databanking | TEXTS FROM LAST NIGHT

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TEXTS FROM LAST NIGHT

Have a little too much to drink last night and send that embarrassing text to your ex?

Did you party a little too hard and send pictures of the wild night... to all of your contacts?

Was 3am when you dusted off the number of that old flame and confessed how much you wanted them back?

Or simply catching up on the adventures that drunk you got into?

Just because heaven is a place on earth at San Junipero doesn't mean it's without any consequence. Be careful checking your phone in the morning, it might have some weird texts from last night.

MAY BE NSFW

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[ It's hard for Ronan to think about much of anything currently, while every single one of his thoughts seems to be Kavinsky, none of them are of the boy in the past. He can only think of the present. How much he both wants to push Kavinsky's foot away from his lap -- because as lonely as he may have been, he wouldn't sink to this level. -- and pull the boy in closer -- he's not without a sex drive, and Kavinsky's easily riled it up.

The room is silent enough that Ronan's ragged breathing sounds like it echoes through Kavinsky's house, a whine contained to the back of his throat. ]

Didn't think about turning over a new leaf? [ Ronan's words should sound sarcastic and biting, but there's a hint of desperation there, want where there should be anger.

His mouth opens to say more, but Kavinsky moves into his lap and the words are lost. He's close. (God, he's so fucking close.). He knows he is only moments from coming undone underneath Kavinsky. And while Ronan's fingers are itching to feel skin -- it'd been days without the warm expanses of Adam's were beneath his hands and Kavinsky's touch burns in a new and enticing way. -- he knows better. ]

Get off of me, K.

[ And maybe Ronan's hand slides just a little too slowly up Kavinsky's arm in its trail to the boy's shoulder -- and even when it reaches there he doesn't right away push the other off. ]

[The thing of it is, Ronan's had more than ample time to push his foot away, to get up, to make it all stop, but he hasn't and Kavinsky is almost positive he won't. (The same kind of positive where Kavinsky thought Ronan would end up with him, once upon a time)

Not only is Ronan not moving him away, but he's also letting Kavinsky rile him up and the way Ronan's starting to let out ragged breaths is all the inspiration Kavinsky needs to continue.]

A new leaf? And do what? Sit around this place and fucking crochet sweaters? What the fuck is a new leaf?

[He certainly has no idea. He's been this way for far too long now. He's been without for even longer, and Ronan feels so warm under him. He feels exactly like Kavinsky has always imagined he would and he wonders if that's programing as well, tapping into some sort of fantasy place in his head.

At those words, Kavinsky eyes go darker and he palms at Ronan a little harder, the hairs on his arm standing up as those long fingers travel up his arm, the fire inside of him growing stronger.]

Why? What's here, Ronan? Nothing. No one. Just us.

[ What are they even talking about now? Crocheting sweaters? Kavinsky's voice fades in and out, drowned out by the sound of his frantic heartbeat. Sweat beads just underneath the collar of his shirt, and with how hot he's currently feeling he wouldn't be surprised if the warmth was radiating off of him.

Ronan's opposite hand is clenched so tightly, the tips of his fingers have begun to feel numb and the muscles in each of the digits ache from just how much tension he's putting on them.

It's about as much as he can feel building between them. Thick and heavy, clouding Ronan's thoughts and making his brain feel hazy. His hip tilt forward and he mutters a string of words that's something between 'fuck', 'Jesus Christ' and 'Oh my God' when Kavinsky stumbles upon what appears to be the perfect amount of pressure and Ronan can feel himself practically throbbing at the sudden surge of pleasure that goes coursing through him.

And momentarily overwhelmed by the heavy feeling that follows.]

It's not just us. There's never been a just us. There's never going to be.

[ His fingers curl into Kavinsky's shoulder, feeling electricity against his palm where ever skin meets skin. ]

[ This is the Ronan he's always wanted to see. It's the Ronan in his head on sleepless nights. Sweat on his forehead, his lips parted, eyes on him, but unfocused because he just loves what Kavinsky is doing to him. He knows Ronan.

Even after all this time, he knows him inside and out and he thinks maybe this time it will be different. Maybe he can unravel Ronan and put him back the way he wants him to be. Open and ready and wanting to be with him.

