[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.]
no subject
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.]