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.
He's going to be seeing bruises in the shape of Derek's mouth for days. His cock throbs just thinking about it.
Kavinsky hears the damage to the table and he doesn't give a fuck. Tables are easy to replace. There's a pause after the snap of the cap and he manages to look incredulous that Derek is stopping. The question is sweet, though, even if he sounds pissed off when he asks it.
"No," he answers. Because they've never used them and Kavinsky is not about to start now. Derek's blown his load in him or on him no less than twice. Why mess with success? Kavinsky likes it bare anyway - prefers it. And he's learned in this city that he's not going to catch a damn thing. He keeps eyes locked on Derek as he gives a twist of his hand on the next stroke.
Derek's too needy right now to stop for long, so Kavinsky's incredulity won't last - Kavinsky says no and Derek's practically mauling him again right after, all but straddling his leg and grinding his cock into Kavinsky's hand, his thigh, whatever part of him he can reach. Kavinsky calls him big guy and it's just the mindless, power-hungry, blindly horny part of him that finds that as hot as he does. Derek likes the praise, likes the feeling of control the name gives him. He's so desperate that he keeps having to actively remember who he's with.
Without another word, Derek's liberally drooling lube onto his hand and jerking himself off with it, lewd, wet sounds shamelessly filling the air. There's excess runoff on his fingers, pre and lube all mixed together, and Derek finds Kavinsky's hole, pressing his index and middle fingers against him, breathing hard and ragged as he urgingly presses into the heat of his body. He's not as slow as he could be and he could stand to be a little more gentle, but Derek's trying as hard in his haste not to hurt Kavinsky as he fucks him with that first finger down to the first knuckle. He wants this to be good for both of them. Wants to overwhelm Kavinsky with good feelings.
"When was the last time you were fucked? Who were you with?"
Derek's voice is rough and demanding, like he's about to ask for every dirty detail. He's too fucked up to really connect to why he's asking, whether it's from some voyeuristic streak that wants to hear Kavinsky talk dirty or if it's just-- competitive jealousy. Hard to say.
This is one of the best things about being with Derek: the sheer, overwhelming intensity of being the center of his focus. Kavinsky is sure Derek has some gentle side that someone somewhere has seen. But this--this speaks to something in him, he's fluent in rough domination.
The obscene sound of Derek slicking his cock makes him want to drop to his damn knees. He doesn't get the chance: soon he's got slick fingers pushing inside him. Kavinsky arches his back, tries to adjust his position to make the access easier despite the way Derek is looming over him.
His head drops back and he's fighting to breathe evenly.
"Client," he gasps out. "Second payment for something I got for 'em. C'mon, gimme more." He grips the back of the couch. He's dying to feel full. He cracks a grin. "Might offer him a contract."
Derek's staying close as he fingerfucks Kavinsky, nose to nose, forehead to forehead. He's not kissing him now, but he could, his eyes rapidly flickering between Kavinsky's lips and back up again as he breathes harder and harder and harder. The sharp angle of Kavinsky's nose, the cut of his jaw, the confidence in his voice - Derek's not going to admit that he finds him attractive, but like this, it's hard not to think it.
"Don't do that."
Distantly, in the back of his mind, Derek thinks of Tate's contract with Kavinsky - an addict being taken advantage of by his dealer, as far as he knows. Derek's too far gone to care that much right now, but the good parts of him that are still hidden under the primal, animalistic urge to fuck all need to say something.
"Leave the guy alone," Derek demands, like he has the authority. He works his finger in deeper and deeper, folding the second over the first and gently prying Kavinsky apart with both of them, and he brings his other hand to the back of Kavinsky's neck, holding on tight. "Sign with someone who knows how to handle you."
Kavinsky wants to laugh but it comes out sounding more like a moan as Derek fucks him open. He manages to focus on Derek's face, meet his gaze.
"What--what makes you think--fuck." He arches his back and tries to get closer as Derek's hand moves just right. "Makes you think he can't?"
He wants to say more. His mouth hangs open and words are on the tip of his tongue. But first he leans up, pulling against the grip on the back of his neck so he can kiss Derek, all tongue and teeth and need.
"It was for a fucking car. Relax."
A Porsche, if anyone's wondering. Kavinsky is pretty sure Ransom can take care of his damn self. His addiction is good living, not coke.
He loves seeing Kavinsky react to him. Loves doing just the right thing to make him catch on a breath or a moan and barely bounce back to finish talking. He interrupts every syllable Kavinsky says with a teasing twist of his fingers or more eager, deeper fucking, smirking wide enough to show his teeth by the time Kavinsky's telling him to relax. He doesn't buy it, even though it's the truth - but he also still doesn't really care.
"I know you pretty well, Joey," Derek says, low and still bordering the line between obscenely horny and instinctively angry. "I know how hard you are to handle."
For a few more minutes he stays like this, fingering Kavinsky with longer, harder strokes, alternating between kissing Kavinsky while he grinds against his thigh and taking his lips elsewhere. He tugs on the back of Kavinsky's hair to make him bare his throat the way he did before, sucking and biting and leaving hickeys dark enough to really, really last. He gets carried away with a few of the marks he leaves, drawing the tiniest pinpricks of blood when he gets too eager, but there's a softness in how he laps his tongue over the pain, cleaning Kavinsky, making it better. Showing him kindness.
Eventually - he can't wait anymore. He pulls back and starts manhandling Kavinsky a little in his eagerness, standing over him and laying him down.
