[unluckily, probably. any eventuality where kavinsky seems to think he's getting what he wants involves bad shit happening, and usually, he's the bad shit that happens.
he crawls onto the bed, that dips slightly under his skinny weight. he crawls over ronan's sleeping form, breathing deep the sleepy smell of the other dreamer, laundry buried under the salt of skin. it's different now than it was when he was creeping on the other boy in henrietta, isn't it? because ronan does want him this time, and he doesn't mind wanting him.
(jk. it's still creepy. you're supposed to ask permission before getting a leg over on a sleeper. but there you have it.)
he leans into the space beside ronan's body, and touches his mouth cautiously to the other boy's ear, tracing down to his jaw, like he's trying to find a secret hidden there.]
[Ronan doesn't stir. Not at the shifting weight on the bed or the light press of a skinny body over him or the silent inquiries of the mouth grazing his skin.
He's been too trusting, leaving his door unlocked, allowing himself to drink his way into a sleep so heavy that the world outside disappears. He does know he lives with a monster. (More than one.) Probably, he should have gotten a lesson about this out of some fairytale.
Too late now for the warning. He's out like Sleeping Beauty.]
[and so-- kavinsky's mouth ventures down. and down, and down. he smoothes over the hollow of ronan's throat, the bulk of his shoulder, his hip.
and then-- caution to the wind, or merely because he's the most brutally unsubtle thief that ever robbed a fantasy dreamworld!! he closes a tattooed hand on ronan's hip. with the leverage of one bony knee in the mattress, he shifts against ronan, moving to turn the boy-- at least partway-- onto his back.
maybe he'll get away with it. god knows that ronan has enough visitors in his boudoir. if god has anything to do with it.]
[Kavinsky is certainly getting away with it for now, though that has less to do with God and more to do with teen alcoholism. The bottle slips from Ronan's hand as Kavinsky turns him over, limbs loose and body slack, all out-of-commission crash test dummy. He doesn't stir. There's a barely-perceptible stutter to his breath when his head lolls back at an angle that isn't the most ideal for oxygen intake. He'll be fine, though, as long as he doesn't vomit.]
[kavinsky is incisive here like he wasn't in the old world, emboldened by ronan's affections explicitly offered-- even if he'd rejected them, kylo ren's translations, even if he had already known what ronan had meant. fox in a henhouse. he smells the vapor of liquor off ronan's mouth, and thinks only for a moment about kissing him.
nah.
instead, he runs his long, feline tongue down the middle of his own palm, leaving behind a slick trail. and without more compunction than that, the thief slips his fingers into the waistband of ronan's pants, the crook of his thin wrist at a careful angle, his wet fingers outstretched, no price in his mind for this thing that he wants to steal. little in his mind at all, but the want of flesh, the sounds that might fuck with the slow rhythm of ronan's sleeping breath.]
[The sleep of a drunk is awfully heavy. The sleep of a drunken dreamer, even more so. It's hardly the only time Kavinsky's helped himself to Ronan's body while he slept, though the first time it happened, Ronan convinced himself it was imagined. He'd only caught a glimpse of it, after all, before drifting off again.
Ronan's denial isn't quite so strong, these days, but he's in too deep to deny anything at the moment. Kavinsky's groping inspires no immediate reaction, nothing to welcome the presence of that hand and nothing to protest it. The coast is clear for a thief to take what he pleases.]
[and kavinsky smiles like a cat over a saucer of cream. keeps watch over the taut, pale horizon of ronan's belly, the distant peaks of his nipples above, his chin, the apex of his jawline. how many times had kavinsky dreamed about this? daydreamed, night-dreamed. probably would have summoned out a sex-doll in ronan's likeness, some point, if he had been
well. if he'd been as talented as ronan. as powerful.
but he feels powerful now, in that evil way that kavinsky always does. he presses a kiss to the head of ronan's cock, tenderer about this here, with ronan asleep, than he ever would have been with the other young man awake. he squeezes the shaft, begins to lick. maybe it's telling, that he's only ever like this in his daydreams, night-dreams. that's what fantasy is, isn't it? a better version than you can be. a better version of kavinsky than even dr. chilton could bend and break out of him. happier. quieter. more kind. more honest, at least with the lurid shape of his mouth.]
[Somewhere far away from here, Ronan feels what's happening. He just doesn't sort out that it's happening here. Whatever dream he's having takes a sharp turn into obscene territory, corrupting anything he might have been trying to accomplish.
And here, his body responds without his awareness. His cock grows thicker, swelling in Kavinsky's grip, throbbing to life though the rest of Ronan is out cold. The wicked lapping of Kavinsky's tongue floods him with warmth, the persistence of it working to clear away the numbness of alcohol. Ronan's blood courses in a rush, awakening his nerves to Kavinsky's touch.]
