It's like that space between being awake and dreaming. Kavinsky nearly falls out of the shower as he backs up, catching himself as he breaks Adam's gaze.
He stands there, breathing and trying to remember why he's in the shower when he looks up and see Ronan. He laughs and his gaze absolutely lingers, invasive and appreciative.
"You get it all cleaned off, princess? Sheets look like you murdered a fuckin squid."
A dreaming mishap, maybe. Whatever it was, Kavinsky is grinning and he backs off to grab a towel.
"You ready to try again or you tapped out?"
They'd done so much dreaming together. The apartment had been filled with weird shit when Ronan was here.
Ronan doesn't seem surprised by Kavinsky's presence, despite the invasion, but his eyes do narrow in unvoiced admonishment as he reaches out to swipe the towel from Kavinsky's hands. He wraps it securely around his waist before Kavinsky can get any more of an eyeful than he's already stolen.
"It's fucking useless," he mutters, shoving past Kavinsky to stalk out of the bathroom. "I'm just gonna pass out for real."
In Kavinsky's room, apparently, since his own is squid-inked. Ronan throws himself onto the bed, though he keeps the towel wrapped around him, and rolls over to face the far wall.
There are plenty of nights they end up in the same bed, passed out together, strung out on booze or dreams. Kavinsky just grins and grabs a towel for himself before he prowls after Ronan. He itches to touch the tattoo on his back, to run his tongue and his teeth over the lines.
He eases onto the bed and stretches out next to Ronan as he rolls away. Kavinsky snorts a laugh.
"C'mon man. You're doing better."
As he speaks, his arm unfurls until he can trace his fingertips over the wild lines on Ronan's back. Rumor has it Ronan shelled out a lot of money for it. Kavinsky believes it. He also wonders, sometimes, if it was a dream.
The sculpted muscles of Ronan's back give a slight twitch at the brush of Kavinsky's fingertips. He doesn't jerk away, however, allowing their exploration to continue while his gaze remains hard and fixed on the wall.
Kavinsky moves closer and his hand slides up Ronan's back to grip his shoulder. He's still sort of damp from the shower and he leans closer to lick up a lingering drop of water. He breathes in the scent of his skin, little things he'd memorized long ago and now it's real.
Ronan sucks in a breath between his teeth and holds it. The rest of him goes still, like he's playing dead. Like Kavinsky might go away if he thinks Ronan's drifted to sleep, instead of being further encouraged by his unconsciousness.
Nothing happened if Ronan doesn't remember it, right?
It's a game, almost. Kavinsky knows Ronan's body will respond even if the rest of him is caught up in some cycle of denial. Is it a Catholic thing, or is it just that this is too forbidden? He's stopped interrogating it too much, especially when he's wanted Ronan for so long.
He can make him feel good; he knows that he does. Watching the tension melt out of Ronan Lynch is one of the most satisfying things he's ever done.
Kavinsky teases his teeth over the back of Ronan's neck as his hand slides lower, catching on the towel to pull it loose.
His hand drops to the towel like he's going to fight to keep it in place, only he doesn't. It's the gesture of effort, not the earnest execution of it. The cloth slips away, revealing bare skin, soft and still slightly damp.
"K..." he protests, feigning annoyance, though his voice is already husky with desire.
There it is. The protest that isn't a protest. The fight that isn't a fight. It's all shadows on the fucking wall, it's all done for show, Kavinsky's convinced of that now. Plausible deniability.
His mouth moves over Ronan's neck with more purpose. He gives up on the towel and his hand slides up to catch Ronan's shoulder. Kavinsky pushes himself up as he pushes his dream boy down, until he's flat on his back with Kavinsky leaning over him. His cock is hard presses against Ronan's hip, trapped behind the towel around his waist.
"You'll get it," he murmurs as he sinks down, mouth moving lazily over Ronan's skin. "But forget about it right now, princess."
His teeth graze, leaving faint marks as his hands drag down Ronan's sides, memorizing the shape of him. He grips his hips when he gets there, rests his weight between Ronan's thighs just to feel his covered cock against his chest.
As predicted, Ronan surrenders too easily to have ever truly wanted anything other than Kavinsky's mouth on his skin, body dragging against body. He falls back when directed, his lips parted as his heavy-lidded eyes sweep down Kavinsky's body, thirsty for him but too proud to ask for a taste.