Kavinsky braces himself against the couch. He's pretty sure he's gonna come if Derek keeps at him like this. He's moving his hips to try to meet every thrust of Derek's fingers and to grind up against him while he ruts against his hip and his thigh.
Joey. It shoots through him hard enough that for a second Kavinsky is yanked out of the daze. Adam calls him Joe, but no one else--
But Derek's doing it to be an asshole. He knows it. He wants to tell him to fuck off but the words die in his throat, strangled out by his desperate moaning. Kavinsky feels himself right on the fucking edge of coming, distracted only by Derek's mouth on his throat, biting and sucking up bruises that are going to last for fucking days.
Kavinsky makes a desperate grab for Derek's wrist to try to keep him from pulling out, but he misses. He lays back with a groan, trapped on the edge and fucking shaking with it.
He gets flat on his back, manhandled into the position as much as getting there on his own. He drops a hand to give himself a quick stroke, just trying to take the fucking edge off.
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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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Kavinsky hears the damage to the table and he doesn't give a fuck. Tables are easy to replace. There's a pause after the snap of the cap and he manages to look incredulous that Derek is stopping. The question is sweet, though, even if he sounds pissed off when he asks it.
"No," he answers. Because they've never used them and Kavinsky is not about to start now. Derek's blown his load in him or on him no less than twice. Why mess with success? Kavinsky likes it bare anyway - prefers it. And he's learned in this city that he's not going to catch a damn thing. He keeps eyes locked on Derek as he gives a twist of his hand on the next stroke.
"Show me what you got big guy."
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Without another word, Derek's liberally drooling lube onto his hand and jerking himself off with it, lewd, wet sounds shamelessly filling the air. There's excess runoff on his fingers, pre and lube all mixed together, and Derek finds Kavinsky's hole, pressing his index and middle fingers against him, breathing hard and ragged as he urgingly presses into the heat of his body. He's not as slow as he could be and he could stand to be a little more gentle, but Derek's trying as hard in his haste not to hurt Kavinsky as he fucks him with that first finger down to the first knuckle. He wants this to be good for both of them. Wants to overwhelm Kavinsky with good feelings.
"When was the last time you were fucked? Who were you with?"
Derek's voice is rough and demanding, like he's about to ask for every dirty detail. He's too fucked up to really connect to why he's asking, whether it's from some voyeuristic streak that wants to hear Kavinsky talk dirty or if it's just-- competitive jealousy. Hard to say.
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The obscene sound of Derek slicking his cock makes him want to drop to his damn knees. He doesn't get the chance: soon he's got slick fingers pushing inside him. Kavinsky arches his back, tries to adjust his position to make the access easier despite the way Derek is looming over him.
His head drops back and he's fighting to breathe evenly.
"Client," he gasps out. "Second payment for something I got for 'em. C'mon, gimme more." He grips the back of the couch. He's dying to feel full. He cracks a grin. "Might offer him a contract."
The dick game is pretty good.
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"Don't do that."
Distantly, in the back of his mind, Derek thinks of Tate's contract with Kavinsky - an addict being taken advantage of by his dealer, as far as he knows. Derek's too far gone to care that much right now, but the good parts of him that are still hidden under the primal, animalistic urge to fuck all need to say something.
"Leave the guy alone," Derek demands, like he has the authority. He works his finger in deeper and deeper, folding the second over the first and gently prying Kavinsky apart with both of them, and he brings his other hand to the back of Kavinsky's neck, holding on tight. "Sign with someone who knows how to handle you."
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"What--what makes you think--fuck." He arches his back and tries to get closer as Derek's hand moves just right. "Makes you think he can't?"
He wants to say more. His mouth hangs open and words are on the tip of his tongue. But first he leans up, pulling against the grip on the back of his neck so he can kiss Derek, all tongue and teeth and need.
"It was for a fucking car. Relax."
A Porsche, if anyone's wondering. Kavinsky is pretty sure Ransom can take care of his damn self. His addiction is good living, not coke.
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"I know you pretty well, Joey," Derek says, low and still bordering the line between obscenely horny and instinctively angry. "I know how hard you are to handle."
For a few more minutes he stays like this, fingering Kavinsky with longer, harder strokes, alternating between kissing Kavinsky while he grinds against his thigh and taking his lips elsewhere. He tugs on the back of Kavinsky's hair to make him bare his throat the way he did before, sucking and biting and leaving hickeys dark enough to really, really last. He gets carried away with a few of the marks he leaves, drawing the tiniest pinpricks of blood when he gets too eager, but there's a softness in how he laps his tongue over the pain, cleaning Kavinsky, making it better. Showing him kindness.
Eventually - he can't wait anymore. He pulls back and starts manhandling Kavinsky a little in his eagerness, standing over him and laying him down.
"Lay on your back."
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Joey. It shoots through him hard enough that for a second Kavinsky is yanked out of the daze. Adam calls him Joe, but no one else--
But Derek's doing it to be an asshole. He knows it. He wants to tell him to fuck off but the words die in his throat, strangled out by his desperate moaning. Kavinsky feels himself right on the fucking edge of coming, distracted only by Derek's mouth on his throat, biting and sucking up bruises that are going to last for fucking days.
Kavinsky makes a desperate grab for Derek's wrist to try to keep him from pulling out, but he misses. He lays back with a groan, trapped on the edge and fucking shaking with it.
He gets flat on his back, manhandled into the position as much as getting there on his own. He drops a hand to give himself a quick stroke, just trying to take the fucking edge off.
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