[kavinsky does briefly wonder what it is that swarms ronan's dreams now. he's had his own share of sexual terrors, you know. bouquets of tongues reaching for him, teeth in the roots. sometimes the trees had hands. sometimes he'd meet a boy in the woods with broad shoulders and a soft mouth, and he'd make a mistake, being lonely, before the stranger would turn into tar and a cloying, rotten stench, wrong bones, wet and red like things left better unimagined.
see: he could never dream someone like ronan. maybe he'd still be alive back home if he could.
so he's greedy about it. stroking ronan with his own tongue, pulling the lewd thickness of his lips low over his teeth. he watches for the twist of shadow in the hollow of ronan's throat, the change of his breath. what happens when he pulls his mouth free and nests a kiss at the base.]
[Still nothing, from most of Ronan, who remains in his deep sleep. Maybe his dreams would be spiraling into nightmare territory, too, if he had any idea who exactly crept into his bedroom to make use of him while he was helpless. But for now, the dream is not one he's eager to leave.
His cock, however, responds enthusiastically to the here and now. Valiantly fighting past the influence of whiskey-fueled unconsciousness, it's soon rock-hard under Kavinsky's lapping tongue. It doesn't care how many times Kavinsky has teased and tortured him, how often he's been left hurt or humiliated. All it knows is the sweetness of this moment, the pleasure of Kavinsky's pillowy lips and wet mouth.
If Kavinsky wants something to appreciate him unconditionally, he's found it.]
[maybe kavinsky should have been less stingy about sex, particularly, even if he is determined to play keepaway with the contents of his heart and his soul ever more. who needs a heart and a soul, when you have this?
and he likes it of course, ronan's dick. even aside from his childhood aspirations, his greedy lust, his crazed ruminations, slights both imagined and otherwise. he's seen and touched ronan since then; since he came to this world, this second lease on life. and he's liked ronan's cock when he's gotten to try it, its weight, its taste, the dark curls he can comb through with his teeth.
if everything were as an uncomplicated as molesting ronan lynch while he slept, we would've missed two books and a third act.]
[Things get slightly more complicated as Ronan nears a climax he doesn't even know he's approaching. Caught halfway between what's being done to his body and the fantasy playing out in his mind, his hips rock in answer to the way Kavinsky toys with him, slowly fucking someone who isn't there.
Or... imagining that he's fucking someone who is.
The possibilities slide together into single reality as Ronan's breath trembles and hitches. All at once, he's awake and aware that he's not just dreaming, but that the slick sensation of a tongue running along the length of his cock is a true one. And he knows, with absolute certainty, that this is not the way Kylo handles him.
The list of remaining suspects is very short these days. He doesn't utter the name, however. There's a fragile balance here and speaking might shatter it. He may not have given his permission for this, but he doesn't want Kavinsky to stop now. Not now, when he's so close.]
[maybe it speaks to the existence of a very small but soft core buried deep in kavinsky's feelings for ronan, buried under layers of exaggerated, perverse lust and the power games of rejection, that kavinsky actually gets into it. so into it that he in no way notices that ronan's actually woken up.
hell, he isn't even looking up at ronan's sleep-turned face now. instead, his eyes are low, his lips hungry. his tattooed fingers skim ronan's thighs for the latent tension in them, greedily, like the little matchstick girl had groped for warmth when she had been freezing; like the demons of old paintings crush down on sleepers to drink the vivre of their breath when they're starving; like jealousy becomes rage becomes the need for possession, when evil queens send their huntsmen to steal hearts. he's every fairy story the at their dreaming unconsciousnesses has ever stolen symbols from.
it's always symbols. metaphors. impressions.
none of them are ever an adequate substitute for this, for ronan's dick pulsing on kavinsky's tongue, as the lesser thief pushes in, lets his throat open more, trying to get what he wants before he has to go.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tw noncon
he crawls onto the bed, that dips slightly under his skinny weight. he crawls over ronan's sleeping form, breathing deep the sleepy smell of the other dreamer, laundry buried under the salt of skin. it's different now than it was when he was creeping on the other boy in henrietta, isn't it? because ronan does want him this time, and he doesn't mind wanting him.
(jk. it's still creepy. you're supposed to ask permission before getting a leg over on a sleeper. but there you have it.)
he leans into the space beside ronan's body, and touches his mouth cautiously to the other boy's ear, tracing down to his jaw, like he's trying to find a secret hidden there.]
no subject
He's been too trusting, leaving his door unlocked, allowing himself to drink his way into a sleep so heavy that the world outside disappears. He does know he lives with a monster. (More than one.) Probably, he should have gotten a lesson about this out of some fairytale.
