#the cock of his hips | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eunhyuung · 1 month ago

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𖦹. “𝐈 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇, 𝐘’𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖?” — (𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐀𝐑)

𖦹. — 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. honestly, he’s never intended for things to turn out this way because as they say—curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it? too bad, he likes what he’s seeing too much, huh? 6.2k words.

𖦹. — 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . . . bitch boy kylar’s pervasive ways of being an absolute freak, jerking off, scent kink as in the loser disgustingly sniffs at his own pre-cum stained underwear, voyeurism through a screen, unsuspecting camboy! reader (amab) using his favourite fan’s flesh-light, massive parasocial relationship, kylar purely getting off to the mere fantasy of you so lovingly fucking his mouth full and slobbering all over your cock. wow. shit, that’s gross.

𖦹. — 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬, 𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠? “I think he’s cute, but he’s fucking pathetic. adds to the charm though.”

Undoubtedly, he’s intricately aware of the baseless rumours currently circulating throughout the school due to him. Not that he pays it much mind, as a loner himself—there’s not much that comes forth from uselessly dwelling on ushered statements whispered amongst each nosy student attending the worn establishment.

Especially when he’s grown accustomed to the unfair treatment sent his way, preferring to concentrate on the positive aspects of his measly day-to-day life instead, no matter how minor those details may be. Practically nonexistent in comparison to the absolutely negatives—if anything, but. . . unwavering optimism is a virtue, correct? More or less.

“Did you see him? You’d think he won the goddamn lottery or somethin’—“ One would randomly perk up out of the blue as the other’s words seamlessly tumbled forth from between their lips. “Stop shitting with me. Think that freak has anything to smile about?” And as predictably expected on their part, doubtful silence filled the daunting atmosphere before the overly harsh cackling of laughter soon followed after.

“No way!!”

Right. Hurtful as it may be, wasn’t any less further from the truth to confidently proclaim that Kylar’s life was utter shit from start to finish. From an accumulation of numerous events that notably stemmed from mere bad luck or perhaps, as he so effortlessly believed so himself—a dreadful curse one had so cruelly placed upon him and the rest of his beloved family for. . . God knows what, how would he know anyway? Maybe it was due to an unforgivable sin he’s unknowingly committed in his distant past life or, from sheer, utter hatred on a stranger’s bitter end.

Solemnly beginning with the inexplicable loss of a treasured, cherished childhood friend of, he’d rather not utter the name itself—only to bitterly finish with the concerning changes in his parents questionable behaviour, not to mention the physical morphs in their formerly human appearances. That is, if they’ve managed to retain any semblance of consciousness from their lives previously shared as a family.

And to be honest, it’s a miracle he hasn’t suddenly dropped dead from the sheer amount of stress the outside world brings him. Hurt after hurt, mindless insult after another ruthlessly hurled towards his retreating figure in the school’s stuffy courtyard by snickering classmates.

At times like these, wordlessly thinking back to the gleaming knife occupying the depths of his baggy pocket does somewhat soothe the dull pain aching within his chest.

Somewhat.

Regardless, seething with misery and tainted despair is what he should’ve rightfully remained so, for the entirety of his pathetic life. Least, that was the intended plan on his end. Fortunately, most things don’t ever go as planned in life, do they? And neither was the accidental discovery of your surprising existence, too. One which he repeatedly thanks the divined heavens from above for so generously gracing him with your perfect being—even if not physically there, as you’re merely hidden away behind the greasy, smudged surface of his unprotected, cum-stained screen.

Yeah, he does periodically forget to neatly wipe those unceremonious accidents of his away. . . Mostly the embarrassing bit where the freak is unpredictably shooting forth his fat load all over his tousled bedsheets and of course, his dimly lit, previously discarded phone screen that merely happens to be consequently lying nearby—at the edge of the loner’s unmade bed. Somehow neglecting to absently clean his disorganized room, rotting for none to see due to his inborn laziness or better put, sheer lack of motivation to truly do something about the grimy mess irritably found at his feet.

