Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6262699.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Raven_Cycle_-_Maggie_Stiefvater
  Relationship:
      Joseph_Kavinsky/Ronan_Lynch
  Character:
      Ronan_Lynch, Joseph_Kavinsky
  Additional Tags:
      Racing, Car_Sex, Car_Accidents, Blood, Injury, Minor_Injuries, Burning
      things, Swearing
  Collections:
      Dream_In_Color's_Faves
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-16 Words: 2032
****** Relief ******
by DaryanCrescend
Summary
     "I said beat me, not kill us both." You snap, a mess of coiled
     muscles and adrenaline, heart still beating painfully fast against
     your ribs.
     Ronan winds Kavinsky up into a race, that turns into an accident,
     that turns into sex.
Notes
     Inspired by winding my Kavinsky RP buddy up about being a shitty
     driver.
The car stops being a purring machine under your fingers and becomes an
extension of yourself as it shoots out but he's determined after your ceaseless
taunting earlier. You soar, a minuscule amount further along the road than he
is, it could be a photo finish but you're going to win.
"Shit." Your cars are too close and you're both approaching a tight corner, he
can't turn without crashing into you, you try to swerve round the bend in the
road but you're both going too fast. He goes off road before you but you miss
the turn and your car flies into the fields as you slam the breaks. You coast
across the grass, unable to stop until you come to an abrupt stop. Your
shoulder wrenches painfully as the seatbelt stops you from flying forward into
the wheel. You sit in the seat, pain pulsing in waves from your shoulder out
across your chest and all the way down to the tips of your fingers. You can
feel your heart pounding in your mouth, bile rising in your throat.
When your body finally co-operates you untether yourself from the car and shove
the door open. There's ripped up grass all the way from the road to the wheels
of the BMW.
You look around, panting and spot the Mitsubishi meters away having stopped far
closer to the road than you managed, probably due to having been partially
swallowed by a bush and make your way over on shaky legs.
You've raced before, more times than you care to count but you've never had an
accident like this. Gansey is going to kill you if he ever sees the welt on
your neck from the seatbelt.
You make it over to the other car and clamber through broken branches to wrench
the door open.
Kavinsky is leaning back in his seat, shades askew and cracked, blood pouring
from his nose. Both airbags had deployed on impact.
"I said beat me, not kill us both." You snap, a mess of coiled muscles and
adrenaline, heart still beating painfully fast against your ribs. Does he
really want what you offered badly enough to risk his neck for it? You reach up
and pull the wrecked shades off Kavinskys nose before holding your hand up.
"How many fingers?"
"How many do you want?" Kavinsky retorts shoving the hand away and yanking his
seatbelt off.
Relief begins to slowly blossom in your gut. If he's still cracking sex jokes
he's fine, you haven't done anything more serious than usual, aside, of course,
from ending up driving into a field. At least the BMW is okay, unless you've
trashed the break again. At least he's mostly unharmed, unless he's managing to
front through a concussion.
He climbs out of the car. Twigs snap underfoot. At least his legs are steady
enough to keep him mostly upright, until he trips and crashes into you. Your
shoulder screams pain at you as you catch him.
"Fuck." He grows against your chest.
It's hard to stand so you drag the pair of you out of the bush without pulling
your arm away from where it's wrapped around his waist until he falls again and
you both land in the grass.
You lay there staring up at the cloud streaked sky with his face buried in your
chest until the shaking subsides and your breathing evens out.
"Fuck." He repeats, voice muffled by your jacket.
Your shoulder is throbbing. There's blood soaking into your shirt from his
nose. You begin to laugh. You've not felt this alive in a long time, you're
overly aware of every inch of your body. Kavinsky's shoulders start to shake
and he joins you in the laughter, pulling himself up to look at your face.
"Fucking-" you splutter.
"Does this mean I win?" His eyes are glittering in the twilight.
"I don't fucking think so." You retort.
He kisses you anyway and sets every single one of your nerves on fire so you
kiss back, there's a metallic tang as you part your lips against his, he
accepts the invitation as your fingers clench around a handful of the front of
his shirt.
This is a ridiculous situation, you're literally making out lying in the grass
next to one car that's stuck in a bush with another a short walk away, very
obviously having taken a skid into the field. If you get caught you're going to
have to pray you can bribe your way out of trouble, if somebody sees the tire
tracks they might stop to check you're both alive, if- Kavinsky's freezing cold
hand sliding up your shirt breaks your train of thought and being caught
switches from being a worry to a thrill. You bury the guilt in the back of your
mind and grab his ass grinding your hips up into his.
Kavinsky pulls away and looks down at you, eyes for once unguarded by shades,
"we should get in my car."
It sort of makes sense but at the same time; "Your car is in a bush."
He rolls his eyes at you and climbs off, you take his offered hand and let him
help you up. "Still less open than right here," he glances at you with a
devilish smirk, "unless you're into that."
