Derek drops away from his corner of the couch and stares up at the ceiling instead, still feeling this itch under his skin like he's as caged away here as he was in the zoo. The battery being dead seems like a pretty shitty excuse - if the TV's working, he can probably charge a fucking phone - but maybe that's the point.
"You're not gonna let me talk to anyone but you for two days?"
Kavinsky rolls his eyes and flops over to grab his coat. He finds Derek's phone and tosses it to him.
"If you smuggled a charger up your ass, you can have at it."
He tucks the joint between his lips and gets to his feet to adjust the thermostat. He either keeps it off or low when he's not here and he's not spending however much time he's stuck down here cold in his own damn place. Besides, he's feeling the urge to take clothes off, to feel air against his skin, and he's not stripping down any further while it's chilly.
"The signal down here's been spotty as fuck since the storm."
"You can get your hands on a million different kinds of drugs, but you can't get your hands on a phone charger?"
More hostility, more combativeness, but Derek asks this with a quiet, almost lazy calmness, like he doesn't really give a shit about Kavinsky's answer, or at least doesn't expect him to give one. He watches Kavinsky head to the thermostat, taking his side of the couch for himself while he's gone, laying down, stretching his legs out, taking up room. It's starting to hit him, now, but Derek doesn't realize he's feeling less anxious and a little more relaxed because of the drugs. He just thinks he's-- sleep deprived, maybe, and running out of the adrenaline that's supposed to be keeping him alert.
K peels out of his hoodie and drops it on Derek's head as he passes, leaving him in a t-shirt. He wedges himself back onto the couch - Derek can pick his head up or let it right on his leg, Kavinsky doesn't care.
He drinks from his bottle, feeling pretty fucking good now. He looks over at Derek with a grin. He looks like he's chilled the fuck out, too. K feels like this means he was right: Derek needs to relax more. It's impressive he hasn't given himself a stroke or something.
Ugh, come on. Derek might not be jumping on Kavinsky and threatening to turn his jugular into a mid-afternoon snack, but he's still himself enough to get pretty fucking annoyed by the hoodie thing. He peels it off his face and throws it to the ground, a sour look on his face, and when Kavinsky joins him back on the couch, Derek doesn't move more than he has to. He's-- annoyed.
"Don't be an asshole."
Ask me, Kavinsky said, and Derek, big bad wolf that he is, tries to deflect. He'll meet an order with an order, as if he has the right.
"Don't be an asshole," he says after that command. "Try again."
Derek is barking and Kavinsky isn't taking it seriously. Maybe he'll bite, but he's willing to risk it. He lolls his head against the back of the couch, a little smile still playing on his face.
This is what Derek feared would happen, when he woke up as a sub. Someone would find a way to needle him, find a way to make demands, and Derek would have no choice but to follow them. He knows what Kavinsky's capable of - he knows that if he makes this harder than he needs to, Kavinsky will report him, punish him, something, and while Derek's more than capable of defending himself, clawing the guy open will bring the entire city down on him. It's-- a thin line to tread.
He wets his lips, weighs up his choices, the fog in his head making it hard for him to think clearly.
"Can--"
Nope, nah, he can't do this. It's too soon for him to start following orders, being a good dog. Derek grunts and sits up, running his hand back through his hair, visibly frustrated. He shakes his head, sucks his teeth. He's angry, but again - there's no real fire behind it. There's a pleasant, idle buzzing under his skin now, making it hard to find the energy he needs to yell like he might want to.
He can get the fucking charger, he just needs to sleep first. He'll have it tomorrow if he knows what he's getting. Derek can just wonder about the magic trick. Kavinsky lolls his head to look at Derek as he gets up and moves. He appreciates every fucking line and curve he's seeing and he remembers, viscerally, what it feels like to be underneath all that energy.
Jesus.
"You make this shit way too fuckin' hard, man. What kind of phone you got?"
At this point, he'd honestly just rather go the two days stewing in his anger and isolation than accept anything from Kavinsky. He rolls his shoulders and leans back against the sofa, realizing just how warm he's starting to feel. That pleasant buzz under his skin is slowly, invasively getting warmer, and he's not sweating, but he feels like he should be. Derek swallows, mouth dry, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and fanning it a little to cool himself down, flashing the inch of skin above his belt while he does.