He can feel the heaviness there too, almost overwhelmingly so, but he doesn't stop. He'd never stop, because he's wanted this too. Every word that Ronan utters sends a shock of heat through him, until those very last words and then he just feels that rage again, trying to bubble up under all the arousal. ]

You're wrong.

[He says with every bit of conviction he has, then spits in his hand and slides it into Ronan's sweats, fingers circling his cock. He shifts in closer against Ronan's body, rocking his hips as he start stroking him, his other hand tightening around his neck. ]

You're here with me now and nothing is ever going to change that.

[ Ronan's not sure which he feels more of -- shame, arousal or some twisted mixture of both that has his entire body practically trembling and his voice shaky and ragged as he speaks. Dry and cracked as though he'd swallowed down sandpaper. ]

Fuck. Kavinsky.

[ He doesn't even realize the name leaves his lips, nor does he realize that it takes the form of a low groan. ]

You're always looking too deep into things. I'm here because I got bored.

[ And Ronan quickly discovers just how difficult it is to make that statement convincing when there's suddenly the feeling of Kavinsky's hand wrapping around his cock, his lithe frame pressing firm against his own, trapping him on the couch and his touch igniting Ronan's skin.

Five years ago he would have wanted this.
Five years ago he would have attached his mouth to Kavinsky's and bucked his hips into the boy's hand until he came.
But five years ago was exactly that: five years ago. ]

I'm only here right now, this isn't something permanent.

[ Ronan says his name and Kavinsky wants to choke him to death, even if it would only last till the next reset. It would be worth it. It would stop all these damn lies from coming out of his mouth. He feels that same kind of regret again, for even letting in a sliver of hope, but he can't stop, all the same.

His eyebrows furrow as he watches Ronan, thumb sliding over the precum at the tip of Ronan's cock and he keeps stroking.]

You're here because you want to be. Because no matter what that mouth of yours says, you couldn't stay away.

[ And now, with Ronan's dick in his hand, Kavinsky has all the control. He can twist his wrist, squeeze in all the right spots and make Ronan moan. Five years ago or not, Ronan's writhing under him and Kavinsky's the one making him do it. No one else. Five years ago or today, Ronan still wants it.

Maybe this time he'll get this piece of shit out of his system, too.]

Well at least you're fucking consistent, Sweetheart. Maybe that's why you're down in dirt, no matter how hard you tried to pray it all away. It's okay, baby. You sound better when you moan.

[ He knows he could stop this. Kavinsky weighs about as much as the next cokehead -- which probably isn't much more than 100 pounds soaking wet. -- and Ronan has easily a good half of a foot of height on him, but he's frozen there on the spot, allowing his brain to be torn between feeling an overwhelming rush of pleasure and years of tension finally being released, and the guilt that he feels because there's no emotion there.

What he's feeling for Kavinsky right now isn't what he feels for Adam. It's never been what he's felt for Adam. His feelings for Adam had always been consuming, but not in the dark way that his ones for Kavinsky had been. His feelings for Adam came from a pure and untouched place while these ones for Kavinsky were born out of spite, disgust, and anger.

A Catholic even in a place where it seems not to matter, punishing himself for the sins he feels he's committed.

Low moans sound as though they're being ripped from out of Ronan. Strangled -- both by himself trying to contain them and Kavinsky's thin fingers hold on his throat -- as they leave him and he tears his gaze away from Kavinsky's as the boy strokes him. Slow at first, twisting his wrist lazily and going about the task with about as much enthusiasm as the boy gave anything, then eventually with more fervor. Thumbing away precum and toying with the steadily leaking slit, Ronan's hips betraying him and bucking upward anxiously. ]

Being the only fucking person here makes you the last choice as well as the first.

[ His words hold hardly any conviction, his head tilted back and his eyes screwed shut. The hand he has holding on to Kavinsky's shoulder, moves up along his neck, fingers sliding over his Adam's apple and then seeking out the pulse point a little higher. ]

Get off me. I don't wanna...

[ Ronan could stop this, but he doesn't and that's really all Kavinsky needs. It's his answer and encouragement. It's the truth, because if Ronan really didn't want this, he would have been shoved off and deserted by now. Ronan can act like this isn't what he wants, just like he did back home, but Kavinsky always saw past that. He was the only one.

