mitsubishievo | Bulletproof in black like a funeral [Apr 15; for Newt]

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Bulletproof in black like a funeral [Apr 15; for Newt]

It was dark, the sort of dark that happened only when the moon wasn't out but it was close enough to sunrise that the world wasn't sure if it wanted to wake up or not. Kavinsky had been sitting in the Ferrari for minutes, telling himself to get up and go inside the house. It had been years since he'd felt like this--this worked over, this bone tired, this twisted apart without being broken.

Maybe he'd sleep like a normal person, rather than the erratic sleeping he'd been doing since he'd gotten back. Wouldn't that be a fucking miracle.

"Open the car door," he mumbled to himself. He put his head on the steering wheel. "Open the car door. Put your feet on the fucking car port. Get out. Go inside. Take a fucking shower."

He ran his fingers back through his hair. There was a goose egg on the back of his head. He hoped he didn't have a concussion. At least nobody had broken his nose, he thought; at least he hadn't spent half his time avoiding five-something girls trying to kick him in the balls. He wasn't sure if everything he had done was so much better. Except that it felt better. The bone and muscle ache, the lingering, awful bruises, the exhaustion. It was all glorious. He was going to need to figure out how to cover his bruises for work tomorrow, or just not go and dance this weekend.

He opened the car door. Got out of the car. Limped to the front door and let himself in. Headed straight back to the bedroom--Al's form under the sheets, still except for breathing, a warm balm to see; and light on in the bathroom. He let himself into the bathroom without knocking.

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It's late but Al's a deep sleeper and, with Kavinsky not home, Newt hadn't been ready for sleep himself. He's been in the tub for a little while already, novel that he's reading held well above the water, damp hair slicked back from his face as he reaches. There's a beer within reach of his hand, barely started. When Kavinsky walks into the room, Newt looks up, lets his book close, keeping his place with his thumb.

"How bad is it?"

Kavinsky stripped off his shirt, slow and stiff. His chest was a mottling of bruises, already turning red and blue. The pants came next, his shorts, even as he stiffly toed off his shoes. It was a whole task to climb into the tub with Newt. He had butterfly bandages holding a split on his eyebrow, stitches on his cheek, a split lip.

It was bad.

"It could be worse." That was the truth.

"Oh shucking hell," says Newt, discarding his book entirely and leaning forward so that he can offer Kavinsky his hands to lean on as he climbed Into the tub. "Was this entirely necessary?"

"Yes," Kavinsky said. He settled against Newt, tucked against him like the night he'd come home from the facility and they'd finally climbed into the tub. Newt's body was a reassuring, comfortable familiarity, something tender and sweet and concerned. He knew that Newt would never really understand this violence under his skin that needed to be let out, how much healthier he felt having tried his best to express that violence and had people express theirs, and knowing that the worst that could happen to him was Ronan Lynch, like always.

"I'm fine. It looks worse than it is. Nothing broken."

Once Kavinsky is settled, Newt wraps both arms around him, drawing him in close, holding on to him tight. He rests his chin against the top of Kavinsky's head, fingers idly playing with his hair at the nape of his neck.

"Small bloody blessings," he says, fondly. Newt has had to fight for his life longer and harder than he likes to admit and he doesn't get this impulse of Kavinsky's but he also knows that, somehow, it's necessary, if they're going to avoid anything like January happening again. "How many times did you fight?"

"Half dozen?" They had been rougher, more violent, than they should have been. Especially with Alec and Kaz and Ronan. He was impressed with himself for getting out of the fight with Ronan with anything resembling consciousness, let alone without breaking something. He probably did have some hairlines, some cracks. He'd figure it out, deal with it. Not now.

He turned and, careful of the little stitches and the plasters, he pressed a slow, soft kiss to the side of Newt's mouth.

He keeps the kiss slow, gentle, not wanting to make any of the little injuries worse. Hie combs his fingers through Kavinsky's damp hair. "How much are you hurting right now? On a scale of one to ten?"

"Is one like 'wow I could run a marathon' or like 'pain has never existed in my life', and ten like 'something is broken and I am bleeding on the floor and-or sidewalk' or like 'I am actively dying'?" Kavinsky didn't give Newt a chance to answer the question; it was rhetorical for the most part, anyway.

"Like, the bruising and stitches themselves are a seven, but overall it's like a five? I have felt way worse."

Frankly, he felt like he had when he'd walked home the morning after New Years, he felt like he had when he'd walked home after he'd gotten out of the facility. Damaged goods. But tonight, he had controlled all of that. Tonight, he had owned it. He had felt worse before, and could feel worse yet, if allowed. But he wouldn't ask that.

He comes his fingers through Kavinsky's hair gently, knowing that that kind of touch is comforting, that Kavinsky likes it.

"What do you need?" he asks, his lips grazing Kavinsky's temple.

Kavinsky leaned into the touch, adoring it. It felt like ages since they'd gone hard. He was fine with that, he'd found, as it had just naturally happened. There was still always that potential; he just didn't need it, it didn't make up the entire definition of how he looked at his use, sexually.

"Just this," he murmured. He smudged his kisses down Newt's neck. "You smell good."

"Do I?" asks Newt, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. He smooths his free hand down Kavinsky's bare chest and back up, just feeling the shape of him, his muscles under his skin. "How good?"

"On a scale of one to ten, where one is...really awful things, and ten is, like, coffee on a Saturday morning before going for a long drive in the country?"