There is no denying the sight laid out before Kavinsky. Ronan's desire is obscene, thick and throbbing and begging in all the ways his mouth isn't. Though he trembles and tries to resist the urge, his hips rock in search of friction.
"Fuck," he sighs against Ronan's skin as his hips move beneath him. Just that is enough to make him ache, never mind the sight of Ronan's full cock. He can already feel the weight of it on his tongue, intimately remembers how it feels to have him in his mouth. His dream boy.
It's a tightrope with this boy and Kavinsky knows his part in that. He can't let him go. One hand presses to Ronan's chest while the other slides down, fingers curling around the delicious thickness of him as he strokes down the length. There's lines drawn in shifting sands and there have been ever since Fort Harmony. Kavinsky isn't blind and he isn't an idiot - he knows the moment the contract is up, unless he does something about it, Ronan's out the door.
But he can give him what he's always promised him: a good time. Every time he rolled up next to the BMW at a stop light on some dark and wasted Henrietta night, every time he threw a punch, every time they dreamed, every time he touched him, that's what he offers. Something Ronan will never quite find anywhere else.
Kavinsky stares at Ronan's face while his hand moves, gauging his reaction and ready to move if a fist comes at his head.
Though Ronan throws a sharp look at Kavinsky with that touch, he answers it not with a punch but with a moan. The sound rolls out of him just as heat rushes to the base of his spine. With his mouth hanging open like that, he seems torn between begging for more or demanding that Kavinsky stop.
In the end, he has no words. His hips jerk forward, pushing and thrusting into Kavinsky's fist. This is the closest he'll get to asking Kavinsky to keep going, at least while he's still inhibited by his good sense.
The sound of Ronan's voice slithers down his back and through his brain and Kavinsky just grins at the look on his face. Like every other time, Ronan won't say no and he can't bring himself to say yes. That's fine.
Kavinsky holds Ronan's gaze like a snake charmer as he sinks down; he only breaks it to run his tongue over the head of his cock.
"You have a perfect dick, princess," he sighs as his lips drift down the length of him. He isn't in a hurry. Maybe he should be, but he likes dangerous games.
Ronan shuts his eyes and turns his face away, as though he can deny himself any pleasure by doing so, or at least deny Kavinsky the pleasure of seeing it written on his features. The compliment is met with silence, at first, until the journey of Kavinsky's mouth draws another stuttering moan out of him.
Refusing to acknowledge Kavinsky as anything more than a sensation working its way along his dick, Ronan's hands clutch at the bed sheets rather than reaching for him. His knuckles go white with the battle against his urges. He fights to keep still.
Kavinsky takes his time teasing his mouth over Ronan's cock, fucking savoring what he's getting away with. He strokes his hand down and his mouth follows, taking Ronan as far as he can before he has to make an effort. His cock is heavy on his tongue and against the back of his throat and, after another breath, Kavinsky takes him further.
Choking himself on Ronan Lynch's dick is easily one of his top five ways to leave this world.
His hands slide over Ronan's thighs and hips, up his sides and back down again as he tries swallowing around him. It makes his eyes water and it's fucking worth it. He doesn't pull back until he starts getting lightheaded; as good as dying on Ronan's cock might sound, he wants to stick around to enjoy this. Especially with the sounds his dream boy is making.
Especially now. The increased pressure and the heat of Kavinsky's mouth around him has Ronan gasping and groaning, a rising chorus of agony over the absolute ecstasy of it. He doesn't want to feel this way, doesn't want Kavinsky to make him feel this way, but he does. He does.
When Kavinsky begins to pull back, Ronan forgets himself, finally snatching at Kavinsky's hair. He forces Kavinsky's mouth back into him, but only for a moment, before he seems to remember that he isn't supposed to be doing this. He shoves Kavinsky away, instead, and his cock slips free to bob and smack wetly against his skin.
"That's enough," he hisses, though neither of them have come yet. Perhaps Kavinsky's spell on him has been broken.
Kavinsky groans when Ronan suddenly grabs his head and forces him down. The sudden violence makes his cock throb but it doesn't last long - not the way he wants it to. He pops off Ronan's cock with a slick, obscene sound as his head is shoved back.
A grin curves his mouth as he pants for breath, staring at Ronan like he spoke a challenge. "Is it?"
