of loss never goes away either, that is just the way, but she knows she can weather it.

So maybe it was never about finding the one answer to heal all her wounds, but about growing strong enough to carry on and to help others along the way. Sam has known this all along, she thinks, but she had to learn it for herself. ]

( Confused. )

[ Someone else might mistake her as terse. They wouldn't be wrong. But there's concern there too, heart on her sleeves as she reaches over to hold his hand. ]

( They don't know who they are or who they could be, but we can't blame them. )

[ It would amuse her, to see him cry. Perhaps amuse is not the right word, it would not be so much a pleasure as a monument. A moment in time when he was forced to emote beyond his flippant veil. So carefully cultivated to express his wildness. She can tame that wildness. He was just one monster among many, so despicable in his habits but pliable to their manipulation. There is a give and take, to these things. She smiles drowsily at him, plucking at ethereal threads of their many minds, summoning up all the memories of weeping and sorrow that she can lure to them in this moment.

A reminder. A push. He cannot hide from her, from them, from us. ]

[ She steps forward to catch this winged thing as it descends, an arm loose and supportive at the small of Angel's back. The other hand touches her cheek, so porcelain pale. ]

( I've come for you. )

[ Not for the oracle, not for the many, but for this woman, this single body. The one she is ribboned to, the one she cares for, gifts of fresh food and pretty oils to run through hair, over skin. To keep the machine in order while the mind drifted, off to many things, many places. ]

( You are hungry. )

[ It's not a question, and Ilde fills her mind with visions of luscious fruits and chocolates, to begin the process of stimulating this body and its needs. A practiced choreography, so easy and familiar and filled with pleasure. Her thumb strokes Angel's cheek gently. ]

[The sirens are screaming louder, giving voice to the internal alarm bells tearing away at Kavinsky's last reserves of decency. All his hard work--every time he told himself to back off, Sam wasn't going to bite at his bait--was for nothing. In the end, fate has their balls squeezed into a collective vice. Here they are, on a balcony, here Kavinsky is, wanting to hump Sam's thigh and pant every obscenity he knows into his ear. After years of travelling through the deepest reaches of space, his dictionary of alien slurs has grown extensively.

He won't be healed or sobered up. Kavinsky needs the coke to keep his skeleton from clawing out of his skin and racing down the winding stairs he took great pains to climb. Sam has led him into a trap and is pinching his nipple as the door shuts on K's new cage. Another connection he couldn't track or control, because Sam was lying through his teeth and biding his time.

It's like being dragged by his ankles into someone else's dream.

The nipple between Sam's fingers could carve K's and his initials into an oak. In a word, it's hard.

And it's not the only thing.]

Do it.

[Prayer or command, Sam will have to decide for himself. Kavinsky keens in a fretful hiss between his teeth. He releases Sam's wrists and brazenly ties his fingers up into the front of the man's uniform. He jerks him closer, sucks up his air.]

Show me what you got, Wingman. I was starting to think you couldn't get it up.

Edited 2017-05-07 03:58 (UTC)

[ She sags like a sinking leaf, dead matter, into her arms. Sure the Ilde can hold her, keep her safe. She has ever put this body into her keeping. ]

( I am... )

[ Her mouth parts, her eyes blind, yes, but that does not mean she doesn't see when she's kept by the large sweep of the hive, and Ilde, most of all, knows what she likes to see, like to take into herself. Fills her mind up and she makes a soft needful noise, feel the tremor in her body. Shivering, for the things her mind are filled with. ]

(... I am hungry.)

[ Terribly so, she realises, moans again for that emptiness. This body, she loathes it, she loves it. It always a trap, a bonded separate between the two parts of herself, that might be too much if Ilde was not there for her. Her fingers lift, shifting in blind knowing touch over her face and her jaw, her neck. Fumbling through the want of Ilde to do something about this hunger. Unable to discern it from any other kind just like she has been for years - empty. ]

[The sorrow wraps around him like a midsummer heat. Every time one of their teammates has broken down and Kavinsky had no choice but to feel his own heart squeezed. He spent so much of his life refraining from empathy. He clutched at those that reminded him of himself, the lonely and the marvelous. But here, it doesn't matter if they share anything in common but the Nest. Their pain becomes his pain. Their tears wet his eyes. He blinks a few times, warding the misery off with a firm contempt.

They're both weaving rapidly--her, the sadness, him, everyone's resolve joined to his own.

He flings himself down onto his feet, closes the gap, grabs for her face. If she doesn't strike him, in one way or another, he will kiss her.]

[ There is a part of Sam that feels almost guilty, that he's waited this long. Waited until after Kavinsky'd started to respect his boundaries, after he'd accepted that this was something that was never gonna be. It's not like Sam had planned on it, it's not like he'd been serious when he murmured for Kavinsky to check back with him in five years, but here they are anyway.

Even now Kavinsky's trying briefly to be decent, trying to be good. Oh, he was so good, and Sam really does appreciate that.

Their conversation so long ago takes on a new meaning, now, with Kavinsky's dick pressed against his thigh and a pebbled nipple firm under his fingers.