So he's going to give Ronan exactly what he wants and he hopes the guilt rips him apart. He doesn't know about Adam but if he did, he'd rip him apart, too.

Kavinsky lets out a low groan that matches Ronan's, their bodies hot against each other as he keeps moving, feeling out every little flick of the wrist that Ronan responds to. He's always been a fast learner, especially when it came to Ronan. None of that has changed, only now he's getting to see this whole different side of Ronan. One full of lust and want, desperation and more lies.

He can feel Ronan's pulse hammering under his thumb and he keeps his fingers tight, stroking him relentlessly now. ]

Yeah? I don't see you fucking complaining. There are plenty of people here, maybe next time you can go to them.

[He laughs, low and full of wanting, loathing, everything in between, that same amount of hollowness around the edges, but it doesn't matter now]

Come on, baby. Come for me.

[He rolls his hips hard against Ronan's, putting pressure on his hand as he strokes Ronan, then leans in and bites his lip before kissing him fiercely]

[ This is a level of weak and vulnerable that Ronan's never felt before, he feels guilt threatening to choke him, mixing with the pleasure that he feels and twisting together into a newer and sicker feeling that pushes him that much closer to orgasm. And he's sure that out of everything, the very last thing that he wants it to be brought to climax by Kavinsky -- there's only ever been one person to get him there and Ronan is so stubbornly set in his serial monogamist ways that he honestly never wants another person to do it.

And yet, here's Kavinsky, learning quickly just what Ronan likes -- from the way he twists his wrists and thumbs at the sensitive spot just under his flared, leaking head, to the pressure right against his throat, bordering on stifling and making each breath he takes just a little more strained, a little more difficult. -- and exploiting each one with just the same quickness. ]

What happened to just us?

[ That laugh echoes in Ronan's head and acts like gasoline to the fire burning inside of him and by the time Kavinsky's words have left him, his hips have betrayed him completely, moving in time with the other's strokes. He's close. The edge and that sweet release are right there and even underneath all the guilt and shame he still wants it.

(And what a thought that sickens him.)

Thankfully, the rest of his body remains fairly loyal and Ronan tears his mouth away from Kavinsky's not even a second after their lips touch -- the sudden jolt mixing with the sharp edges of Kavinsky's teeth leaving a small cut in Ronan's lower lip. ]

[As weak and vulnerable as Ronan feels, Kavinsky feels the opposite. if Ronan wants to fuck around with him? Kavinsky can show him just how much he can fuck back. Just how much he wants Kavinsky to fuck back. This is what they always should have done and Ronan will finally realize it. Maybe Ronan will realize and Kavinsky can tell him to fuck off. Maybe that'll teach him how it feels and what he's done.

His thumb moves up and down Ronan's pulse, caressing softly as his other hand jerks him off roughly in contrast. He can feel Ronan's body tensing little by little, so close to the edge. God he's so damn hard now, but what he really wants is to make Ronan come. He wants him to feel it and carry it with him no matter what his stupid words might say. ]

That's the thing, sweetheart. I know you won't go to anyone else.

[He groans when Ronan's hips meet his hand, slick skin against slick skin and Kavinsky feels like has almost everything he wants right now, even if Ronan is pulling away from his kiss. He smirks, his eyes dark and he moves his hand to grab Ronan's face and and wipe the blood from his lip with his thumb, dragging it across his face. His smirk grows deeper as he watches Ronan, then his hand darts back to his throat, fingers digging in hard as he chokes him.]

You've never looked more perfect. Come for me.

[ There's no sense in Ronan trying to fight the feeling, it's overwhelming and all consuming. Pleasure burns through him hotter than any anger and hate that he's ever felt toward Kavinsky and for as much as he wants to push the other away, he can't get the signal to go from his brain to the rest of his body. Instead, he just writhes and groans underneath the other, literally fucking up into Kavinsky's hand like he's been starved for sex for years, rather than only a few short days.

His voice echoes in the silence of Kavinsky's house -- rough and ragged as he moans, strained and desperate as he curses, breathless and needy as he struggles for oxygen. As shameless as he may sound, he's anything but that.