Too late now for the warning. He's out like Sleeping Beauty.]
no subject
and then-- caution to the wind, or merely because he's the most brutally unsubtle thief that ever robbed a fantasy dreamworld!! he closes a tattooed hand on ronan's hip. with the leverage of one bony knee in the mattress, he shifts against ronan, moving to turn the boy-- at least partway-- onto his back.
maybe he'll get away with it. god knows that ronan has enough visitors in his boudoir. if god has anything to do with it.]
no subject
no subject
nah.
instead, he runs his long, feline tongue down the middle of his own palm, leaving behind a slick trail. and without more compunction than that, the thief slips his fingers into the waistband of ronan's pants, the crook of his thin wrist at a careful angle, his wet fingers outstretched, no price in his mind for this thing that he wants to steal. little in his mind at all, but the want of flesh, the sounds that might fuck with the slow rhythm of ronan's sleeping breath.]
no subject
Ronan's denial isn't quite so strong, these days, but he's in too deep to deny anything at the moment. Kavinsky's groping inspires no immediate reaction, nothing to welcome the presence of that hand and nothing to protest it. The coast is clear for a thief to take what he pleases.]
no subject
well. if he'd been as talented as ronan. as powerful.
but he feels powerful now, in that evil way that kavinsky always does. he presses a kiss to the head of ronan's cock, tenderer about this here, with ronan asleep, than he ever would have been with the other young man awake. he squeezes the shaft, begins to lick. maybe it's telling, that he's only ever like this in his daydreams, night-dreams. that's what fantasy is, isn't it? a better version than you can be. a better version of kavinsky than even dr. chilton could bend and break out of him. happier. quieter. more kind. more honest, at least with the lurid shape of his mouth.]
no subject
And here, his body responds without his awareness. His cock grows thicker, swelling in Kavinsky's grip, throbbing to life though the rest of Ronan is out cold. The wicked lapping of Kavinsky's tongue floods him with warmth, the persistence of it working to clear away the numbness of alcohol. Ronan's blood courses in a rush, awakening his nerves to Kavinsky's touch.]
no subject
see: he could never dream someone like ronan. maybe he'd still be alive back home if he could.
so he's greedy about it. stroking ronan with his own tongue, pulling the lewd thickness of his lips low over his teeth. he watches for the twist of shadow in the hollow of ronan's throat, the change of his breath. what happens when he pulls his mouth free and nests a kiss at the base.]
no subject
His cock, however, responds enthusiastically to the here and now. Valiantly fighting past the influence of whiskey-fueled unconsciousness, it's soon rock-hard under Kavinsky's lapping tongue. It doesn't care how many times Kavinsky has teased and tortured him, how often he's been left hurt or humiliated. All it knows is the sweetness of this moment, the pleasure of Kavinsky's pillowy lips and wet mouth.
If Kavinsky wants something to appreciate him unconditionally, he's found it.]
no subject
and he likes it of course, ronan's dick. even aside from his childhood aspirations, his greedy lust, his crazed ruminations, slights both imagined and otherwise. he's seen and touched ronan since then; since he came to this world, this second lease on life. and he's liked ronan's cock when he's gotten to try it, its weight, its taste, the dark curls he can comb through with his teeth.
if everything were as an uncomplicated as molesting ronan lynch while he slept, we would've missed two books and a third act.]
no subject
Or... imagining that he's fucking someone who is.
The possibilities slide together into single reality as Ronan's breath trembles and hitches. All at once, he's awake and aware that he's not just dreaming, but that the slick sensation of a tongue running along the length of his cock is a true one. And he knows, with absolute certainty, that this is not the way Kylo handles him.
The list of remaining suspects is very short these days. He doesn't utter the name, however. There's a fragile balance here and speaking might shatter it. He may not have given his permission for this, but he doesn't want Kavinsky to stop now. Not now, when he's so close.]
no subject
hell, he isn't even looking up at ronan's sleep-turned face now. instead, his eyes are low, his lips hungry. his tattooed fingers skim ronan's thighs for the latent tension in them, greedily, like the little matchstick girl had groped for warmth when she had been freezing; like the demons of old paintings crush down on sleepers to drink the vivre of their breath when they're starving; like jealousy becomes rage becomes the need for possession, when evil queens send their huntsmen to steal hearts. he's every fairy story the at their dreaming unconsciousnesses has ever stolen symbols from.
it's always symbols. metaphors. impressions.
none of them are ever an adequate substitute for this, for ronan's dick pulsing on kavinsky's tongue, as the lesser thief pushes in, lets his throat open more, trying to get what he wants before he has to go.]