Prayer or command - Sam'd answer either one the same, really. His mouth crashes down against Kavinsky's in a kiss, a hell of a lot different from the first time he kissed the guy all those years ago. There's no easing him into it - he barrels right in, tongue plunging into his mouth as he presses Kavinsky against the balcony until he's arching back over it, just a little. ]

( You've been so good for me, baby, haven't you? ) [ Warmth curls out across their connection, teasing, like the brush of feathers over naked skin. He sucks lightly on Kavinsky's lower lip, following it up by pulling it in between his teeth. ] ( Shoulda shown you my appreciation a long time ago. )

[ He doesn't break the kiss, but he does pull one hand out of Kavinsky's shirt to curl around the back of his neck, thumb resting in the hollow of his throat, as the other trails down the kid's stomach until his knuckles just barely brush the base of his cock. ]

[Back in the day--before spaceships and metal wings--Kavinsky preferred the peace and quiet of his partners when their mouths pressed against his. Most of the time, he was forcing himself to find the pretty girl attractive, because like fuck he was going to prove his father right and be his group's obligatory fag. He suckled the lips of any girl stupid enough to get in his car and swallow his pills. It felt like the fulfillment of a contract with the ink barely dried. Everyone played their predefined roles. They didn't need the distraction of conversation.

Sam's another story from a book with five years' worth of library fees attached. It's so overdue, and yet Kavinsky had grown accustomed to yearning without payout. Unrequited lust had a bittersweet tang.

Thankfully, his ability to argue receiving exactly what he's been craving is on par with his ability to respect posted speed limits.

K tilts his head back, strengthening the pull of his bottom lip. Good of Sam not to dampen the mood with gentleness. Kavinsky rewards him with ample encouragement. Mental--]

( Put your hand on my cock. This ain't fucking Catholic school. )

[--as well as physical. Sam plays coy, avoiding instant gratification in an effort to tease. Meanwhile, K hasn't finished thinking the word "Catholic" before his hands start pawing at the fly of Sam's pants. For a man that just proclaimed he's too high to be rational, Kavinsky's fingers are awfully dexterous. Half his body hangs over open air, but Sam will soon feel that same warm breeze over his dick, granted he doesn't slap K's greedy hands away.

He says nothing about being called good or baby or both in the same psychic "breath." Sam will know how he feels by the urgency in which his partner aims to divest him of his clothes.]

[ If Sam does his job right - he'll make Kavinsky forget about all of those other times tonight. He's not planning on this being a one time thing, so it's not like he has to try to fit five years worth of payout in one night, but he sure as hell is going to try anyway.

Hopefully Kavinsky has learned not to mind constant talk, seeing as Sam doesn't even need to breathe to keep it up anymore. Kavinsky'll adjust, even if Sam has to tie him down for it.

He doesn't slap Kavinsky's hands away, but he doesn't move to help, either, mostly because he doesn't want to let go. Instead he presses a little harder with his thumb against Kavinsky's throat until there's a clear indent in his skin - not for a warning, just because. Because he loves getting to put an edge to his gentleness, and he knows Kavinsky wouldn't appreciate it otherwise.

Sam's dick is already half hard when Kavinsky frees it, and he rolls his hips slow and easy, rocking Kavinsky's body against the railing he's trapped by. ]

( So demanding. You in a hurry to get this over with, huh? Way I see it, we got all night. ) [ He does drag his hand lower, though, palming over the head of Kavinsky's cock before he gets a good grip on it and starts stroking. ] ( How about this - I'm gonna jerk you off nice and slow, and you can tell me if you wanna come like this or you wanna wait for something more. Better make it good, though, 'cause it's the last time you're gonna get to make the call tonight. )

[ He's got two plans for how he wants to spend the rest of the night with the kid, and both of them sound pretty damn great to him. Might as well let Kavinsky pick, even if he doesn't exactly know what he's choosing. ]

[The way Sam sees it is ludicrous; the only way they could spend the whole night together would require the fight down below metamorphose into a war of attrition. That, or they could begin act two after a brief intermission in which they'd abandon the planet. Kavinsky snorts as he allows his thoughts to stray--only for a second--to how the hive would take being subjected to that. He can practically hear the yowling already. But they'd enjoy it, too. We always do, Kavinsky thinks, right before Sam does as he's told and touches Kavinsky's dick head on. Assuming there is a God, He must have made extra time for Sam's making; he's so hot Hell has to be colder to compensate.

K's high, now fueled by more than what he took off the railing, stutters when he's given options followed by what sounds suspiciously like a threat. Heat coils around Kavinsky's spine, descending to his tailbone after taking a pit stop at his gut. He's followed Sam's orders in the past, but only for missions where K was an asset due to his supernatural talent and eagerness to cause commotion. No one ever wanted K to put together a strategy. The same is being asked of him now: trust Sam to come up with a viable plan, pick the weapon that'll get 'er done.

No. Kavinsky lunges forwrad, snapping his teeth like anything he can do will intimidate Sam into taking it back. K knows best he's all bark when his cock's finally getting the attention it deserves. At the same time he shows off his incisors, upper lip curled, Kavinsky humps his dick up into Sam's hold.]

( Hey--fuck you. I'm making all the calls, man. Bend over. )

[Lest Sam think he actually caused an upset, K issues his demand without removing either of his hands from Sam's crotch. His fingers sample skin in taps and strokes; he learns Sam's shape without ever giving him a fist to fuck. It's the coke mixed with an ingrained series of behaviors that promise death should K ever go too still.

Another explosion blisters the sky behind Kavinsky orange-red-white. He's made less human in its glow, and there's no question of whether that's how he'd prefer to be seen.]

Edited 2017-05-14 06:09 (UTC)

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Page 2 of 3

50 years later meme

likely to be nsfw sooner rather than later

10 space married

puts us both in the garbage can

petre dodrescu - 5+ YL

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