He looks at Kavinsky, then at the thermostat, like he's silently telling him to go turn the heat down. Even if, for some reason, Kavinsky decided to listen to him, it wouldn't help - but Derek hasn't realized that yet.
"Jesus," he says out loud. "This is like, the bare minimum of effort. Tell me what you need and I'll get it."
He's a lot of things, but psychic isn't one of them.
Kavinsky's eyes are dark, almost black, as he watches Derek pull at his shirt. He catches a flash of skin and he swears to God his mouth waters. The fuck did he put into those pretzels? Who did he make them for? He can't remember. Maybe they were something he meant to bring back to his place in the Up for the next time he got Adam or Nick over.
"You got legs," he says when Derek looks pointedly at the thermostat. "I feel fuckin' fine."
Okay so he's warm, if the faint flush in his cheeks is any indication, but the thermostat isn't exactly jacked up. It's maybe set at 68. Maybe. (Probably 69 because Kavinsky is actually twelve.)
Spite. It's just spite, driving Derek. He'll figure this out on his own. Kavinsky tells him to go fuck with the thermostat himself if he wants to, and Derek does, just because it gives him a few seconds away from the guy. Even walking feels kind of fucked up - there's this tired, tingly feeling in his legs, like he's been asleep for too long and he's forgotten how to walk - and that's kind of how he's starting to feel all over. Soft and warm and outside of himself. Too hot.
He gets to the controls and leans on the wall while he stares at the panel, which, yeah, reads 69, naturally. It's not worth fucking with but Derek lowers it a degree or two anyway, slipping a hand under his shirt to massage a knot out from his shoulder. It's-- intense, suddenly, the feeling of skin on skin, and Kavinsky can probably see the way Derek's knees get a little weak as he rocks forward and rests his head against the wall for balance. Fuck - that heat, it's getting worse, more and more. He's getting hard - he knows what this is. It's obvious, at this point.
His own cheeks are red, his eyes are half-lidded, and he's already getting hard. It's been a while since he's had an aphrodisiac this strong. His stomach twists and his mouth goes dry, and he doesn't move away from where he is, but - it's hitting him hard now. Fuck.
Derek is leaning into the wall and Kavinsky is taking the opportunity to enjoy the view. His teeth slide over his bottom lip and he swears he can feel the heat radiate off Derek from all the way on the couch.
Is his dick hard? Kavinsky shifts a bit to try and get a better view. He can see the flush in Derek's face and the way his eyes are nearly closed and his own body responds to all the signs of arousal.
There's a buzzing in Derek's ears, now. Faint and disorienting. He takes a few steps back, running his hand through his hair, still feeling hot and itchy and-- frustratingly uncomfortable in his clothes. He's not gonna get undressed, not if he can help it, but his shirt feels like it's burning, and only by touching his hand to his neck or his side beneath the fabric is giving him any relief. He doesn't know how the fuck Kavinsky managed to drug him, but it's-- a lot. It's already a lot.
"Fuck off."
His voice is a little croaky, and Derek clears his throat, tries to act like it isn't. He swallows and stands up straighter, making his way back to the couch. He doesn't sit, he just - stands, not knowing what to do with himself, other than act tough, act unaffected. Parrot Kavinsky's own shit back to him.
"You are such a bitch," he says with a lazy laugh. Kavinsky pushes off the back of the couch to sit forward, and it brings him within reach of Derek. The temptation to grab his hips is fucking unreal. He can't help the grin that creeps across his face.
"Tell me what kind of charger you need."
Petty little orders that aren't that difficult for Derek to swat aside, but delivered in that smirking voice, slightly milky with the cocktail of drugs now in his system. He thinks about the last time Derek shoved his cock into his mouth and his own dick starts getting hard.
This aphro shit is hitting Derek so hard that it's getting really, really difficult to think about anything other than the physical toll its taking on him. The heat under his skin, the ache in his bones, the way his blood itself feels like it's on fire - Kavinsky gives him an order and it's a little too much for him to process, and he makes an annoyed, dismissive grunt, barely giving him attention. Derek's running his hand beneath his shirt again, touching his side. That contact is still the only thing cooling him down, making this bearable.
"It's just-- it's-- it's a fucking charger, I don't know."
