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This was not a date. Kavinsky and Jack had agreed that they were not dating, and so this was not a date. It was this: Kavinsky worrying if he was coming on too strong with an outfit that was all tight jeans and loose shirt; Jack picking him up in his car; them laughing with the top down even though it was getting too cold for that; a club, and Kavinsky teasing Jack that he still needed to use a fake ID, and Jack teasing Kavinsky that one of his boys would need to use a fake ID for a whole extra year.

The club was noisy and dim and full of people. Kavinsky didn't think he'd really gone out in ages; he was normally working on weekends, when he would want to go out, and work and school occupied Newt, and Al, and Peter.

"Isn't it a school night?" he asked Jack, next to his ear so he didn't shout himself hoarse in the first ten minutes they were there. He gave Jack's arm a squeeze. "I'm gonna get a drink. What do you want?"

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To be bent in half like that helped to focus him further, intent on this moment, this feeling, Jack pressing into him. It was rougher than a moment before, more intentional, and Kavinsky licked his lips filthily. He wondered if he could egg Jack into really going all out, or if he should settle for what he was given.

Leaning down, Jack takes a kiss as he fucks him, one hand gripping his thigh to keep it up, keep his leg bent. The angle is so sweet Jack can't keep a clear thought in his head.

The kiss buffered the breath from Kavinsky's lungs. He did his best, try to kiss back, trying to kiss more, but the position was more advantageous to Jack kissing him than anything else. He could barely even rock his hips to meet Jack's movements, but Jack could move however he wanted.

"Fuck," he breathed effortlessly. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good."

"You don't feel so bad yourself," gasps Jack between heated, hurried kisses. He shifts his position slightly so that he can thrust into Kavinsky harder, getting lost in him. "You feel...fuck, K. You feel so fucking good."

Kavinsky shifted his hands to hold under his knees, pulling his legs back even closer to his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, a second, a long, steep breath. Jack felt amazing, deep and intent, and Kavinsky was trying to hold back the itch of tears.

"Fuck. Molya--oh, shit." Kavinsky bit his lip, trying to keep that tenuous grasp on his English, just a little longer. His cock dribbled against his stomach and he whined softly.

"C'mon," says Jack, wrapping his fingers around the bedframe so that he can fuck Kavinsky harder, to give him more leverage. "Tell me how much you love it. Let me hear you talk."

"Shit," Kavinsky gasped, laughing just a little. There were tears now, slow, sluggish ones rolling from the corner of his eyes down the arch of his cheeks toward his ears. He licked his lips and held on under his knees as Jack got harder, faster, a better angle. "You feel so fucking good, baby. Fuck--fuck, oh, just like--molya, da...da, O, chuka...!"

This is the first time Jack's seen Kavinsky cry while they're fucking, properly, and he's a little taken aback. He has to remind himself that Kavinsky warned him that this might happen. He bends his head and kisses damp skin.

"You're good," he mumbles. "You're so good."

Kavinsky breathed out, something rough and a little bit like a laugh. He turned his had, just a little, and tried to control the roil of feelings that had pressed tears out of him. He could do this without making it weird. He lifted his hands to Jack's neck and held him close as they kept moving together.

"God, I'm close," mumbles Jack, smudging kisses against any part of Kavinsky that he can reach. He squeezes his fingers, rocks into him, the rhythm hard and deep. "Are you..."

Kavinsky nodded. He didn't want to come yet, didn't want to come first. He wanted to feel Jack filling him up and get off on that filthy sensation; it wouldn't be hard at all to get off on that. "C'mon," he breathed. His accent had gone thick and urgent and needy. "C'mon, Jackie, lemme have it."

It's close enough to an order than Jack barely lasts a second longer. He buries his face in the crook of Kavinsky's neck and whimpers as he comes.

"Oh, fuck," Kavinsky groaned, the weight of Jack's body and the feel of him so deep, and that telltale twitch all combining to be a little overwhelming. He rutted up against Jack's belly as he rode out the pulse of Jack's orgasm, and it didn't take much at all for him to follow suit.

It makes a mess, Kavinsky's come sudden and slick between them but Jack doesn't even care. He thrusts into him until he's startingto go soft until he literally can't anymore and then he shifts, slipping to the side.

"Jesus."

Kavinsky let out a breath of a laugh and nodded a little. He lifted a hand and rubbed away the remain of his tears, then flopped his arm across Jack's chest lazily. "You're a mess, man."

"Yeah, I am," says Jack, lifting his head to look down at his come slicked chest and stomach. He tilts his head, raising his eyebrow.

"Why don't you clean me up."

Kavinsky breathed out a laugh. That was easy enough, predictable, secure. He leaned over and kissed the corner of Jack's mouth, and then started his way down toward the mess on his skin so he could put lips and tongue to good use.

Jack stretches under the slip of Kavinsky's tongue, his mouth, lifting his hips slightly. He might have just come but he's still aware of the hectic ache of arousal under his skin. He's not done yet.

Kavinsky worked, slowly, across Jack's chest and down his ribs, down to his cock. Regardless of what they'd just done, he put his mouth to task, cleaning him of come and lube, and generally putting his mouth to good use, though he was sure that Jack had to be sensitive after two orgasms fairly close together.

He is sensitive but not so sensitive that he wants Kavinsky to stop. He pushes his fingers into his dark hair, not guiding his mouth, just cradling the back of his head.

Kavinsky looked up with big eyes, shining with want, as he closed his mouth around Jack's cock entirely and started to slowly bob his head. He watched Jack, slurping and sucking at him ever so gently, his hand coming down to play with his balls a bit.

There's no way he's going to manage to get hard again this quickly, not without time to bounce back, but the sight of Kavinsky sucking at him like that, the roll of his palm against his balls, is enough to make Jack moan.

Kavinsky knew he wasn't going to get anything right now, but he enjoyed the practice of it. The weight and heat and fullness in his mouth and against his palm. Everything about Jack just swam around in his head, urgent and present.

Slowly, he pulled off. His mouth made a slick, filthy noise, and he licked his lips, then pressed a brief kiss against the arch of Jack's hip.

"Fuck, you're lovely," says Jack, lifting his head to look down at Kavinsky, lifting one hand to trace the shape of his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

Kavinsky turned his head a little and sucked at Jack's thumb, easily sinking the digit into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked, as he bobbed his head a little bit and pressed himself gently against Jack's side.