Ronan's blood leaves a smear in the shape of Kavinsky's fingerprint across his cheek and all the way to his jawline, his eyes equally as dark as Kavinsky's -- and while he hopes without all the same sick desire and twisted lust, he's not sure that's true. Despite how much he knows he'll hate himself later for this (how much he currently hates himself now for it.), his body wants it: his cock leaks precum down Kavinsky's fingers, his pulse races at the feeling of fingers closing around his neck, he goes torpedoing straight toward orgasm faster than he's ever known. ]

Just... [ Kavinsky's fingers tighten and Ronan's eyes flutter shut, a positively obscene sound leaving him -- something that could have been straight out of a porn soundboard. -- as the edges of his consciousness start to become fuzzy. ] Fuck [ He's right there, the slow fade of the world as lightheadedness washes over him has a few thicker spurts leaking out of him, ready to blow his load at any moment. ] Stop fucking talking.

[ At least then maybe he can pretend Kavinsky isn't there. ]

[ Kavinsky doesn't know who Ronan's been with, nor does he care, but whatever that ever was, it wasn't this. Nothing could ever be this, no matter how hard Ronan tries. If they met five years or ten years, or even twenty years down the road, it would always be exactly this. No matter how angry Kavinsky is, no matter how betrayed he feels, he can't deny that either.

It's not completely the way he ever imagined it, but it's close enough, Ronan's body rocking into his so freely, moaning so loudly, like there's nothing else in this whole damn world holding him together but Kavinsky. That look in Ronan's eyes, it's the same as the look in his and maybe he'll hate himself later, but he's fucking missed that look all these years. He's fucking missed Ronan's blood on his fingers and his name on his tongue.

Kavinsky starts bucking forward with more purpose, the pressure almost too much to bear. If Ronan doesn't want to kiss him, or to hear him talking, the least he can do is help him out. He owes him that much. Letting go of his neck, he grabs Ronan's hand and shoves it into his boxers, then leans in to bite at his neck. ]

Fucking touch me.

[He commands, and he knows Ronan won't do much protesting if he wants Kavinsky to finish him off, especially with that look on his face like he's about ready to come. He's close enough himself where the heat of Ronan's hand is more than enough and he strokes harder so they can both get their release. He can't remember the last time he felt like this, so desperately wanting, and finally having at least some of what he wants. He may have stopped talking, but he won't stop moaning and he wouldn't ever let Ronan pretend he isn't here.]

[ Ronan tries everything to keep Kavinsky's name off of his tongue. It was already enough that he's meeting every stroke with needy and desperate thrusts of his hips upward, he didn't need to add moaning the boy's name to the list to things Kavinsky could hold over his head and make him regret later. Ronan's so completely out of control, Kavinsky having a hold of the reigns and leading Ronan right along -- he could have made him come long ago, this could have been over quickly, but a part of Ronan is sure that Kavinsky's drawing this out for no other reason than pure entertainment.

So that later he can dial up Ronan's number and recount their little rendezvous in vivid detail. It's just the sort of control that Kavinsky's always liked having -- knowing Ronan's secrets and threatening to let the entire world know about them.

Manipulating to the core, but Ronan's always played right along. ]

Jesus fuck.

[ The pressure against his throat suddenly disappears and everything rushes back in a surge of new, electrifying sensations. The edges of his vision return to focus, his brain hums at the rush of oxygen back to it, his whole body tingles and it practically sends Ronan toppling over the edge -- and somewhere in all of those sounds leaving him, there's the repetitive mantra of 'I'm going to come' every few moments, whispered like a confession Ronan's too ashamed to admit to.

He doesn't want to touch Kavinsky, but there's very little choice he has in the matter and the way that his fingers wrap around Kavinsky's cock is almost like second nature and the way that his strokes come only a second later seems even more instinctual. With an enthusiasm that could be taken as Ronan actually wanting to get Kavinsky off, or as the boy trying to rush through and bring this entire act to an end.

(In reality, it's a strange mixture of both.)

