[He knew there were reasons that he has pushed Kavinsky away, but with the high of it, the warmth of his body against his and how their skin fit together, it was impossible to remember what any of those reasons were. He was here, here, here. His fingertips tracing over the hooks of his tattoo, and their mouths almost melt together.
The kiss is a little sweet, but not gentle. It's lust and desire, tongue pressed to tongue, hips pressing to hips, seeking friction, pressure-- more. Ronan's only in a pair of thin cotton pajama pants, so there's not much between then when K reaches between their bodies, doesn't take much to shove fabric out of the way. And then his fingers are wrapped around his cock and the moan that tears itself from his chest is wounded with pleasure, shameless need.
It's good, so good that he can't help but lean into it, baring his throat as he tips his head back. Kavinsky's mouth kisses against his throat, the way his tongue glides against skin all wet and hot and real. It's not enough, but he doesn't really know what to ask for. His fingers dragging against skin, a slight scrape of flat nails as he comes unraveled, can't help himself.]
God, please-
[He doesn't even really know what he's asking for, doesn't know what he needs, but he's sure somehow that Kavinsky does. That he's somehow better in reality, better like this where his fingers press to skin and make Ronan writhe, jerking helplessly up into the grip of his hand.]
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The kiss is a little sweet, but not gentle. It's lust and desire, tongue pressed to tongue, hips pressing to hips, seeking friction, pressure-- more. Ronan's only in a pair of thin cotton pajama pants, so there's not much between then when K reaches between their bodies, doesn't take much to shove fabric out of the way. And then his fingers are wrapped around his cock and the moan that tears itself from his chest is wounded with pleasure, shameless need.
It's good, so good that he can't help but lean into it, baring his throat as he tips his head back. Kavinsky's mouth kisses against his throat, the way his tongue glides against skin all wet and hot and real. It's not enough, but he doesn't really know what to ask for. His fingers dragging against skin, a slight scrape of flat nails as he comes unraveled, can't help himself.]
God, please-
[He doesn't even really know what he's asking for, doesn't know what he needs, but he's sure somehow that Kavinsky does. That he's somehow better in reality, better like this where his fingers press to skin and make Ronan writhe, jerking helplessly up into the grip of his hand.]