Crummy wrappers from whatever unhealthy, overly sweetened snack he’s ingested for the day, used socks filled with. . . well, you’d know the typical stereotype of what lonely, unloved boys do in the desolate tranquility of their bedrooms anyway, unwashed clothes laid askew; you name it.

Although, it’s partially your fault for purposefully making your streams so very tempting—practically impossible to stubbornly last till the bitter end if he’s so much as given the slightest glimpse of your pretty cock, mere sound of your wistful sighs and voice carefully articulating his username amongst the hoard of just as eager viewers.

What a shame, he’d just about care more for the dire state of his dirtied room if it meant somehow impressing you in the process. Like the loser would ever be so graciously given the exquisite chance to timidly invite you to his sore excuse of a room, lest he found you for real and, y’know—committed a few illegal acts or two to drag you towards that desired place of his choice. Selfishly kept you to himself for an undetermined amount of time, preferably forever and ever actually. . . !

Oh, he does dearly promise he’d take good care of you. That’s for sure.

Speaking of, he’s always possessed the annoyingly obsessive tendency to easily fall for a fictional character on the other end of a layered screen, but. . . Certainly not like this, no. Since you’re a real, existing person, are you not? A living, breathing human with his own life he’s blissfully unaware of—foreign details and such, are wholly unnecessary to him, because your self is solely what he’s truthfully interested in, really! Sorely convicted no one could ever hope to pitifully understand the true reason as to why he’s been recently sporting that idiotic grin plastered amongst his usually aloof features.

Distractingly sketching more and more admittedly good, yet messy drawings in the private remnants of his notebook’s torn pages. Immediately squeaking at the sudden presence of his english teacher’s. . . what’s-his-name, mister Doren(?) hovering over his hunched shoulders to questioningly quip up as to what may be so important for him to childishly doodle during learning time, huh?

Well, you see—fairly, it’s quite simple, if not entirely self-explanatory when thoroughly observing his recently odd mannerisms and gestures.

Y’see, most would reasonably laugh dead in his face at the sickeningly sweet answer, though what need is there to hide it? It’s evident what the local school’s favourite punching bag has been shockingly struck with. As cheesy as it may be to discreetly gossip amongst one another, the sole undeniable fact that—

“The freak’s obviously in love and crushing on someone or somethin’, no doubt about it. I mean, look at him! He looks like he’s just about ready to float off the earth!!”

“Fuck, don’t word it that way. That’s so fuckin’ gross. Y’a think he actually likes someone—? Like, here? In this school?? Stands no chance. What’s the use of liking ‘em if they’ll run at the sight of you anyway?” Seldomly wrong on that part, there’s no way to precisely tell that identity of yours if your face is disappointingly out of view in each of your films! Therefore, he’d like to take note of it someday, y’know. . . Instead of, ah—humiliatingly jerking off alone to the hazy thought of your faceless body. Not to say, that isn’t disgustingly hot enough on its own. Fucking pervert that he is, plenty to get him off on.

“Hey, now don’t be so mean. He could hear us over there. . . Didn’t you hear what he did to that one girl in class cuz’ she tried to take his shitty sketchbook? Heard she’s stuck in the hospital for a month because of him. Crazy stuff.”

Unsurprisingly so, a scornful pout would’ve expectantly found itself upon his chapped lips at those stray comments if it were any other day of the week. Frustratingly clutching at the worn edges of his school bag hanging limply from his small figure from the seething urge to impulsively retort back. However, what use is there to miserably wallow when your favourite show is bound to showcase itself on screen soon enough? And what he so innocently refers to as some ‘show’ are those naughty streams of yours he’s been regularly keeping up to date with, without missing a single one for that matter—you should be proud of him, really. Is starting soon, as per usual—in about. . . ?

Oh, luckily he’s got plenty of time to wordlessly settle himself in his spacious bedroom before your precious recordings commence. Methodically checking the numbers displayed on his cellphone to indicate the countdown till the sole thing he’s been excitedly looking forward to for the past few, dwindling months, does eventually begin.

