[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.]
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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.]
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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.]