You shove him back to the car, a task considering it means climbing back into a
goddamn bush, and end up in the passenger seat with him straddling you and
pulling your shirt off. Adrenaline is still coursing through your veins. He
sucks a trail of hickeys along your unmarked collarbone as you palm his
hardening cock through his jeans. You're already ready to go, you want him
naked. You've been building to this all day.
Your fingers make short work of his fly but it's a harder task getting his
jeans off in the cramped space, especially with the inflated airbag. It's a
joint effort to get his jeans and underwear off but somehow you manage. Then
you have to wrestle your way out of your own. He unashamedly reaches down and
wraps his fingers around your cock.
You buck up into his grasp, impatient, and he laughs into your mouth. His free
hand is fighting with the airbag and the glove compartment where you suppose he
must have stashed lube earlier. You scrape your nails down his spine and he
moans as there's a click and he finally retrieves his prize.
You pull away to watch as he pulls his hand out of your boxers to pour lube
over his fingers, there's no preamble, no dragging this out, you're both too
filled with want. He stretches himself out as you grab his thighs pulling them
open wider.
His free hand wraps around your throat as you reach down and angle yourself,
sliding between his spread cheeks. He increases the pressure on your neck and
kisses you roughly as he sinks down, impaling himself on your shaft. You groan
as the warmth of his body envelopes your cock.
He unleashes a string of whispered curses as he adjusts and begins to move. The
pain from the crash mixes with pleasure in a way that makes your head fuzzy.
His free hand grabs your sore shoulder and you wince and moan at the same time
as he rides you. You reach down and stroke his cock making him shudder and
whine.
You're not sure how long you can last but you hold out until he releases hot
and sticky, crying out your name and a few swear words for good measure and
coating your hand and stomachs. You grab his hips, not caring that you've
streaked his skin with his semen and slam into him until it happens like an
avalanche and your vision flashes white.
He collapses against you and you stay, panting, the thin layer of sweat on your
skin cooling in the night air.
You both clean up as best you can with the half empty packet of tissues he
finds in the glove compartment. Redressing is another issue and you have to
give in and get out of the car in your boxers, still barefoot then climb out of
the bush to pull your jeans and shirt back on. Your jacket is too stained with
blood to bother with so you retrieve your car keys and shove them in your jeans
pocket instead.
You lean against the back of the car and look at him. There's blood smeared
across his cheek and jaw, a bruise forming across his nose from the shades, his
hair is a complete mess. Your mind attempts to reject the idea that he looks
beautiful like this but fails.
"What now?"
Kavinsky shrugs, "we see if the cars still work?"
You laugh, "Sure, yours first, mine took less of a hit." You don't suggest that
it's stupid to try and drive home with inflated airbags, you know all about
stupid boys and their stupid pride issues so you step away.
He gets in and tries the ignition. The Mitsubishi splutters and stalls and
finally stills, it's not going to run, something must have blown or broken, you
squint and think you can see a slick black splotch on the ground. There's a
slam and a growl of "Fucks sake" then the sound of a boot connecting with the
side of the car.
"We get you towed?" You suggest.
He laughs harshly. "Fuck that, we burn the damn thing, I'll replace it."
So you do. You pour the spare gas all over it and he lights it up with a match.
You step back further and watch as it goes up in flames, stay to witness every
explosion and sneak glances at the reflection of the fire in his eyes and kiss
again even though you're spent and usually you fuck and run.
When the best of the flames die you let go of his hand, "Well I should get
home," You turn to leave with a small wave, "see you on the streets."
You're only four strides away before he yells "Cunt!" At your retreating back
and you turn on your heel, grin spreading across your face and wiggle your
eyebrows at him.
"You bastard!" He looks ready to punch you for letting him think you were going
to leave him to walk home in the state he's in.
You make your way back over and pull him into another kiss, he bites down on
your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
"Need a ride?"
There's a horrible wave of anxiety as you climb into your car. If it doesn't
start you'll have to call for help and you really don't want to, not with
Kavinsky here and the burning corpse of the Mitsubishi meters away and how
obvious it is you've crashed and fucked before thinking about getting help.
Your worries are eased when the engine protests a few times and then roars to
life. Whatever Adam has done when he serviced your car has saved both your
necks. You could kiss him, though maybe not with Kavinskys blood and spit still
on your lips.
"Home?"
Kavinsky nods.
You spend the drive back to the dorms in silence with his hand resting casually
on your thigh.
Before he climbs out of the car he leans over pulls you into a savage goodnight
kiss that's mostly teeth and tongue.
You watch him walk away, unsure if the stiffness to his gait is from the car
crash or the sex and then take a look at yourself in the mirror. There's dried
blood smeared across the lower half of your face, petrol smears on your
shoulders and nose and an assortment of hickeys scattered over your neck and
collarbones, not to mention the two parallel slices in your skin from the
seatbelt, shaded in with angry looking redness and bruising. You're going to
have to put the sweater that's been lying on your backseat for over a week back
on and stop at the 7-11 and buy wet-wipes, maybe if you take Slurpees back you
can diffuse the amount of shit you're going to be in.
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