Since today is a special day, indeed—is it not?Thoughtlessly humming to himself at the expectant treat patiently awaiting his arrival at home, much to other passerby’s apparent discontent at the rather. . . horrible sound being sung throughout the pathway to his forgotten, desolate manor. Singing melodic notes, especially at the Temple’s choir never was much of his forte for that matter. That’s alright, though! Fortunately enough, he’s confident he can painfully endure anything that this insane town throws at him today. And ‘course, that stupidly includes the dirty looks shot in his direction, too.

Because today. . . today is a special day, yes—he gleefully repeats so, to himself. Y’know, like some maniac.

And akin to how a mechanical key automatically turns itself within the depths of a narrow lock, routine settles in thickly at the back of his mind as his feet instinctively shuffle themselves through the doorway of his beloved house. Less beloved in the sense that it isn’t exactly properly maintained, as obviously proven by the multitude of stains abandoned about upon every wooden surface, it seems. Uneasy floorboards bound to eventually collapse underneath the meager weight of his lanky body, which is a miracle that it hasn’t already by now, actually.

Not to mention, disgraceful cobwebs precariously hanging from below each cornered ceiling, but there still retains a semblance of charm to the place, a little—he thinks. Personally. Majorly due to the familiarity it instills within his boyish brain and it being his lone sanctuary where he feels remotely at peace, unperturbed from outsiders prying eyes.

“I-I’m home.” Timidly calling out to the single place that’d welcome him so, in a hushed, open embrace. But, as per expected, no pleased response comes forth to counter that shrill, little voice of his—having progressively grown accustomed to announce his eventual arrival to what he still sheepishly refers to as his parents, at least, even if they might not outwardly reply with a normal chime of their own. Perhaps he’ll be met occasionally with a hiss or two, yet he doesn’t really dare to enter any further into their territory without loads of garlic necklaces clumsily hooked along his delicate neck. Coward, he is—even in the face of his own mother and father, although it does possess its perks when it comes to avoiding trouble at school or notably, that filthy blonde’s presence.

That is to say, there’s no point in uselessly ruminating any further about an establishment that bores his bare unhappiness, right? Briefly stealing a glimpse to where his parent’s doorway restlessly lies partially accessible, surely aware of his newfound return—judging by the bored clatter of their glinting, metallic fangs concealed below the extended bed. Oh, they’re waving at him, clearly! Least, he positively thinks so if he hasn’t been ruthlessly attacked yet, so far. Unlike certain intruders skittering ‘round the mansion, that being rats. Ah, merely envisioning the little creatures draws a shuddered breath out of his wrinkling nose, jolting shivers coursing throughout the curved length of his spine.

There are far more important matters presently tending to his current attention, however. You, you, you—your upcoming stream. You, you, you . . . Obviously. Occupying the vast majority of his brain and, as for the last remainder—it being the sheer embarrassment of his progressively growing hard-on straining against the rough material of his ripped jeans. Oh, and now he’s popping boners purely from thinking about you?? Like he hasn’t done so before in class either, bitterly reminiscing over the painful memory of skittering away to the boys bathroom for a quick. . . tending to, as in pervertedly pumping his cock full in the tight confines of an unkempt stall. Shakily whining out your name (more like username, really) between muffled whimpers as sweet release mercilessly found the loner and he, ungracefully so, spilled the entirety of his sticky seed along the rest of his rumpled school uniform.

. . .Yeah, he’s definitely got a vast amount of issues to deal with. But, he can helplessly worry about that unimportant part later.

The continuous pitter patter of his feet carefully made up to the balanced stairwell—where his meticulously made shrine of you remains still, by the way—endlessly carries on. Opposite to how the insistent, rhythmic pumping of his discomposed heart feverishly beats with each huff drawn forth of the outcast’s hitched sighs. Creaking floorboards noisily squeaking beneath each incessant footsteps made towards his own private room before finally. . . finally, soundlessly shutting the oaky door with a resounding click and an exhaled breath of relief.

And so, it begins.

