[kavinsky tastes like cigarettes and savory snacks and burny liquor. maybe also of gasoline, but that's an impression left by association rather than anything that's actually inside of kavinsky's mouth. the mitsubishi is still parked just outside the chainlink, a same-faced specter in this world just like the last.
he's a better kisser now than he would have been last year, thanks to the tutelage of the variety of random men he's fucked over the course of his stay in the world. which is probably most of the reason why ronan doesn't find a slimy tongue shoved so far down into the back of his mouth that he gags. kavinsky still goes for it sooner than he should, probably, but his licks are more like hard candy stored for ronan to store up inside the wall of his cheek. the idea being ronan will still taste him later, undertone to toothpaste and coffee. and maybe even noah!
kavinsky leans in. it isn't how he'd spent months picturing back at home. he'd thought, maybe the boy's bathroom some time, ronan scared but wanting it too bad not to. or he'd show up at a party, drunk with a headlight out and without gansey, still miserable, too fucked up to feel it and willing to try anything to feel better— and somehow unwilling still. fucking catholics. tonight, he hadn't pictured anything, really. he hasn't pictured much since he died the first time, and the second had scratched out most of what was left.
but this is nice, in the only way kavinsky has ever cared about 'nice.' he puts his other arm around ronan's neck, half because ronan's too tall, and half just because.]
[Kavinsky tastes like Ronan imagined - and he has spent too much time imagining. Ronan is sweeter, like Appalachian bourbon, which happens to go perfect with salt and fire. He parts his lips to Kavinsky's tongue, savoring at first, then returning the favor with his own.
He's been hungry for a while. It's obvious. If Kavinsky ever had any doubt (ha!) about how much Ronan had ever wanted him, there's no denying it now. He didn't walk away from Kavinsky because there was a lack of desire. It's always been there, the way most people crave the things that will end up killing them.
Ronan stops to catch his breath, pressing his forehead to Kavinsky's. His skin is so warm it feels like the flames have crept closer, though he's pretty sure they haven't. He almost says something. Then he doesn't, opting to kiss Kavinsky again. The moment will probably be ruined as soon as either of them talk, right? Kavinsky will piss him off or Ronan will say something stupid and they'll start fighting instead. Or, worse yet, Kavinsky will just laugh again. Ronan's so much more afraid of that humiliation, though he knows enough to realize that Kavinsky's honest affection is the greater danger. Ruining this would be wiser.]
[kavinsky weighs next to nothing, but somehow the sit of his skinny arm levels out ronan's shoulders and fixes the angle of their kiss. or maybe there was nothing wrong with it to begin with because the disparity of their heights has always been kind of fun and he always liked how tall ronan is, big, mean, mean-looking, meaner-looking when he's scared. best of all, scared of himself. fucking catholics.
he remembers being kind of disappointed on july the 4th, when he found the hard limits to ronan's cruelty and the pretty beginnings of his courage. mixed in with the cocaine noise and self-immolating hatred.
he doesn't feel that way now. but then again, between the two of them, ronan was always the one with real imagination. this is new. unforeseen. kavinsky's only good at copying. so he copies the restraint of reggie's hands and the questionable diplomacy of jesse's tongue and predatory langor of jack's arms, and he kisses ronan this second time, until he isn't sure if it was maybe jack's hands and reggie's tongue and jesse's tender arms, and then until his head and his heart empty out and he isn't sure who he's copying. it isn't him; what's left bears no resemblence to kavinsky as he knows himself.
some garbage he picked up somewhere. maybe a movie.]
Think fast, [he says, before ronan can think about kissing anymore. and then he pushes ronan off the edge of the popcorn stand roof. feet first. he'll be fine.]
[Of course he's fine. When the stand is only about nine feet tall and Ronan takes up more than six of those feet, it's only a three-foot drop. But it kind of feels like being plunged into ice-cold water, and that's the worst of it. One second he's in Kavinsky's arms, the next he is so very not.]
Asshole.
[Real anger flares up inside Ronan as he lands, turning a glare back up to Kavinsky. More angry at himself, really, because he should have figured Kavinsky was playing with him. But Ronan's anger explodes both inward and outward, and he slams a fist into the signboard so hard the whole stand rattles.]