He's taking the order just so Kavinsky shuts up about this, too impatient to wait him out. He fishes out his phone from his pocket and holds it out, hands slightly trembling. Derek's breathing hard through his mouth, panting like he's overheating, and when he realizes that, he quickly clamps his teeth shut, hard enough to make his jaw hurt.
In a breath, Kavinsky is on his feet and right in Derek's bubble. He takes the phone, making it a point to let his fingers slide over Derek's as he does. He glances at it, figures out the model, then tosses it onto the couch.
It's easy to forget that Kavinsky is almost as tall as Derek - maybe as tall as - but right now his back is straight and his face is close.
"You're gonna break all your fuckin' teeth like that, man," he says, that little grin still in his voice. Caution chucked out the window, he slides his fingers over Derek's jaw like it might make him relax that clench.
Derek feels incredibly, incredibly sensitive to even the slightest of touches. Kavinsky's fingers graze against his and it's enough to startle Derek and make him drop his phone, though Kavinsky takes it fast enough for it to avoid falling too far. He swallows, tension mounting, and when Kavinsky touches his jaw, standing right in his face--
It's a lot. A dozen things at once. His sheer, vitriolic hate for Kavinsky is in direct competition with the relief his touch brings, the cooling touch of another person easing so much of the burning in his body. It's such a stark relief that Derek almost feels like crying, everything suddenly feeling lighter, better, softer, even as the arousal in him grows and mounts and makes it harder to think clearly. He's staring daggers at Kavinsky like he could tear him apart, if he was given the chance - but he's not moving his jaw away. He's not doing much of anything, other than standing here and slowly feeling better.
"Fuck."
It's just - one word, quiet and unbidden. He could get angry, ask Kavinsky if he drugged him on purpose, but he's in no position to fight right now. Not when he's stuck here for two days. Not when one slip up could get him stuck in re-alignment.
Kavinsky thinks this is funny. He might not be laughing later once he's been fucked through the floor or something, but right that second, he thinks he's clever. He leans closer and turns his head to brush his nose over Derek's cheek, unthinking as he leaves his throat exposed.
He might, later, remember to say I told you so about not asking about shit, but right now all he can fucking thinking about is touching more. His fingers slide beneath the hem of Derek's shirt and skate along the top of his jeans. Teasing. Fucking teasing.
"Fuck, man," he laughs, but it's more strained this time.
Kavinsky drops a hand and palms Derek's cock roughly through the denim.
Yeah, Derek's not laughing. He's standing where he is, letting Kavinsky touch him, the brush of his nose against his cheek feeling far too intimate for who they are. He's trying not to respond in any way, but the primal, animal instinct in him flares up when he sees Kavinsky's bare throat, his cock getting even harder, harder than its ever been. It's-- painful, trapped behind his clothes, but Derek's not going to undress for Kavinsky if he can help it.
"Is this why you bought me?"
From the people zoo. Derek swallows, voice not exactly breaking, but going quiet halfway through his sentence. Kavinsky touches his cock and it's enough to make Derek's knees weak again, and he has to actually bite down on his tongue to stop himself from moaning. He - needs this. He's frustrated with how much he needs this, and he's keeping his walls up as much as he can, even with every positive reaction his body is having to all these little touches.
"Or were you just - hoping this would happen somehow?"
"No," he admits. "And I dunno. We got crazy fucking chemistry, even if you'd rather throw yourself in front of a train than admit it."
But it's there. Kavinsky knows it fucking is. Chemistry is the one thing he's good at. And Derek doesn't have nearly as much cause as Adam does to want to put him through a wall. He tips his head more and lets his teeth graze along Derek's jaw as he works the button and fly loose. He's dying to feel that cock in his hand again. He moans right near Derek's ear as soon as he gets skin to skin.
"Wasn't expecting fuck all, tiger," he admits. But Derek's the one that tore into a bag of drugged snacks after making K taste test.
As far as Derek's concerned, any pain that Kavinsky's gonna go through, any justice he's gonna face - that all belongs to him. He's got plenty of cause to hate this kid, even if half that cause comes through second hand stories from someone he's wrong to trust. He's still holding out here, getting through the moans and the touching and the sound of his belt being undone without reacting beyond a flutter of his eyelids and a tensing in his jaw -
"Right. That's how you operate. You follow your whims, do what you like - doesn't ever matter who gets screwed over in the process."