Familiar, shrouded darkness envelops his figure whole all at once within the restrictive bounds of his exclusive chamber. Movements seamlessly acted out on an automatic everyday-thing as he so thoughtlessly—to his mattress’s strained annoyance—flings his worn bag containing practically nothing, save for his sketchbook and a singular, used pencil—upon the squeaking, cushiony surface with an audible thud! Well, he’s always been somewhat irresponsible when it came to his possessions in hand lest they held some semblance of emotional attachment to him in some shape or form. Fortunately, he withholds an acceptable excuse for his hasty behaviour this time, yeah, swears it’s an adequate one! Of course it’d perpetually be when it comes to you, his esteemed beloved, his one and only. (To what he’s thoroughly deluded himself to blindly believe so.)

Ah, how unbridled excitement quells within his chest with each shaky step forward to his unattended, cluttered desk. Smiling gleefully to himself in absent thought at the six, available monitors at his disposal—who’re poorly reflecting the sight of his eager expression at the moment, too. Oh, he doesn’t mean to appear like a frantic puppy in heat right off the bat without having even received his sweetened treat.

Though, can he be possibly faulted for it when he’s hardly a few seconds away from being so lovingly graced with your company on the other side of a limited screen? Helplessly devoted in the woeful sense that simply a single snippet of your soothing voice renders him blissfully breathless, weak in the knees bound to soon buckle beneath your honeyed words? Has him torturously aching downwards to where his dripping wet cock tents against the layered fabric of his pants?? Perfection couldn’t even begin to accurately describe your being devoid of any flaws.

So idiotically hooked that the perverted freak is already slumping himself atop the accommodating, swivelling seat of his chair—instinctually placing his connected headset onto the unkempt strands of hair naturally curling around the indented shape with a pleased hum. Y’know, just to be safe. Potentially due to the considerable awkwardness of if he were to accidentally play a pornographic stream aloud, beyond the confidential walls of his room.

Last thing he’d like to bashfully admit outwardly to his parents is how hopelessly infatuated their son is for another boy who isn’t even remotely aware of his flickering existence. Besides the frantic amounts of fanboy comments the loner usually leaves behind, majority of it containing the sheer euphoria of witnessing such a pretty boy as yourself—so boldly displaying himself for thousands upon thousands, possibly more granted the frustratingly recent spike in your growing popularity, to see. Solely perceived as an overly enthusiastic fan that consequently happens to be attending each and every stream of yours, in a vain attempt to someday, be supposedly noticed by his dearest idol.

Undeniable trepidation restlessly courses through his veins, jittery fingertips grazing amongst the crumb stained keys—which, he never thoughtfully bothers to sanitize, exactly—before ultimately typing in the uh. . . ah, it’s still considerably embarrassing to be navigating through a raunchy, naughty site filled to the brim with erotic content. Not to say, he hasn’t especially skimmed through some. . . exceptionally questionable ones in the distant past, but none seemed to wholly satisfy him nor brought him such disgustingly heated interest like your live recordings either. Hah, he’s just so utterly down bad for you—it’s mildly flustering.

Another which he’ll soon be given the meticulous chance to joyfully witness in the gloomy atmosphere of his bedchamber, if anything else. Arrow pointed key impatiently hovering over the strikingly red button labeled for newcomers to ‘join on in’ to where your stream is bound to usually begin. Yes—he’s memorized your neatly made schedule of commencing your tapes every Thursday afternoon, around thirty minutes after he’s finally released from the sorrowful imprisonment of school. And. . . the gleaming ‘live’ signal should be surfacing any second now. Precisely in five—four, three, two. . . and, one.

Click.

[Now recording.]

“Oh— ahah, god. 200 viewers already? No, it’s climbing up to 254 now. . . You guys are already that happy to see me, huh?? I’m flattered.” Whether to necessarily fixate upon your rosy, moving lips deeply articulating each syllable with a musing grin of your own, albeit a shame that’s about as much as he’ll be able to savour and see of your concealed face positioned above the reserved range of your quality camera. Or, the seamless lull within your effortlessly attractive voice reaching the depths of his attentive ears is beyond the dark haired boy’s enraptured attention, truly—because, hah. . . there’s something else, something else much more special eventually coming up, isn’t there?

Chipped nail upon his thumb being subconsciously chewed at in faux thought, that. . . you look stupidly good today (not that you usually don’t) with that casual wear— yes, even something apparently simple as some loose jeans, not all that much different from his own too, and an onyx black turtleneck compatibly added to the mix—looks pleasantly nice on you, enough so to hurriedly draw all breath from him.