It doesn't take long for Ronan to finally come -- a cry ripping from his throat as he shoots in hot thick spurts that land on his shirt, on Kavinsky's stomach and down over the boy's fingers. -- and it feels far more intense than any climax he's felt before. It wracks through his entire body, leaving all of his muscles tingling and every last nerve burned down to the ends. ]

[ Ronan already said his name earlier, with the same kind of look on his face, so that's already burned into his memory forever, even if Ronan doesn't say it again. He will. Maybe not today, but next time, he will. He doesn't know when he started thinking about next time and not how he wants to fuck Ronan up, but he's so lost in the feeling of this that he's not really thinking straight either anymore.

Kavinsky will hold this over Ronan's head, in any possible way he can, but mostly to remind him that this is who they are. This is what they're meant to do. Not even death can separate them now. But he knows Ronan will come to him too. Ronan will dial up his number and not be able to resist, because he never could before either.

The only difference is that now they have more freedom, which is something Kavinsky hasn't felt until this very moment.

He lets out a choked moan when Ronan's fingers curl around his cock, his hand stuttering for a moment as his brain blanks out. It's Ronan's words that bring him back, telling him that he's going to come, and he starts stroking him in the way that drew the loudest moans tonight.

Kavinsky's sure he's never seen anything like the way Ronan comes. Not in all his dreams, all his fantasies... this is real. The most raw and real thing he's ever seen, and when he feels Ronan's come spilling over his hand, hitting his stomach, he cries out as well, shooting his load onto Ronan's shirt.

He wants to watch every last second of this, but he feels too heavy and he slumps forward, letting his forehead fall against Ronan's as he slows his strokes, pumping every last bit of come out of Ronan ]

[ Ronan's lost in a world of euphoria for quite some time, his body operating on what feel like autopilot: his hand works over Kavinsky's cock with more reckless abandon rather than practiced skill, his head cranes away from the other, which only ends up leaving more of his neck exposed to him (which was better than the alternative of trying to tuck his chin into his shoulder, which wouldn't have left any room between their profiles -- a far too dangerous game for Ronan to play this high off his orgasm.) and before he knows it, the entire world fades back into focus when he feels Kavinsky come. Hot, sticky and warm between his fingers and making his hands slick as then continue to move.

He wants to pull his hand away immediately, but for a reason he can't even begin to explain, he works Kavinsky all the way through. The two of them coming together for only a few short seconds before Ronan's body drops back against the couch, exhausted. His chest heaves as he gasps for breath, this throat feeling sore and he can feel where the muscles will be bruised with each turn of his head.

Ronan drops his hand away from Kavinsky's shoulder, swallowing down the sick feeling that's starting to rise in his throat, his heart racing erratically for an entirely different reason now and the air suddenly feeling so much thinner, difficult to actually keep in his lungs. ]

Damn, sweetheart. You'd think you've never had an orgasm before.

[ Kavinsky lets himself just be in the moment for a bit, lets himself feel how good this could actually be. He rocks into Ronan's hand as long as Ronan is still holding on to him, then slowly he stops, feeling utterly spent in the best kind of way. This was damn good.

He takes another moment to catch his breath, pulling back to look at Ronan. Ronan, who won't even look at him anymore.

Reaching out, he uses Ronan's shirt to wipe his stomach off, then his hand and he grabs the bottle of vodka from the spot on the floor where it was set down and deftly slides off of Ronan's lap. He lays back against the couch like he was before, but instead of laying his feet on Ronan's lap, he gives Ronan's arm a push with his foot as he adjust himself in his boxers. ]

Time for you to get the fuck out.

[ All that intensity wasn't just in his head and when Kavinsky oh-so-tactfully points it out, he can feel his entire body flush with a mixture of shy embarrassment and downright humiliation. What the hell was he thinking? Why did he let it go this far? Why the fuck hadn't he just stayed home tonight?

Ronan keeps his eyes averted, keeps his focus on everything else possible, trying to ignore Kavinsky but being unable to ignore the press of his body still against his. And even when that's gone, the feeling of his come still staining his fingers.

This stupid boy who's so edgy and always insists on black ends up with a mess of white down the front of his shirt -- which he's not sure if he'll keep hidden away forever or burn at the first chance he gets. Likely the former.

His shirt is ruined, his sweats are ruined, his pride is hanging on by a thread that Kavinsky cuts swiftly by moving away from him and promptly urging him to leave. Thrown aside like just another name on Kavinsky's endless list of others, thrown out like there's some other waiting just around the corner. Unremarkable. And it feels like the entire world has been flipped upside down.

