rockabillyboy | (no subject)

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kavinsky

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Now that he's sure Jillie's going to be okay (Dee has been a freaking God-send), Jack feels like he's climbing out of his skin. He and Poison have basically been reduced to fucking in the shower or in the backseat of one of their cars and he finds himself in desperate need of a real work out. So he texts Kavinsky, asking for exactly what he needs, asking for something nasty and knowing that Kavinsky will understand.

A text with instructions arrives and Jack feels a little shiver of relief.

He lets himself into Kavinsky's apartment and, as instructed, strips off everything he's wearing at the door. He pads naked around the bedroom and then climbs up onto the big bed. He gets into the specified position, head down, ass up, and he starts to fuck himself slowly open with slick fingers. He's intensely, achingly aware that he didn't lock the door behind him.

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Kavinsky slapped across Jack's ass, let him rock and move however he was going to but mostly kept his hips still. Every time Jack slowed a little bit, Kavinsky slapped him again.

"If you wanna get fucked, you better do it, baby. Better fuckin' ride on back like the nasty whore you are. I bet you're like something else in you, huh? Get you real fuckin' stretched out for me coming in your whore ass."

Jack picks up the speed and tempo of his hips, grinding back onto Kavinsky's cock, his head dropped down between his shoulders. His cock throbs and aches. It's perfect.

"God, yes please. Yes, Sir."

"Fuck," Kavinsky breathed, a thread of laughter working out of his chest as he started to move his hips in time with Jack rocking back on him. He let Jack lower his head, gripping his shoulder tightly. He wanted, badly, to push the limits.

He put a hand on the back of Jack's neck, squeezed there, his fingers close to the pulse in his neck.

"How much you gonna let me do, boy?"

Jack doesn't quite feel in his head at that moment, he's so turned on and lost in the mechanical shift of his hips, how badly he wants more. He twists so that he can look at Kavinsky over his shoulder.

"How much do you want?"

Kavinsky didn't say anything; he shifted his hand from the back of Jack's neck to the front of his throat, cupping without pressure but with the potential for promise. His hips kept moving. He watched Jack's face. He knew this was a hard limit, but Jack had come to him to be hurt, to be pushed, to be forced around.

He'd stop, if Jack said no.

Kavinsky's hand slips around his throat and Jack shivers but he also finds that he's not panicking. He swallows and feels the press of Kavinsky's fingers.

"Just don't choke me out."

"Tap if it's too much," Kavinsky says, the last bit of soft he wants to give right now. Then, he squeezed just a moment over Jack's throat, sliding his hand down to the very base so that he was pressing his palm to Jack's collarbone. He kept fucking into him, rough, deep thrusts. He wasn't going to last long like this.

"Don't bruise me," says Jack, his voice a little tighter. There's a conversation that he doesn't want to have to have with Poison. "Jesus, fuck. Harder."

Kavinsky slapped Jack's ass, keeping his hand still on his throat. It was more stability than anything else, a promise, a discipline that was different than having a hand in his hair.

"I'll fuck you however I want," he hissed, and then slapped him again, as hard as he could when he was buried in him.

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