- but then he snaps. Kavinsky gets his hands down Derek's jeans enough to make him surge forward, hand going straight for Kavinsky's throat, squeezing down tight against his windpipe. He pushes Kavinsky forward and knocks him down onto the couch, pinning him to the seat with his weight alone, fast and heavy and done without warning. His knee's right against Kavinsky's cock and he presses into it through his jeans, halfway threatening, halfway not, and he speaks again through grit teeth, nose to nose, voice sharp and venomous.
"Just because you like it rough doesn't mean we have chemistry. It just means I can fuck you better than anyone else you know."
It happens quick. There's a hand on his throat and then his back hits the couch. Somehow, Kavinsky manages to hang to the open front of Derek's jeans, denim caught in a fist. The pressure of Derek's knee on the couch forces Kavinsky right up against it.
"Bullshit," he croaks, grinning despite it all. "You think about me. You fuckin' dream about me."
He should probably shut up, but when he sees a line in the sand, he tends to throw himself across it. Derek's got him pinned in place and as soon as Kavinsky can make his body work again, he's sliding his hand back down the front of Derek's jeans to touch him more. He's got just enough air coming in that he's not blacking out, but he's starting to get lightheaded.
"I don't," Derek says, which is-- the truth, honestly. He tries to think about Kavinsky as little as possible, and when he does, it's usually with anger. "You're not that pretty, Kavinsky."
He's angry now, too, but Kavinsky touches his cock through his clothes and he's too far gone not to react. He hisses through his teeth and bucks into his hand, the grip on Kavinsky's throat getting tighter and tighter still. Derek's never felt like this before - furious and blind with hate, but wanting to fuck someone as badly as they want to fuck him. He wants to make Kavinsky come harder than anyone else. Wants to claim and take, so that whenever Kavinsky's fooling around with someone else, he'll have to think about Derek to get off.
Without another word, Derek's tearing at the last of Kavinsky's clothes, ripping stitches in the haste to get him naked. He strips Kavinsky and holds eye contact the whole time, keeping him pushed against the couch where he can, and when he surges forward and takes a kiss, it's-- a lot. He doesn't use his teeth, doesn't try to hurt, but it's heavy, more tongue and desperation than strict technique. Derek's panting when he pulls away, tugging his own jeans down to his thighs, guiding Kavinsky's hand to his bare cock with a rough squeeze of his wrist.
"This doesn't leave us," Derek grunts. "You tell anyone about this and I swear it'll never happen again."
It won't anyway - but it's hard for Derek to stay aware of that, with the aphro hitting him as hard as it is.
As Derek's hand goes tight, Kavinsky starts to see black on the edges of his vision. He holds Derek's gaze anyway, even as his pulse hammers in protest against Derek's fingers. He wants to plant himself in Derek's head, take root and stay there.
Maybe Derek will always hate him. Fine. But he won't forget about wanting him either.
He finally grabs at Derek's wrist as clothes rip off him, torn at the seams and leaving marks where they pressed into his skin before finally giving way. And then Derek's tongue is in his mouth. The kiss is intense, but Kavinsky manages to answer it just as fiercely, just as urgently.
A quiet moan escapes as his fingers curl around Derek's cock, heavy and hard and hot against his palm. It's insane how badly he wants it: in his mouth, in his ass, he almost doesn't fucking care. Almost. A grin ticks his mouth.
He's heard this ultimatum before, from Adam.
"Fine," he breathes as his hand strokes. He slides his palm over the head just so he can spread precome down the length. "You're not fucking me dry. There's lube there."
Kavinsky jerks his head toward the low table off to the side.
Fine is all the permission Derek needs to convince Kavinsky again - harder, this time, with a soft bite to his bottom lip as he threads his fingers back through his hair, pulling just hard enough to sting. Kavinsky keeps talking and Derek listens, but it's hard to feel much of anything, other than the burning, constant need to be touched. He's got his lips on Kavinsky's throat, his neck, his shoulder, his chest, sucking and biting and turning his skin purple and pink, and he only pulls away when even this, too, stops feeling like enough.
He slaps around in the table, grunting when Kavinsky's hand glides over the sensitive nerves in his cock, pulling the drawer out hard enough to break its hinges when it gets stuck a little half way. He drops the drawer on the surface of the table and finds the lube, popping open the cap with his thumb, breathless and somehow still sounding pretty pissed off when he talks again.
