[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.]
no subject
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.]