What happened to Kavinsky's constant repeating of "Just us"? He figured it would have been the very first thing out of the boy's mouth.

Ronan looks down at himself, he's a mess of Kavinsky's come and his own shame that's not fit for the entire population of San Junipero to see. Or for anyone to see -- he doesn't even want to look at himself. ]

Can I wash up, or something?

[ If he didn't feel demeaned enough, asking that certainly did the trick. ]

[ Kavinsky has told him a thousand and one times what he was thinking, why he let it go this far and why he hadn't stayed home tonight, but Ronan, as insistent as ever, threw it all back in his face. Kavinsky's been here without Ronan long enough that maybe he can pull together some shred of dignity and turn the tables on the other boy for once.

This is how it feels, Lynch, he wants to say. This is what it's like to be thrown away. It's not like Ronan was going to stay anyway. He would have said some stupid demeaning shit to Kavinsky and gone down his shame spiral, or whatever the fuck he's doing right now, and Kavinsky would have felt like worthless trash all over again.

Not this time.

He takes a long sip of vodka, dropping a leg down, bending the other and letting it lay lazily against the back of the couch, letting out another laugh, exactly like the one he let out before when Ronan said all that hurtful shit to him. ]

Nah, man. You were only here for right now, remember? Time's up. Go have your meltdown somewhere else, I don't wanna fuckin' see it.

[ He hates Kavinsky and he doesn't understand why he wants anything from him, but he wants something. He hates feeling so completely meaningless to a boy who otherwise centered his entire world around him -- and underneath that, he hates that it even gets to him. Why the fuck should he care what Kavinsky thinks? Why the hell is he so mad about being thrown out when he wouldn't have stuck around for much longer anyway?

Because it feels like defeat. It's giving Kavinsky the advantage, starting this web of secrets between them again, transporting them right back where they left off.

Some things don't change. They'll never change.

His words are thrown back at him, ten times as cruel as he'd made them sound in the first place and Ronan clenches his opposite hand into a tight fist while he wipes the other clean on his shirt, adding to the mess and the tangible reminders of this night Ronan knows he'll have no trouble remembering. ]

Fuck you, man.

[ Ronan grumbles as he staggers to his feet, adjusting himself in the front of his sweats and giving Kavinsky a hard glare, his words just as venomous and finely sharpened. ]

Don't ever let me fucking see you again.

[ Says the boy who came all the way out to Kavinsky's house to see him ]

[ Kavinsky's only good for Ronan when he wants something. He's only someone he can fuck around with when Kavinsky's entire attention is on him. Maybe if Ronan realizes that Kavinsky can move right the hell on, he won't be such a dick and won't take advantage of him at every fucking turn.

It sucks when your own bullshit gets thrown back in your face. He hopes Ronan falls in it.

His cigarettes are just out of arms reach, but he's feeling too lazy to reach over and grab them. He's still riding a good high here, and even higher one when he sees the mess all over Ronan's shirt. Their mess. Even if it's gone by morning, Ronan won't forget. ]

Funny, that's what you said before our hands were all over each other. The doors right the fuck there, no one's fucking stopping you.

[He moves his fingers down toward his palm in a wave, as mocking as possible]

Bye, bitch.

[ It's amazing how someone as scrawny as Kavinsky -- with his cokehead build and his barely average height -- can make Ronan feel a thousand times smaller than he is and it's even more amazing just how much in infuriates Ronan. His blood running hot for an entirely different reason now and as much as he wants to reach over and beat Kavinsky's face in until he can't recognize him, he's not going to give the boy the satisfaction of hanging around any longer.

If this is the game that Kavinsky wants to play, Ronan will go right along with it. He's never been one to turn down a challenge, and even less has he ever turned down one from Kavinsky. (Ronan hates admitting it, even to himself, but Kavinsky's right, they really were made for one another. One in the same. Two halves of the same whole. Two dreamers and everyone else in the world merely slept.)

Ronan turns on his heels rather than replying, all but storming across the room to the front door and slamming it behind him as he leaves. He doesn't make it more than a short distance away before he leaned over emptying the contents of his stomach into the sand. ]

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TEXTS FROM LAST NIGHT

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