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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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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.

They've both just come so there's no real urgency, but there's a low, rolling heat in his belly at the wet heat of Kavinsky's mouth, his face as he sucks.

Kavinsky let Jack's finger fall from his mouth and instead kissed his palm, his wrist, and made a slow way up his arm. It was lazy and warm and probably overly familiar. His heart hurt from how much he enjoyed being here, quiet and slow and gentle. He tucked his face against Jack's collarbone when he reached it and took a second to compose himself.

Jack just curls up against him for a moment, revelling in the warmth, the press of Kavinsky's bare skin against his.

If Kavinsky let himself, he thought he could sleep. He didn't think he'd dream, not right now, but he could rest his eyes and enjoy this moment, enjoy this warmth, this boy curled next to him like any of this was more than just fun. Kavinsky trailed his fingers lightly against Jack's belly. He'd never been allowed to linger with anyone but Newt and Al. He'd never wanted to. But, God, he wanted to linger. There didn't have to be anything else tonight, if he got this.

Jack lets himself drift a little. He'd cleared being out for the whole night with Poison - there's no reason why he can't sleep a little. He makes a soft sound, curled up around Kavinsky, keeping him drawn close.

Kavinsky drifted a little as well, though it seemed a lighter dozing than Jack's. He spent a lot of time looking at Jack, his face gently slack with relaxation, trying to figure things out.

He wakes with a start, no idea how long he's been sleeping, finds Kavinsky already looking at him. He gives him a hazy little sleep-mussed smile.

"What?"

"Nothin'," Kavinsky murmured, pillowing his head a little on Jack's shoulder now that he was awake. He laid still, hand curled against Jack's chest gently, quiet for a moment. "Just couldn't sleep."

"Well," says Jack, gently stroking the back of Kavinsky's hand, following the lines of his fingers. "I'm awake now."

The touch was so sweet, so coaxing, and Kavinsky shut his eyes for a moment. He pressed his mouth to Jack's warm skin, worked up from his collarbone to his neck, to his jaw. He pressed his body against him. "What're you up for?"

"Anything you want," says Jack, and he means it. He ducks his head, presses a brief, warm kiss against Kavinsky's forehead. "Your fantasy, my command."

Kavinsky laughed softly. He tilted his head up and kissed Jack, soft and slow, just lazily enjoying that for a second. Jack didn't mean that, not entirely, and Kavinsky knew that. He'd agreed to this with the knowledge that it was just sex, and some fantasies Kavinsky had weren't like that anymore.

He slid onto Jack's lap, stretching out on top of him, and kissed him a little deeper.

It's a good kiss, warm and wet and tender, and Jack makes a soft noise, curling his arms around Kavinsky's waist to hold him close, their bodies pressed together.

It was just that for a moment, slow and lazy and deep. He lifted his hands and tangled them in Jack's hair, holding onto him, just kissing. It sang in his chest. He wanted this, this, this. It was a thing he could not have, should not want. But he did. He contented himself with the kiss, with Jack's arms around him.

Its easy to forget what they are to each other, in that moment. Jack never forgets Poison - he's there, a constant pulse, a warmth - but he gets lost in being with Kavinsky, in kissing like they're kissing, in the slip-slide of muscles under the palms of his hands.

Slowly, with growing heat, Kavinsky started to grind. The languid kisses turned a little more filthy, a little more desperate. He flexed his fingers in Jack's hair, let out the smallest, tiniest noise from his throat. "Sit up a bit. Sit up against the headboard? God, Jack..."

It's all a little bit frantic. He squirms to comply with the request, propping himself up against the headboard with Kavinsky still in his lap before he leans forward to take another kiss.