Light conversation ensuing as if you aren’t thoroughly conscious of what the viewers unabashedly desire within this very moment. Him included, to be frank. “What have I planned for today? Well, now—you know, it won’t be any fun if I reveal it immediately, but you’re right, I do have something particularly special planned for today’s stream.” And he can tell, with how the influx of notes rapidly increase at the mere mention of a tell-tale surprise, no doubt brimming with utter curiosity and excitement at the sheer, mind numbing prospect of a carefully thought out present from you, that it indeed works. Sweetened chuckle naturally tumbling forth from your parted lips drawn up in a lighthearted smile in return. “Oh, you wanna know so bad? Fine, fine. Bunch of perverts already pressuring me right into it— haah, but I guess I’m no better for getting off of the attention like this either. . . Alright then, I’ll bite.”

Right, estimating the passing time he’s suggested it beforehand, it should’ve certainly arrived in the mail by now. Peering curiously towards the endlessly flowing stream of enthusiastic comments filling up the area at the bottom right of his dimly lit screen.

“Just so happens I’ve got a new one to test out here. Courtesy of a subscriber’s recommendation, y’know. See how much I actually listen to you guys? You degenerates should be grateful I’m even showing you anything, really— oh, c’mon. It was just a joke. Lighten up, will you?” Musing delightfully in response before promptly presenting a faintly rose coloured—oh, oh! it really is his that you chose!—pussy pocket into view, or generally known as a squishy flesh-light solely made to dutifully suck at awaiting eager cocks. Crimson flush coming forth to deeply stain his cheeks so, gasping momentarily to himself at the shocking outcome and maybe just, the idiotic yearning of intricately wanting to be that toy instead.

Ah— god, what he’d inevitably give to be the one you’re sensually sinking your flushed, oozing tip into, breathlessly groaning at the dizzying tightness swallowing your twitching length whole.

On one hand, he’s tried out quite a few, negligently forgotten in some stash hidden within his creaking closet, although ever since he’s been given a minor glimpse of your fat cock since day one—well, he’s come to long a certain. . . other type of treatment altogether. Notably, the disastrously sickening urge to be fucked full to the brim within an inch of his life, filthy masochist that he deceptively is, nothing could potentially compare to your pretty looking cock truthfully.

“Well, then,” Instinctually following forth with the passages of your hands—those too are pretty, actually. Like every inch of you isn’t, physically drooling at the slightest sliver of your exposed skin being gradually bared to his heated, emerald gaze. The edged curvature of your delicate knuckles down to where your slim fingertips connect to your leathered belt, smoothly unbuckling its constraints with a distinct jingle before it ultimately, drops downwards to the floor with a muted thud. His own loosened pants shortly accompanying your gestures soon after in a clumsy haste.

“Why don’t you sick fucks just sit back—“ A tug of your elastic boxers and he’s being suddenly greeted by the addictively sinful sight of it. Flushed cock weeping glistening beads of pre-cum, immediately springing forth from its confine to then, audibly smack against your bare tummy. “relax, and enjoy the show, yeah?”

Ahah, there it is—there’s your admittedly. . . tasty looking cock he’d waste no effort in slinking down to his knees to suckle upon, coat in slippery wet saliva and gratefully swallow down in nigh worship like a mutt starving for a treat. If you sensibly possessed any sort of idea, how well he’d treat you, the boy of his dreams. Hungrily lap the slicked surface of his warm, moist tongue along your balls heavy with seed in an intimate display of unending devotion—obsession, damnation to be gleefully chained and bound to your feet. Or so, he’s steadily scattering the remnants of his needy mind to those nonsensical blurry daydreams of his again.

Along with that artistic mark the loner meekly recognizes as a tattoo permanently etched into the tender flesh of your left hip, inked encryption slithering upwards, beyond the portion that your jeans can possibly conceal if shown on the spot.