Kavinsky buried his nose against Newt's neck and breathed him deep. He didn't think of Ronan, vicious and violent and the only thing that could really undo him, hitting him with words; you just take what you want, don't you? Dream things, drugs, people. But Ronan didn't know, he was just beating a dead horse, and he didn't belong under Kavinsky's skin.

Kavinsky kissed Newt's neck gently. "Like, a fifteen, sugar."

"You say the sweetest things, love," he says, and he has this flashback to the boy he'd met, the boy from months ago, how he'd been all sharp edges and danger and hurt. How far they've come. How different everything is. He tilts his head against the edge of the tub, giving Kavinsky room to kiss him.

"I'm trying," Kavinsky whispered, a tattoo of adoration against Newt's throat, like he could hear the thought in Newt's head. He knew the boy he was, the shattered, wounded creature. Someone good as Newt, good as Al, had no business spending time with him.

He shifted carefully in the water, draping himself against Newt's body and touching him so slowly. It was strictly adoring touching, strictly mapping and careful and awed. He would never stop being amazed by these boys that saw something worth caring about in him.

Newt luxuriates in the touches, the gentleness, the love. He ducks his head, taking a soft, gentle kiss, his fingers skimming up Kavinsky's chest to trace along his collarbones. He's only human, so his body starts to react to the skin pressed close against his.

"You're so shucking beautiful."

"Even all busted up?" Kavinsky didn't just mean the bruises. He meant the broken, rattling pieces of him that needed to do this--that needed the violence, that needed the attention of dancing, that couldn't ever be fixed with fast cars and beautiful boys in a huge bed in a lovely house with a garden. He was always going to be busted up.

But Newt still loved him, stilled wanted him. Kavinsky slipped his hand down Newt's chest slowly, rubbed his thigh for now. He wanted, so bad. He needed so many things that he only vaguely knew how to ask for. But things were so good, and he wanted so badly to just be alright.

"Even all busted up. Always."

He wraps both arms around Kavinsky, squeezing tight, so, so intensely aware of Kavinsky's hand on his thigh. "I want you so badly. All the shucking time."

The squeeze ached--his ribs, all the bruises, his legs and hips, even his throat and face even though Newt wasn't touching those. He breathed it in, the raw reality of it. Like maybe Newt could hold him together. Like maybe Newt was one of the only things that was holding him together.

He kissed him, slow and deep and needing, so badly. He sank every ounce of need into that kiss, still not quite touching Newt like they both wanted. It was a filthy kiss, and it ached as much as Newt's arms around him did. He was working toward arousal as well, steady now. He breathed in the smell of Newt's skin, the water on him and around them, and he would do anything for that boy.

He feels the shift, the urgency in the kiss that wasn't there before, the press of Kavinsky's tongue against his. When the kiss breaks, he looks Kavinsky in the face, in the eye, want written plain across his face.

"Baby," he says, softly. "Love. What do you need?"

Kavinsky was too aware, then, of the bruises, the cuts, the stitches and plasters. He was too aware, then, that even though he felt like he'd been run into the ground, he was still laced with adrenaline feeding the trust he had for Newt.

He bit his lip, a small gesture, for a moment. His voice was aching when he said, "I want you to take me apart. I don't want to be in my head. I..."

They'd never really talked about it. It had always just been, just a thing that they did since they found each other back in November. But saying the words seemed like putting such a fine point on it.

"...I want you to hurt me."

Want and need are so often he same thing where Kavinsky is concerned, so Newt doesn't dismiss that request out of hand. He shifts, studying Kavinsky's face for a moment. He's worried that he doesn't know how, that he only knows how to fight for his life, that there is such dangerous darkness in him.

"How?" He asks, voice low, careful. He presses his hand against Kavinsky's chest. More than anything, he wants to give him what he needs. "I don't know...how. You've imagined it?"

Kavinsky breathed, low and slow, as Newt touched his chest. It wasn't no, but Newt was laced with hesitation and worry, and Kavinsky wanted to laugh away his wants, his quiet request, more than he wanted to go into the other room and get his collar. More than he wanted to lift Newt's long-fingered, worked in hands and kiss every knuckle before he wrapped them around his throat.

"We've done bits and pieces of it," he said. "The possessive stuff. Not letting me come until you're done with me. Just...I just want to be..."

A thing. He was always a thing, but this was different. He wanted to be Newt's thing, right now. A good thing. A gorgeous, wonderful thing. Something that created and cared and was capable. Something that was enough.

"Don't need any slapping or anything," he murmured, and smiled. "But. But choking...?"

"Choking?" asks Newt, and it still isn't a no. His fingers ghost up Kavinsky's chest, curling around his throat but not squeezing, not yet. He feels the way that his palm fits against him

"You just want to be what, Joe?" He lets it leak into his voice, that flat note of command that he knows Kavinsky likes. This, after all, is all about the boy pressed up against him.

The affection, sitting under that command, lived under his skin. It was working to undo so many disasters that lived under his skin, to patch so many thin spots where the monster he was reached through. Kavinsky swallowed, breathed, let his throat flex a little under Newt's palm.

"I want to be yours."

It was a fundamental truth between them now. No matter what else existed, what else they did, any of them, he wanted to belong here. He worked so hard to be enough. Just enough. To be theirs.

Kavinsky tilted his head back, eyes half closed, utterly giving himself over to Newt, to everything he could do to him.

"You're already mine," says Newt, his touch still light, his thumb stroking against the throbbing pulse in Kavinsky's throat. Feeling him breath, swallow, it's fascinating. It's dangerous. "You've always been mine, since that first shucking night. Just took you a while to realise it."

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