[This wasn't the first time that Kavinsky had kissed Ronan, but somehow it felt different. It felt like a promise, felt like Ronan was wrapped around his finger. But in truth, he probably has been since the first time they'd kissed, or maybe before, maybe ever since the racing and Kavinsky became the only outlet that could take him down on his worst nights.
He knows that K will be good to his word, that he'll ruin Ronan in the best sort of ways. But Ronan is a complicated creature, and sometimes the very things that he wants are the things that he regrets.
But in this moment, it's impossible to regret anything. Not with the way that Kavinsky grips his hips and sinks down to his knees, and Ronan groans just from the promise and the proximity, the filthy smirk on his mouth and Ronan cursed mutedly under his breath, his long eyelashes fluttering over his blue eyes as he watches the other boy. He feels helpless, almost whines at the way that his tongue feels on his cock, like a tease, but also pleasure that burns through him. It's like the rest of the world shuts off, gives him a sort of quiet that's better than the drinking and the hangovers.
He reaches out, fingers shaking, but he catches them against Kavinsky's shoulder, steadying himself, gasping rough and hot.
Ronan didn't know what they were, what this boy was to him when he was under his skin and in his veins. This wasn't friendship, not for him, he didn't really understand the way that K was friends with his boys. Like it was somehow platonically sexual, like the touches didn't change their world. Ronan knew this was going to break him, but with Kavinsky's tongue swirling slow around the head of his cock, all he could do was moan and watch. He was captured by the touch and the feeling, the wet heat of it, the pleasure that had his legs unsteady.
He was pretty sure someone could be banging on the other side of the door and Ronan wouldn't hear them for all the world. Because his world was this: Joseph Kavinsky on his knees and sinful as anything he'd ever seen; like if this was sin, Ronan didn't think he wanted to be pure.]
Oh, fuck... Kavinsky-- please.
[His hand on his shoulder sliding up to brush against his hair, touching more than anything aggressive, he just needed something, needed to feel. Before he'd have probably said something tough-sounding about how he didn't beg, certainly didn't beg for Kavinsky, didn't beg like he didn't know what he was begging for except for more. The words almost punched from his chest like he's forgotten how to breathe, like he needs what K is doing to him more than air.]
no subject
He knows that K will be good to his word, that he'll ruin Ronan in the best sort of ways. But Ronan is a complicated creature, and sometimes the very things that he wants are the things that he regrets.
But in this moment, it's impossible to regret anything. Not with the way that Kavinsky grips his hips and sinks down to his knees, and Ronan groans just from the promise and the proximity, the filthy smirk on his mouth and Ronan cursed mutedly under his breath, his long eyelashes fluttering over his blue eyes as he watches the other boy. He feels helpless, almost whines at the way that his tongue feels on his cock, like a tease, but also pleasure that burns through him. It's like the rest of the world shuts off, gives him a sort of quiet that's better than the drinking and the hangovers.
He reaches out, fingers shaking, but he catches them against Kavinsky's shoulder, steadying himself, gasping rough and hot.
Ronan didn't know what they were, what this boy was to him when he was under his skin and in his veins. This wasn't friendship, not for him, he didn't really understand the way that K was friends with his boys. Like it was somehow platonically sexual, like the touches didn't change their world. Ronan knew this was going to break him, but with Kavinsky's tongue swirling slow around the head of his cock, all he could do was moan and watch. He was captured by the touch and the feeling, the wet heat of it, the pleasure that had his legs unsteady.
He was pretty sure someone could be banging on the other side of the door and Ronan wouldn't hear them for all the world. Because his world was this: Joseph Kavinsky on his knees and sinful as anything he'd ever seen; like if this was sin, Ronan didn't think he wanted to be pure.]
Oh, fuck... Kavinsky-- please.
[His hand on his shoulder sliding up to brush against his hair, touching more than anything aggressive, he just needed something, needed to feel. Before he'd have probably said something tough-sounding about how he didn't beg, certainly didn't beg for Kavinsky, didn't beg like he didn't know what he was begging for except for more. The words almost punched from his chest like he's forgotten how to breathe, like he needs what K is doing to him more than air.]