“See this?— haah, fuck.” Hitched breath suddenly interrupted with a muted curse at how you merely hover the toy’s softened hole above the leaking tip of your heavy cock, wordlessly pulsing in the camera’s direction—his direction, to be more precise. Silently affirmed as nothing more but a wistful yearning on his part. “The way it just. . .” Oh, he’d so hopelessly, truly never tire to repeatedly listen upon your angelic voice again and again, how it subtly trembles and delves further into a series of rapidly made huffs along with a mix of heaving groans. Beautifully falls apart, tearfully breaks in an instant from the sweet suckle of the makeshift pussy heat steadily sucking in the veiny girth of your aching length. “. . .Effortlessly sucks me inside? So fuckin’—shit, tight. Like I’m fucking a real cunt actually.”

And yeah. . . Yeah, it really is—god, instinctively yearning for the insatiable need that those were his pouty lips instead, thoroughly enveloped around the sheer thickness of your perfect cock. Depthless, expanding pupils deliberately following the trailing path of pearly droplets profusely dribbling out messy pre-cum. Past the stuffed flesh-light’s warm folds—down the curved edge of your neatly swallowed cock to where it ultimately, descends and lands atop your balls with a startling drop.

Seemingly, the slight twitch in his pants at the dizzying demonstration is explanation enough on its own probably.

Quite pitifully so, it’s natural instinct, it’s all, he promises! Stealing a glance downwards to where his own excited cock stands upright and throbbing in the stretchy material of his chosen underwear for tonight’s occasion—one which he can easily slip off at a moments notice, impatiently strip down to his spread knees like an unashamed whore practically begging for it.

Guess it wouldn’t hurt to just. . . rub one out quickly, right? It’s what you’ve so generously taken the effort and time to do so, right?? So the freak—amongst many others delightfully viewing, how annoying—can disgustingly get themselves off to the addled sighs, sickeningly wet smacks! from the teasingly slow roll of your hips upwards, easily tumbling out from his monitors screens.

Timid palm tentatively reaching towards the overly evident, straining hard-on tented underneath the seams of his boxers, earnestly palming himself—or better put, the outlined length bulging through the fairly thin fabric—with a shaky gasp. So embarrassing, how minimal stimulation on his end renders him utterly breathless, silently stunned at the sheer amount of pre endlessly leaking out from his swollen, red hot slit. Inconveniently stains the greying colour in a deeper shade to mindlessly gawk at for future notice. Because currently, he’s unfairly too busy from solely grinding the heel of his softened palm against his cock’s dripping wet head, isn’t he?

Although, it’s not enough. Not enough, just yet—

Certainly, it wouldn’t truly be sinful to shyly go further, bring himself to the very brink of his teetering limit, huh? Fluttering lashes discreetly shutting close maybe due to the dizzyingly hot embarrassment accumulating within his tensed tummy. There, yes there; that’s the spot. . . Ah. Shuddering gasps uncontrollably spilling out of his beautifully open, wanton mouth shaped into a perfect ‘o’ at the clumsy passage of his inexperienced hand downwards, below. Hah—‘inexperienced’ , he sullenly thinks as if the dark haired boy doesn’t steadily fist his cock raw to the mere, increasingly blurring thought of you like a daily routine set into stone, never meant to be carelessly missed.

An unrestrained addict is what he fairly is, for all its worth. Amused grin simultaneously cracking upon his features at the unsurprising realization, insistently tugging at the corner of his now moist lips—disgustingly shiny in his own spit too, now—as scarred fingertips momentarily caress along the curved outline of his twitching cock before impatiently sliding off the sticky undergarment down the length of his perched legs.

Shit, shit. . . Chilly, cooling air mercilessly kissing at the warm, trickling tip of his flushed cock head now openly free from the boxers helplessly limiting bounds. Outwardly hissing at the sudden rush of temperature surrounding the surface of his readily exposed, quivering length. And here he is, already subconsciously humping, desperately bucking at the air—hips spontaneously settling into a rapid pace to fuck into his fist, but oh—your soft skin would be so much warmer to the bare touch, y’know?