"Rubbers?" He couldn't find any, never uses them, hates the things, but he still wants to ask, still wants to make sure Kavinsky's okay with going raw.
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Derek drops away from his corner of the couch and stares up at the ceiling instead, still feeling this itch under his skin like he's as caged away here as he was in the zoo. The battery being dead seems like a pretty shitty excuse - if the TV's working, he can probably charge a fucking phone - but maybe that's the point.
"You're not gonna let me talk to anyone but you for two days?"
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"If you smuggled a charger up your ass, you can have at it."
He tucks the joint between his lips and gets to his feet to adjust the thermostat. He either keeps it off or low when he's not here and he's not spending however much time he's stuck down here cold in his own damn place. Besides, he's feeling the urge to take clothes off, to feel air against his skin, and he's not stripping down any further while it's chilly.
"The signal down here's been spotty as fuck since the storm."
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More hostility, more combativeness, but Derek asks this with a quiet, almost lazy calmness, like he doesn't really give a shit about Kavinsky's answer, or at least doesn't expect him to give one. He watches Kavinsky head to the thermostat, taking his side of the couch for himself while he's gone, laying down, stretching his legs out, taking up room. It's starting to hit him, now, but Derek doesn't realize he's feeling less anxious and a little more relaxed because of the drugs. He just thinks he's-- sleep deprived, maybe, and running out of the adrenaline that's supposed to be keeping him alert.
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He drinks from his bottle, feeling pretty fucking good now. He looks over at Derek with a grin. He looks like he's chilled the fuck out, too. K feels like this means he was right: Derek needs to relax more. It's impressive he hasn't given himself a stroke or something.
"Ask me for one."
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"Don't be an asshole."
Ask me, Kavinsky said, and Derek, big bad wolf that he is, tries to deflect. He'll meet an order with an order, as if he has the right.
"Give me your charger."
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"Don't be an asshole," he says after that command. "Try again."
Derek is barking and Kavinsky isn't taking it seriously. Maybe he'll bite, but he's willing to risk it. He lolls his head against the back of the couch, a little smile still playing on his face.
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He wets his lips, weighs up his choices, the fog in his head making it hard for him to think clearly.
"Can--"
Nope, nah, he can't do this. It's too soon for him to start following orders, being a good dog. Derek grunts and sits up, running his hand back through his hair, visibly frustrated. He shakes his head, sucks his teeth. He's angry, but again - there's no real fire behind it. There's a pleasant, idle buzzing under his skin now, making it hard to find the energy he needs to yell like he might want to.
"No. Fuck this. Fuck you. I'll go without."
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He can get the fucking charger, he just needs to sleep first. He'll have it tomorrow if he knows what he's getting. Derek can just wonder about the magic trick. Kavinsky lolls his head to look at Derek as he gets up and moves. He appreciates every fucking line and curve he's seeing and he remembers, viscerally, what it feels like to be underneath all that energy.
Jesus.
"You make this shit way too fuckin' hard, man. What kind of phone you got?"
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At this point, he'd honestly just rather go the two days stewing in his anger and isolation than accept anything from Kavinsky. He rolls his shoulders and leans back against the sofa, realizing just how warm he's starting to feel. That pleasant buzz under his skin is slowly, invasively getting warmer, and he's not sweating, but he feels like he should be. Derek swallows, mouth dry, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and fanning it a little to cool himself down, flashing the inch of skin above his belt while he does.
He looks at Kavinsky, then at the thermostat, like he's silently telling him to go turn the heat down. Even if, for some reason, Kavinsky decided to listen to him, it wouldn't help - but Derek hasn't realized that yet.
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He's a lot of things, but psychic isn't one of them.
Kavinsky's eyes are dark, almost black, as he watches Derek pull at his shirt. He catches a flash of skin and he swears to God his mouth waters. The fuck did he put into those pretzels? Who did he make them for? He can't remember. Maybe they were something he meant to bring back to his place in the Up for the next time he got Adam or Nick over.
"You got legs," he says when Derek looks pointedly at the thermostat. "I feel fuckin' fine."
Okay so he's warm, if the faint flush in his cheeks is any indication, but the thermostat isn't exactly jacked up. It's maybe set at 68. Maybe. (Probably 69 because Kavinsky is actually twelve.)