His hands are free and one wraps around Ronan's dick, taking over where his mouth left off. Kavinsky leans in, pressing his hand into Ronan's shoulder as he looms. His towel has come loose and it sags around his thighs, revealing his arousal. As if Ronan didn't know. He's always burning for this boy. Ronan's a match and Kavinsky is kerosene.
Ronan melts into the touch, his muscles temporarily losing their strength so that he seems to sink further into the mattress before rutting up again. He's flushed and feverish, and when his gaze drops to Kavinsky's unveiled cock, he can't make himself look away.
"Yes," he whispers, but it sounds more like giving permission than giving argument. With another thrust into Kavinsky's hand, his body pleads for the attention he's refusing.
Kavinsky moves, keeping his weight in the hand on Ronan's shoulder. He loosens his grip on his cock so he can slide his own against it; the friction makes him moan. He manages to get his hand around them both and rocks his hips lazily.
He tips his head down, lets his lips and teeth drag along the sharp line of Ronan's jaw.
A soft ah shivers out of Ronan as Kavinsky's cock slides up against his own, sending an electric shock of excitement through him. He throbs and pulses, pre-come slicking the tight space between them, making every repressed thrust of his hips that much more pleasurable in spite of his efforts.
Unthinking, he lays his head back and bares his throat to Kavinsky. His palms, pressed to the mattress, only serve to steady him as their bodies rock together. His thighs spread wider to make space for Kavinsky between them, then squeeze again, hugging his hips.
Kavinsky's voice answers Ronan's as their bodies move together. He presses a kiss to Ronan's throat and licks a path to the perfect spot on his neck; he bites down, sucks hard. He wants to leave his mark.
He lets go of Ronan's cock to grab his thigh, dragging their bodies together the next time he pushes his hips up. All he wants to do is sink into him, fill him up. That's one of the shifting lines and he knows it. Every thrust and grind gets easier as precome slicks their skin. He's tempted to grab the lube but he doesn't want to give up this feeling.
"Fuck you," Ronan answers in a resentful gasp as he bucks, increasingly losing control. They're hitting a rhythm that's indistinguishable from fucking, except that Kavinsky's not inside him. Yet.
But as their movements grow wilder and Ronan rocks upward with too much enthusiasm, Kavinsky's cock slips down, the very tip of it grazing Ronan's hole. Just the suggestion of that touch has Ronan moaning, though he instantly jerks back and away from it.
"You could," he says, a laugh filling his breathless voice. Kavinsky's hand stays tight on Ronan's thigh and he moans sharply when their bodies move just right and his cock slides low. "Oh fuck--"
Ronan jerks beneath him but his grip doesn't relent. "Scared you'll love it?" He's seen Ronan give in, he knows how fucking good he can make this boy feel. Kavinsky pushes himself up, manic with need and with inspiration. He pulls back and uses his hold on Ronan's thigh to start flipping him over. He's quick, a scrapper, taking advantage of any lag between Ronan's brain and his ability to react. Kavinsky grabs the back of Ronan's neck to push his head down as his cock drags between his cheeks.
Ronan could fight it, if he wanted to, but of course he doesn't. He only offers a moment's resistance before he lands on his stomach. Though every muscle in his back goes tense and his fingers hook like claws into the mattress, he remains pinned beneath Kavinsky, panting with the uptick of either anxiety or excitement.
It's no accident that his spine is curved the way it is, offering Kavinsky more access than he deserves. That drag of his cock makes Ronan tremble and spread himself wider by reflex.
The curve of his back is an invitation and Kavinsky is never one to pass up a door that's been left open. His hands drag down Ronan's back, over the black ink filling up his skin, and Kavinsky spits between them as he works his hips in hungry, urgent thrusts.
"Look at you," he breathes, dazed and full of want even as he chases that delicious friction. Kavinsky presses his palm against the small of Ronan's back and leans so he has a better view. Committing the reality to memory so he can play it back later, as many times as he wants, in dreams.
"You know what you fuckin do." His mouth is running and he can't stop it. He pushes his knees against Ronan's and leans over him, giving up his view so he can get close to Ronan's ear. "You see it and you drink it the fuck up, don't think I don't notice."