Irrefutably better if it were your skillful hands indecently pumping his slippery cock, though you’d only need a single hand to do that, wouldn’t you? Ultimately bigger than his pitifully smaller ones in size, unable to fully wrap around the pulsing thickness of his cock unlike yours who’d effortlessly encompass him whole. Tease at the whorish slit ceaselessly dripping translucent, sloppy pre-cum with a press of your thumb atop the puckered opening all the while fisting himself.

Ah—ah, damn it. “Mmngh. . .”

Invasive, needy hands struggling to grasp for something—anything, will surely do to dull the burning, aching throb of velvety blood rushing south to his taut balls and unsurprisingly so, the pretty flush that comes to visibly stain the surface of his cheeks. Similar to a picture perfect portrait professionally painted by an eccentric artist, that is, if he had any semblance of self-esteem somehow hidden in there.

Predictably so, like some unjust pervert, the experimental tip of his jagged nails curiously grazes against the stretchy texture of his underwear now awkwardly slung down to the freak’s knees. Forgot those were still loosely hanging there, admittedly. Pearly, shiny patch of staining pre boldly glinting back towards his half-lidded gaze as if to elicit an enticing. . . no, the definitely worst idea he’s potentially had.

But, something to just get the ball rolling sometimes, you know? That’s all. Nothing more, nothing any further than his lone tendencies to uselessly clutch at something in a placid need for comfort—for it could be a worn pillow that’s unfortunately out of reach, sweaty used hoodie meant to wholly fill his scrunched nose with the strong lingering musk or even, his pre-cum stained boxers. However else that can be reasonably judged, as no normal person would be feebly bringing their underwear up to their heated face. Deeply inhaling his own stupidly salty scent, crudely burying the tip of his curved nose within fisted briefs restlessly held in the cup of his palm.

Shiiiiitt, it stinks like hell. So, shouldn’t be so devastatingly erotic and spur him on further—shouldn’t have his aching cock incessantly yearning for some form of release, albeit in a fucking pervasive manner.

“So perfect. . . hah, y-you’re so—pretty.” Incessantly drawling forth from his bitten lips, crimson stained flesh absently chewed upon as the searing metallic taste fills his every muddled senses. Like a fallen mantra that’s bound to greedily consume his very being—and frankly, he’d be nothing more than earnestly grateful if he was so selflessly granted the lucky chance to have his useless, good-for-nothing, pliable body thoroughly used and ruined by you. Ah, idly wondering in the discreet back of his mind, how you’d harshly fold his slim figure in half.

Would it be fast and rough, possibly? Indecently cruel in each of your instinctual thrusts, sudden snap of your hips to fuck him within an inch of his life? Or perhaps, no—undeniably the opposite, considering your usual style Kylar familiarly knows all too well. Slow, methodical and torturous marks progressively imprinted along the curved surface of his arched back. Smooth, chilly fingertips gliding downwards till he’s greeted with the slight grip of your locked palms upon his hips. A trembling plea here and there, only to be coldly met with a sneered chuckle at the pitiful sight—heated tip barely grazing against the puffy entrance of his puckered hole as you’d utter out a singular insult.

“You fucking pervert.”

In a mere instant, as it should come as no shocking surprise, surely—that single, fleeting thought precariously tips him towards the edge before the perverted freak’s has remotely registered the immediate slackening of his open jaw. Furrowing of his brows with a petulantly long whine as sickeningly thick, white strings of seed uncontrollably spurt forth from his swollen tip, splattering amongst the previously untainted surface of his keys, bare and unclenched tummy in the cooling air and of course, the monitored screen itself.

“H-hah—I’m sorry, I’m s-so sorry. I’m nothing. . . but, a nasty p-pervert. . . ! Please—hngh, forgive me. . . !” Salaciously muttering to himself as though you’d possibly hear his ushered mewls for forgiveness, reassuringly cleanse him of his rushed and impulsive actions. Adoringly nosing along the creeping edge of his torn sleeve, pouty lips lewdly suckling upon its cotton material in an absent habit meant to momentarily soothe himself from the ongoing orgasm wracking throughout the entirety of his quivering, slackening figure—sluggishly resting atop the leathered, rolling chair.