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Spite. It's just spite, driving Derek. He'll figure this out on his own. Kavinsky tells him to go fuck with the thermostat himself if he wants to, and Derek does, just because it gives him a few seconds away from the guy. Even walking feels kind of fucked up - there's this tired, tingly feeling in his legs, like he's been asleep for too long and he's forgotten how to walk - and that's kind of how he's starting to feel all over. Soft and warm and outside of himself. Too hot.
He gets to the controls and leans on the wall while he stares at the panel, which, yeah, reads 69, naturally. It's not worth fucking with but Derek lowers it a degree or two anyway, slipping a hand under his shirt to massage a knot out from his shoulder. It's-- intense, suddenly, the feeling of skin on skin, and Kavinsky can probably see the way Derek's knees get a little weak as he rocks forward and rests his head against the wall for balance. Fuck - that heat, it's getting worse, more and more. He's getting hard - he knows what this is. It's obvious, at this point.
His own cheeks are red, his eyes are half-lidded, and he's already getting hard. It's been a while since he's had an aphrodisiac this strong. His stomach twists and his mouth goes dry, and he doesn't move away from where he is, but - it's hitting him hard now. Fuck.
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Is his dick hard? Kavinsky shifts a bit to try and get a better view. He can see the flush in Derek's face and the way his eyes are nearly closed and his own body responds to all the signs of arousal.
"Hey, grab me another beer while you're up."
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"Fuck off."
His voice is a little croaky, and Derek clears his throat, tries to act like it isn't. He swallows and stands up straighter, making his way back to the couch. He doesn't sit, he just - stands, not knowing what to do with himself, other than act tough, act unaffected. Parrot Kavinsky's own shit back to him.
"You've got legs."
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"Tell me what kind of charger you need."
Petty little orders that aren't that difficult for Derek to swat aside, but delivered in that smirking voice, slightly milky with the cocktail of drugs now in his system. He thinks about the last time Derek shoved his cock into his mouth and his own dick starts getting hard.
Fucking pretzels.
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"It's just-- it's-- it's a fucking charger, I don't know."
He's taking the order just so Kavinsky shuts up about this, too impatient to wait him out. He fishes out his phone from his pocket and holds it out, hands slightly trembling. Derek's breathing hard through his mouth, panting like he's overheating, and when he realizes that, he quickly clamps his teeth shut, hard enough to make his jaw hurt.
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It's easy to forget that Kavinsky is almost as tall as Derek - maybe as tall as - but right now his back is straight and his face is close.
"You're gonna break all your fuckin' teeth like that, man," he says, that little grin still in his voice. Caution chucked out the window, he slides his fingers over Derek's jaw like it might make him relax that clench.
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It's a lot. A dozen things at once. His sheer, vitriolic hate for Kavinsky is in direct competition with the relief his touch brings, the cooling touch of another person easing so much of the burning in his body. It's such a stark relief that Derek almost feels like crying, everything suddenly feeling lighter, better, softer, even as the arousal in him grows and mounts and makes it harder to think clearly. He's staring daggers at Kavinsky like he could tear him apart, if he was given the chance - but he's not moving his jaw away. He's not doing much of anything, other than standing here and slowly feeling better.
"Fuck."
It's just - one word, quiet and unbidden. He could get angry, ask Kavinsky if he drugged him on purpose, but he's in no position to fight right now. Not when he's stuck here for two days. Not when one slip up could get him stuck in re-alignment.
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Kavinsky thinks this is funny. He might not be laughing later once he's been fucked through the floor or something, but right that second, he thinks he's clever. He leans closer and turns his head to brush his nose over Derek's cheek, unthinking as he leaves his throat exposed.
He might, later, remember to say I told you so about not asking about shit, but right now all he can fucking thinking about is touching more. His fingers slide beneath the hem of Derek's shirt and skate along the top of his jeans. Teasing. Fucking teasing.
"Fuck, man," he laughs, but it's more strained this time.
Kavinsky drops a hand and palms Derek's cock roughly through the denim.
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"Is this why you bought me?"