Ronan wants him. It's not a fucking secret but he treats it like the most unlikely theory ever concocted. But Kavinsky can see it; a sight hound that hunts desire. He wants to bury himself in his dream boy, he wants to hook his claws in Ronan and never let him go. They're the same, they belong together. Why won't he admit it?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(For Adam, post 4th of July)
It's like that space between being awake and dreaming. Kavinsky nearly falls out of the shower as he backs up, catching himself as he breaks Adam's gaze.
He stands there, breathing and trying to remember why he's in the shower when he looks up and see Ronan. He laughs and his gaze absolutely lingers, invasive and appreciative.
"You get it all cleaned off, princess? Sheets look like you murdered a fuckin squid."
A dreaming mishap, maybe. Whatever it was, Kavinsky is grinning and he backs off to grab a towel.
"You ready to try again or you tapped out?"
They'd done so much dreaming together. The apartment had been filled with weird shit when Ronan was here.
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"It's fucking useless," he mutters, shoving past Kavinsky to stalk out of the bathroom. "I'm just gonna pass out for real."
In Kavinsky's room, apparently, since his own is squid-inked. Ronan throws himself onto the bed, though he keeps the towel wrapped around him, and rolls over to face the far wall.
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He eases onto the bed and stretches out next to Ronan as he rolls away. Kavinsky snorts a laugh.
"C'mon man. You're doing better."
As he speaks, his arm unfurls until he can trace his fingertips over the wild lines on Ronan's back. Rumor has it Ronan shelled out a lot of money for it. Kavinsky believes it. He also wonders, sometimes, if it was a dream.
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"I don't wanna think about it anymore."
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Kavinsky moves closer and his hand slides up Ronan's back to grip his shoulder. He's still sort of damp from the shower and he leans closer to lick up a lingering drop of water. He breathes in the scent of his skin, little things he'd memorized long ago and now it's real.
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Nothing happened if Ronan doesn't remember it, right?
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He can make him feel good; he knows that he does. Watching the tension melt out of Ronan Lynch is one of the most satisfying things he's ever done.
Kavinsky teases his teeth over the back of Ronan's neck as his hand slides lower, catching on the towel to pull it loose.
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His hand drops to the towel like he's going to fight to keep it in place, only he doesn't. It's the gesture of effort, not the earnest execution of it. The cloth slips away, revealing bare skin, soft and still slightly damp.
"K..." he protests, feigning annoyance, though his voice is already husky with desire.
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His mouth moves over Ronan's neck with more purpose. He gives up on the towel and his hand slides up to catch Ronan's shoulder. Kavinsky pushes himself up as he pushes his dream boy down, until he's flat on his back with Kavinsky leaning over him. His cock is hard presses against Ronan's hip, trapped behind the towel around his waist.
"You'll get it," he murmurs as he sinks down, mouth moving lazily over Ronan's skin. "But forget about it right now, princess."
His teeth graze, leaving faint marks as his hands drag down Ronan's sides, memorizing the shape of him. He grips his hips when he gets there, rests his weight between Ronan's thighs just to feel his covered cock against his chest.
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There is no denying the sight laid out before Kavinsky. Ronan's desire is obscene, thick and throbbing and begging in all the ways his mouth isn't. Though he trembles and tries to resist the urge, his hips rock in search of friction.
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It's a tightrope with this boy and Kavinsky knows his part in that. He can't let him go. One hand presses to Ronan's chest while the other slides down, fingers curling around the delicious thickness of him as he strokes down the length. There's lines drawn in shifting sands and there have been ever since Fort Harmony. Kavinsky isn't blind and he isn't an idiot - he knows the moment the contract is up, unless he does something about it, Ronan's out the door.
But he can give him what he's always promised him: a good time. Every time he rolled up next to the BMW at a stop light on some dark and wasted Henrietta night, every time he threw a punch, every time they dreamed, every time he touched him, that's what he offers. Something Ronan will never quite find anywhere else.
Kavinsky stares at Ronan's face while his hand moves, gauging his reaction and ready to move if a fist comes at his head.
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In the end, he has no words. His hips jerk forward, pushing and thrusting into Kavinsky's fist. This is the closest he'll get to asking Kavinsky to keep going, at least while he's still inhibited by his good sense.
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Kavinsky holds Ronan's gaze like a snake charmer as he sinks down; he only breaks it to run his tongue over the head of his cock.
