Kavinsky hummed a little, nodding, in ascension to both orders. He rocked in the cradle of Newt's hands, enjoying the feel of their strength, their surety, their realness. This was real. Newt was real. It was a good reminder. So much of Darrow, even when it had been horrid to him, to them, still felt too good, and he worried he was still asleep on that defunct POS Camaro in the outgrown backlot where he like to dream his cars. But when they were like this, when Newt was demanding and he held him like this, it was real.

He settled into pace quickly, naturally. Their bodies worked together with a filthy noise, a constant, wet skin slapping. Kavinsky cupped his hands behind his head and whined softly as he moved.