From the people zoo. Derek swallows, voice not exactly breaking, but going quiet halfway through his sentence. Kavinsky touches his cock and it's enough to make Derek's knees weak again, and he has to actually bite down on his tongue to stop himself from moaning. He - needs this. He's frustrated with how much he needs this, and he's keeping his walls up as much as he can, even with every positive reaction his body is having to all these little touches.
"Or were you just - hoping this would happen somehow?"
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But it's there. Kavinsky knows it fucking is. Chemistry is the one thing he's good at. And Derek doesn't have nearly as much cause as Adam does to want to put him through a wall. He tips his head more and lets his teeth graze along Derek's jaw as he works the button and fly loose. He's dying to feel that cock in his hand again. He moans right near Derek's ear as soon as he gets skin to skin.
"Wasn't expecting fuck all, tiger," he admits. But Derek's the one that tore into a bag of drugged snacks after making K taste test.
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"Right. That's how you operate. You follow your whims, do what you like - doesn't ever matter who gets screwed over in the process."
- but then he snaps. Kavinsky gets his hands down Derek's jeans enough to make him surge forward, hand going straight for Kavinsky's throat, squeezing down tight against his windpipe. He pushes Kavinsky forward and knocks him down onto the couch, pinning him to the seat with his weight alone, fast and heavy and done without warning. His knee's right against Kavinsky's cock and he presses into it through his jeans, halfway threatening, halfway not, and he speaks again through grit teeth, nose to nose, voice sharp and venomous.
"Just because you like it rough doesn't mean we have chemistry. It just means I can fuck you better than anyone else you know."
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"Bullshit," he croaks, grinning despite it all. "You think about me. You fuckin' dream about me."
He should probably shut up, but when he sees a line in the sand, he tends to throw himself across it. Derek's got him pinned in place and as soon as Kavinsky can make his body work again, he's sliding his hand back down the front of Derek's jeans to touch him more. He's got just enough air coming in that he's not blacking out, but he's starting to get lightheaded.
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He's angry now, too, but Kavinsky touches his cock through his clothes and he's too far gone not to react. He hisses through his teeth and bucks into his hand, the grip on Kavinsky's throat getting tighter and tighter still. Derek's never felt like this before - furious and blind with hate, but wanting to fuck someone as badly as they want to fuck him. He wants to make Kavinsky come harder than anyone else. Wants to claim and take, so that whenever Kavinsky's fooling around with someone else, he'll have to think about Derek to get off.
Without another word, Derek's tearing at the last of Kavinsky's clothes, ripping stitches in the haste to get him naked. He strips Kavinsky and holds eye contact the whole time, keeping him pushed against the couch where he can, and when he surges forward and takes a kiss, it's-- a lot. He doesn't use his teeth, doesn't try to hurt, but it's heavy, more tongue and desperation than strict technique. Derek's panting when he pulls away, tugging his own jeans down to his thighs, guiding Kavinsky's hand to his bare cock with a rough squeeze of his wrist.
"This doesn't leave us," Derek grunts. "You tell anyone about this and I swear it'll never happen again."
It won't anyway - but it's hard for Derek to stay aware of that, with the aphro hitting him as hard as it is.
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Maybe Derek will always hate him. Fine. But he won't forget about wanting him either.
He finally grabs at Derek's wrist as clothes rip off him, torn at the seams and leaving marks where they pressed into his skin before finally giving way. And then Derek's tongue is in his mouth. The kiss is intense, but Kavinsky manages to answer it just as fiercely, just as urgently.
A quiet moan escapes as his fingers curl around Derek's cock, heavy and hard and hot against his palm. It's insane how badly he wants it: in his mouth, in his ass, he almost doesn't fucking care. Almost. A grin ticks his mouth.
He's heard this ultimatum before, from Adam.
"Fine," he breathes as his hand strokes. He slides his palm over the head just so he can spread precome down the length. "You're not fucking me dry. There's lube there."
Kavinsky jerks his head toward the low table off to the side.
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He slaps around in the table, grunting when Kavinsky's hand glides over the sensitive nerves in his cock, pulling the drawer out hard enough to break its hinges when it gets stuck a little half way. He drops the drawer on the surface of the table and finds the lube, popping open the cap with his thumb, breathless and somehow still sounding pretty pissed off when he talks again.
"Rubbers?" He couldn't find any, never uses them, hates the things, but he still wants to ask, still wants to make sure Kavinsky's okay with going raw.
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