Between kisses, Kavinsky's telling him to slow down and in response Derek makes this quiet noise in the back of his throat - half a growl, half a whine, disappointed and reluctant either way. He fucks Kavinsky with the same blind strength he's been fucking him with since this started, greedy and needy and thinking entirely with his dick, but slowly, slowly, Derek cools down a little. Just enough for Kavinsky to catch his breath.
"Pussy."
More teasing than antagonistic. Derek's going to hate this, when he comes down, but for now he just-- needs to hear more noises from Kavinsky, needs to get more reactions from him. Derek has to physically battle his instincts to calm himself down - he's a fucking werewolf, he's losing control, it's a fucking miracle he hasn't sharpened his teeth and brought out his claws. Derek's fucking Kavinsky slower, like he asked, but it's still hard, these jagged slams of his hips that bottoms him out every time, pushing Kavinsky further into the couch.
"Scratch me," Derek mumbles, leaning into Kavinsky's touch. "Bite me. Pull my hair. Hurt me. Something."
That'll keep him human, if Kavinsky wants to slow this down.
"Fuck you," he snaps back, but there's no venom in it. Shit, he sounds like he's smiling. Derek slows down but every thrust feels like a punishment, deep and hard and unrelenting in all but pace.
A grin flashes across his face.
"You say the most romantic shit."
Kavinsky drags his fingers through Derek's hair and yanks his head back. Time to leave some bruises of his own. Not caring about the wisdom of his choices, Kavinsky leans close and bites Derek's neck, right where it meets his shoulder. Hurting a werewolf's probably gotta take more effort, right? Maybe? Whatever. Derek asks to be hurt and Kavinsky can do that, sharp and eager.
His blunt nails dig into Derek's back, drag down over his triskelion. Kavinsky has new tattoo since the last time Derek saw him undressed: the black silhouette of a pine forest growing from his elbow to his his shoulder, wrapped all the way around his upper arm.
Kavinsky drops his head back.
"Okay," he breathes. Permission. Whatever Derek wants or needs it to be.
Derek's reaction to Kavinsky's teeth an inch away from his throat is purely animal. He asked for the pain so he's not surprised when it come, but Kavinsky had to go for the part of him that makes him feel vulnerable, the part of him that makes him feel threatened, and once the pinch of Kavinsky's jaw lessens, he's snarling and snapping back, biting at Kavinsky's shoulder just as hard, the points of his teeth sharpened and serrated in a way they weren't a minute ago.
Kavinsky gives him permission and the sting of fingers in his hair and the tenderness of bruises that heal and mend seconds after Kavinsky leaves them there is enough to keep him on the edge of losing control without completely tipping over into something dangerous. Derek fucks Kavinsky with hard, rapid thrusts of his hips, biting at his neck and his shoulder and his jawline in quick, shallow, barely controlled scrapes of his teeth, and he breathes furiously hard with every rapid thrust, all laborious grunts and shameless panting.
He's getting bigger. The more he fucks Kavinsky at these inhuman, relentless speeds, the tighter Kavinsky feels. Derek's cock is swelling at the base, stretching and catching at Kavinsky's hole as more and more pre runs in a river down his shaft, keeping Kavinsky messy and wet and usable. He's scratching Kavinsky when he doesn't mean to now, grabbing at his hip or his shoulder or his arm and leaving shallow scratches from his claws, and when he opens his eyes, when he stares at Kavinsky and holds eye contact, they're a bright, glowing red.
Kavinsky yanks Derek's head, pulls his hair and shoves at his shoulder to get him to ease up on the biting, intensely aware that his teeth are different. Not that he thinks Derek is really listening anymore. He's going to have bruises just from the speed at which Derek is fucking him, certain of it, and even more certain that he'll have marks in the shape of his fingers on his hips and thighs. His cock aches and he's cussing every time he an muster enough breath to make words.
He swears Derek feels bigger and it's almost distracting, as distracting as the claws dragging over his skin and--
Nearly black eyes lock with red and the rush of adrenaline is like nothing else. He realizes, somewhere, that there's no pulling away now - he's stuck, whatever happens he's going to be trapped here with Derek looking at him like that.
Despite the shock, he can't even hold onto that for long. His eyes nearly close and his arm goes tight around Derek's neck. "Holy shit," he gasps out, voice ragged and raw. He's going to come. Derek's cock is hitting every place he needs it to, and without touching himself, he's going to fucking come.
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"Pussy."
More teasing than antagonistic. Derek's going to hate this, when he comes down, but for now he just-- needs to hear more noises from Kavinsky, needs to get more reactions from him. Derek has to physically battle his instincts to calm himself down - he's a fucking werewolf, he's losing control, it's a fucking miracle he hasn't sharpened his teeth and brought out his claws. Derek's fucking Kavinsky slower, like he asked, but it's still hard, these jagged slams of his hips that bottoms him out every time, pushing Kavinsky further into the couch.
"Scratch me," Derek mumbles, leaning into Kavinsky's touch. "Bite me. Pull my hair. Hurt me. Something."
That'll keep him human, if Kavinsky wants to slow this down.
no subject
A grin flashes across his face.
"You say the most romantic shit."
Kavinsky drags his fingers through Derek's hair and yanks his head back. Time to leave some bruises of his own. Not caring about the wisdom of his choices, Kavinsky leans close and bites Derek's neck, right where it meets his shoulder. Hurting a werewolf's probably gotta take more effort, right? Maybe? Whatever. Derek asks to be hurt and Kavinsky can do that, sharp and eager.
His blunt nails dig into Derek's back, drag down over his triskelion. Kavinsky has new tattoo since the last time Derek saw him undressed: the black silhouette of a pine forest growing from his elbow to his his shoulder, wrapped all the way around his upper arm.
Kavinsky drops his head back.
"Okay," he breathes. Permission. Whatever Derek wants or needs it to be.
no subject
Kavinsky gives him permission and the sting of fingers in his hair and the tenderness of bruises that heal and mend seconds after Kavinsky leaves them there is enough to keep him on the edge of losing control without completely tipping over into something dangerous. Derek fucks Kavinsky with hard, rapid thrusts of his hips, biting at his neck and his shoulder and his jawline in quick, shallow, barely controlled scrapes of his teeth, and he breathes furiously hard with every rapid thrust, all laborious grunts and shameless panting.
He's getting bigger. The more he fucks Kavinsky at these inhuman, relentless speeds, the tighter Kavinsky feels. Derek's cock is swelling at the base, stretching and catching at Kavinsky's hole as more and more pre runs in a river down his shaft, keeping Kavinsky messy and wet and usable. He's scratching Kavinsky when he doesn't mean to now, grabbing at his hip or his shoulder or his arm and leaving shallow scratches from his claws, and when he opens his eyes, when he stares at Kavinsky and holds eye contact, they're a bright, glowing red.
no subject
He swears Derek feels bigger and it's almost distracting, as distracting as the claws dragging over his skin and--
Nearly black eyes lock with red and the rush of adrenaline is like nothing else. He realizes, somewhere, that there's no pulling away now - he's stuck, whatever happens he's going to be trapped here with Derek looking at him like that.
Despite the shock, he can't even hold onto that for long. His eyes nearly close and his arm goes tight around Derek's neck. "Holy shit," he gasps out, voice ragged and raw. He's going to come. Derek's cock is hitting every place he needs it to, and without touching himself, he's going to fucking come.