[kavinsky probably shouldn't be surprised, but he is. the stand shakes and he almost falls-- it shakes a laugh out of him. he slings the bag down beside him, leans low, so he can drop it with a minimal chance of shit breaking. luck is on his side for once: there's no crack, no explosion of contents inside or out.]
You're such an angry homosexual.
[and then he jumps off. right down on top of ronan, his feet just wide enough to catch the other dream thief around the waist, hands to stop his fall on the other boy's shoulders. it wouldn't hurt him much, to crack his chin on ronan's stupid shaven head, but he's honestly not sure irish can spare the fucking braincells. kavinsky doesn't weigh enough, but the angle's crazy and ronan's off-balance-- more than not, he'll ride the other boy into the ground.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw mention of imagined dubcon
he's a better kisser now than he would have been last year, thanks to the tutelage of the variety of random men he's fucked over the course of his stay in the world. which is probably most of the reason why ronan doesn't find a slimy tongue shoved so far down into the back of his mouth that he gags. kavinsky still goes for it sooner than he should, probably, but his licks are more like hard candy stored for ronan to store up inside the wall of his cheek. the idea being ronan will still taste him later, undertone to toothpaste and coffee. and maybe even noah!
kavinsky leans in. it isn't how he'd spent months picturing back at home. he'd thought, maybe the boy's bathroom some time, ronan scared but wanting it too bad not to. or he'd show up at a party, drunk with a headlight out and without gansey, still miserable, too fucked up to feel it and willing to try anything to feel better— and somehow unwilling still. fucking catholics. tonight, he hadn't pictured anything, really. he hasn't pictured much since he died the first time, and the second had scratched out most of what was left.
but this is nice, in the only way kavinsky has ever cared about 'nice.' he puts his other arm around ronan's neck, half because ronan's too tall, and half just because.]
no subject
He's been hungry for a while. It's obvious. If Kavinsky ever had any doubt (ha!) about how much Ronan had ever wanted him, there's no denying it now. He didn't walk away from Kavinsky because there was a lack of desire. It's always been there, the way most people crave the things that will end up killing them.
Ronan stops to catch his breath, pressing his forehead to Kavinsky's. His skin is so warm it feels like the flames have crept closer, though he's pretty sure they haven't. He almost says something. Then he doesn't, opting to kiss Kavinsky again. The moment will probably be ruined as soon as either of them talk, right? Kavinsky will piss him off or Ronan will say something stupid and they'll start fighting instead. Or, worse yet, Kavinsky will just laugh again. Ronan's so much more afraid of that humiliation, though he knows enough to realize that Kavinsky's honest affection is the greater danger. Ruining this would be wiser.]
no subject
he remembers being kind of disappointed on july the 4th, when he found the hard limits to ronan's cruelty and the pretty beginnings of his courage. mixed in with the cocaine noise and self-immolating hatred.
he doesn't feel that way now. but then again, between the two of them, ronan was always the one with real imagination. this is new. unforeseen. kavinsky's only good at copying. so he copies the restraint of reggie's hands and the questionable diplomacy of jesse's tongue and predatory langor of jack's arms, and he kisses ronan this second time, until he isn't sure if it was maybe jack's hands and reggie's tongue and jesse's tender arms, and then until his head and his heart empty out and he isn't sure who he's copying. it isn't him; what's left bears no resemblence to kavinsky as he knows himself.
some garbage he picked up somewhere. maybe a movie.]
Think fast, [he says, before ronan can think about kissing anymore. and then he pushes ronan off the edge of the popcorn stand roof. feet first. he'll be fine.]
no subject
Asshole.
[Real anger flares up inside Ronan as he lands, turning a glare back up to Kavinsky. More angry at himself, really, because he should have figured Kavinsky was playing with him. But Ronan's anger explodes both inward and outward, and he slams a fist into the signboard so hard the whole stand rattles.]
no subject
You're such an angry homosexual.
[and then he jumps off. right down on top of ronan, his feet just wide enough to catch the other dream thief around the waist, hands to stop his fall on the other boy's shoulders. it wouldn't hurt him much, to crack his chin on ronan's stupid shaven head, but he's honestly not sure irish can spare the fucking braincells. kavinsky doesn't weigh enough, but the angle's crazy and ronan's off-balance-- more than not, he'll ride the other boy into the ground.]