Ah. . . Hah, doesn’t even register the all too heavy weight of his sleepy eyelids inevitably fluttering shut in a dazed slumber, head comfortably leaned back against the cushioned pillow. Carelessly forgetful of the accumulated, dripping mess now irritably found at his feet which he supposes, he’ll reluctantly clean later when he’s somehow received the faithful chance to.

Although, speaking of—isn’t he foolishly forgetting something residing in the shrouded depths of his mind. . . ? That can be, potentially dealt with. . . later, though. Maybe.

Didn’t even bother to aimlessly recall as to what it is regardless.

It wholly slipped from his drowsy mind, anyway.

— . . .

Alright, well—understandably enough, shouldn’t have tediously overslept past the overly distracting ringing of his stubborn alarm, but still. . . ! It’s not like it’s necessarily the loner’s fault for having this annoyingly irreparable tendency to listlessly pass out the second he’s satisfyingly gotten his fill. Probably, should get that checked out, however. Who effortlessly shifts to the realm of sparkling dream land after having hurriedly, finished in one fell swoop?? As in, helplessly shooting forth a fat load and considering it done and over with. Him, apparently.

‘Course, that reasonably draws its fair share of invasive consequences. Utterly lost in the bewilderment of his racing thoughts during his languid sprint towards class in the dead middle of the somewhat. . . spacious hallway, yet—not so much so that he isn’t incidentally slamming against a poor student in a troublesome haste, unintentionally tripping himself over his own loose, untied shoelaces. Oh, can’t be any more blind, can you??

Having fully expected to have painfully hit the dull, heartless ground by now—but, but. . . unfamiliar softness tentatively tugs at his blurry senses instead, confusingly warm firmness of someone else’s secure arms embracing the dark haired boy’s lanky figure in return. “Ugh, fuck—“

“. . .Sorry, are you alright? I didn’t mean to bump into you there. I should look where I’m going next time—stupid of me, really. You’re not hurt or anything, right?” Despite being sorrowfully accustomed to the normally discriminating tone most students expectantly would’ve adopted at the mere sight of him, nothing particularly prepared Kylar for that vaguely recognizable, dulcet voice faintly ringing within his stinging ears as he, so dumbly, peers from below the mopped mess of his unruly tufts of hair. One day, he’s got to take care of that nasty habit of his to be neglecting his unfairly important needs.

Strikingly stiff as a stoned, wobbling statue at the nearest temple from the intimately tender worry currently occupying your gaze—ah, what is he specifically meant to respond with in such an uncouth situation again?? Somehow missing the loosely held grasp your smooth palms have atop his hunched shoulders because, oh, he’s never been willingly touched before either—has he?

“Um, y-yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” My god, haven’t you received nothing but excellent marks in English, idiot?? Further elaborate on that meaninglessly empty statement! Inwardly cringing at the slight squeak unjustly found amidst his slurred speech and albeit, apologetic struggle not to seemingly appear like some ditzy moron right now instead of y’know—excessively nodding along to the point that, you’re questioningly tilting your head to the side.

“That’s good to know. Make sure not to run like that in the hallways again yourself, next time. Could’ve ended worse and I wouldn’t want someone getting hurt on my behalf, would I?” Momentarily stunned by that sugary sweet smile and maybe, the all too good-natured pat naturally placed upon his left shoulder that his heated breath is promptly caught in his bobbing throat.

He meant to reply back, truthfully desired nothing more than to sheepishly inquire further for. . . what? Nothing, perhaps. Anything to have your presence possibly linger longer next to his, but before he’s consciously notices—your retreating silhouette is already swiftly stepping past his dumbfounded, stranded self. Stifled curses accompanied by faintly echoing footsteps thudding against the now desolate, school hallway.

“Goddammit, where’s that blonde bastard—told me to wait for him and he doesn’t even fucking show up. Is he still pissed at me for yesterday’s shit?? I swear I should. . .”

Ah.

And, he didn’t even get to catch your name.

Guess he’ll find out through his own personal means. Stealing a rushed glimpse towards the headmaster’s shut door where they privately keep any student’s confidential files—that is, including properly listed grades too, which he’s gotten no interest for, to begin with.

Name.

Your name.

Well, he’ll find out one way or another because he always possesses a way to, doesn’t he?