"You have a perfect dick, princess," he sighs as his lips drift down the length of him. He isn't in a hurry. Maybe he should be, but he likes dangerous games.
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Refusing to acknowledge Kavinsky as anything more than a sensation working its way along his dick, Ronan's hands clutch at the bed sheets rather than reaching for him. His knuckles go white with the battle against his urges. He fights to keep still.
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Choking himself on Ronan Lynch's dick is easily one of his top five ways to leave this world.
His hands slide over Ronan's thighs and hips, up his sides and back down again as he tries swallowing around him. It makes his eyes water and it's fucking worth it. He doesn't pull back until he starts getting lightheaded; as good as dying on Ronan's cock might sound, he wants to stick around to enjoy this. Especially with the sounds his dream boy is making.
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When Kavinsky begins to pull back, Ronan forgets himself, finally snatching at Kavinsky's hair. He forces Kavinsky's mouth back into him, but only for a moment, before he seems to remember that he isn't supposed to be doing this. He shoves Kavinsky away, instead, and his cock slips free to bob and smack wetly against his skin.
"That's enough," he hisses, though neither of them have come yet. Perhaps Kavinsky's spell on him has been broken.
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A grin curves his mouth as he pants for breath, staring at Ronan like he spoke a challenge. "Is it?"
His hands are free and one wraps around Ronan's dick, taking over where his mouth left off. Kavinsky leans in, pressing his hand into Ronan's shoulder as he looms. His towel has come loose and it sags around his thighs, revealing his arousal. As if Ronan didn't know. He's always burning for this boy. Ronan's a match and Kavinsky is kerosene.
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"Yes," he whispers, but it sounds more like giving permission than giving argument. With another thrust into Kavinsky's hand, his body pleads for the attention he's refusing.
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Kavinsky moves, keeping his weight in the hand on Ronan's shoulder. He loosens his grip on his cock so he can slide his own against it; the friction makes him moan. He manages to get his hand around them both and rocks his hips lazily.
He tips his head down, lets his lips and teeth drag along the sharp line of Ronan's jaw.
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Unthinking, he lays his head back and bares his throat to Kavinsky. His palms, pressed to the mattress, only serve to steady him as their bodies rock together. His thighs spread wider to make space for Kavinsky between them, then squeeze again, hugging his hips.
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He lets go of Ronan's cock to grab his thigh, dragging their bodies together the next time he pushes his hips up. All he wants to do is sink into him, fill him up. That's one of the shifting lines and he knows it. Every thrust and grind gets easier as precome slicks their skin. He's tempted to grab the lube but he doesn't want to give up this feeling.
"You feel so fucking good."
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But as their movements grow wilder and Ronan rocks upward with too much enthusiasm, Kavinsky's cock slips down, the very tip of it grazing Ronan's hole. Just the suggestion of that touch has Ronan moaning, though he instantly jerks back and away from it.
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Ronan jerks beneath him but his grip doesn't relent. "Scared you'll love it?" He's seen Ronan give in, he knows how fucking good he can make this boy feel. Kavinsky pushes himself up, manic with need and with inspiration. He pulls back and uses his hold on Ronan's thigh to start flipping him over. He's quick, a scrapper, taking advantage of any lag between Ronan's brain and his ability to react. Kavinsky grabs the back of Ronan's neck to push his head down as his cock drags between his cheeks.
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It's no accident that his spine is curved the way it is, offering Kavinsky more access than he deserves. That drag of his cock makes Ronan tremble and spread himself wider by reflex.
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"Look at you," he breathes, dazed and full of want even as he chases that delicious friction. Kavinsky presses his palm against the small of Ronan's back and leans so he has a better view. Committing the reality to memory so he can play it back later, as many times as he wants, in dreams.
"You know what you fuckin do." His mouth is running and he can't stop it. He pushes his knees against Ronan's and leans over him, giving up his view so he can get close to Ronan's ear. "You see it and you drink it the fuck up, don't think I don't notice."
Ronan wants him. It's not a fucking secret but he treats it like the most unlikely theory ever concocted. But Kavinsky can see it; a sight hound that hunts desire. He wants to bury himself in his dream boy, he wants to hook his claws in Ronan and never let him go. They're the same, they belong together. Why won't he admit it?
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