devilofaboy | Open RP Post

[Maybe you'd assume that they'd run in similar circles, these boys tangled up in dreams and magic. But they don't. Adrian looks like just another riche douchebag asshole, on the surface. He's charming in a way that doesn't ask for anything, makes it easy for him to exist as furniture in the background of other peoples' lives. Just another faceless boy in uniform.

He shared a few classes with Ronan over the years, brushed past each other but they never talked much, even freshman year.

But now there's this: both of them sitting on the bench outside the Headmaster's office with red knuckles. Different classes, different fights, but the set of their jaw and the way they both refuse to look cowed or apologetic is in parallel.

Aidan is different; all strangely alive in a way he rarely allows himself, almost glowing in his fury. He's all jitters on his skin, his eyes glassy but not numb. It's not enough- he wants to punch a wall until he sees which of them gives first. He needs- he doesn't know. Usually Elijah's around when he gets like this. Usually Elijah stops him before he gets like this.

The light above them keeps flickering, like it keeps pace to his wild heartbeat. He grimaces slightly, dragging fingers against the red marks on his knuckles that'll be bruises, later. His brother was going to be pissed, his father was going to be disappointed.

But Aidan still wasn't sorry.]

[By all appearances, Ronan and Elijah seemed like they hated each other. But then again, they were also boys that seemed like they loved hate. They fought and they raced. And along with Adam Parrish, all three of them competed in Latin, vying for top of the class. They even had tennis together, which gave rise to some of the most aggressive matches ever seen at Aglionby.

And then Kavinsky died on the 4th. Pyrotechnics accident, or so the rumor goes.
Dimitri died in a stupid race just after the start of Senior Year. At least, that's what people say.

It's about a week later, and Elijah's drunk and miserable and angry. He has his phone in his hands, and that's always been a gateway to bad decisions. Usually they involve Dimitri. But tonight he feels like he has no one to talk to, no one that would understand-- and so he texts Ronan instead. Says the worst thing that he can, letting the poison out of his heart.]

the thing that killed dimitri came out of my dreams

[And then, like he didn't say it, or like he just doesn't expect him to do anything except laugh:]

wanna race?

[Ronan leaves him. But no one kidnaps Matthew. 4th of July is quieter: there's still a party, but Kavinsky never shows.

Two weeks go by with no parties, and the dream pack are quiet, surprisingly scarce. The strangest part is that Kavinsky's texts stop rather abruptly. He doesn't respond even if the other boy tries to reach out -- it's two weeks of silence.

No Mitsubishi in Ronan's rearview, or pulling up next to him at a stop light with a sultry glitter in his grin as he watches the other boy through those sunglasses. No filthy suggestions about his relationship with Gansey. No gifts. Even at their worst fights, most venomous remarks hurled at one another, the silence could be measured in hours, sometimes days, not weeks.

When Ronan finally runs into Prokopenko, finally gets to ask, he gets punched in the face. But he also gets the story, clipped down to a sentence- that Kavinsky had tried to kill himself, and only just gotten out of the hospital.

When Kavinsky hears a knock at the door, he's expecting Skov or Jiang. One of his boys, the fact that they hardly leave him alone for more than a few hours right now. But he finds it hard to blame them. But he opens the door and stares into the face of Ronan Lynch, and his heart twists. He doesn't know if he's glad to see him, or if it hurts.

He looks different if you pay attention. Like he put on a few pounds, he's not as jittery, not twitchy, doesn't have that edge like he can't stay still, can't stand his own skin. Instead he just looks... drained. Exhausted. A little sad, but maybe like it's the first time Ronan's getting to really see the boy under all the pretenses and the substances.]

Lynch.

[There are still bandages on his left arm. He looks caught off-guard, unsure.]

[Kavinsky didn't mean to confess to Ronan, exactly. It's just-- he can't help himself. Ronan is clearly upset, and he can't help saying the words, even if he doesn't say the words that he means. It doesn't take a lot to figure out what he's really saying though.

When he insists that Gansey will love it, he means that Kavinsky would love it. That it would matter just that Ronan cared so much- if this worry was aimed at him. If the name on his mouth wasn't Dick Gansey.]

You don't have to go back.

[This isn't really what he means either. This is softer, not punctuated with a derisive fuck him, as if Gansey didn't deserve the gift if he refused it for not being perfect. There's something vulnerable to how K says the words, instead: not like he thinks Ronan will accept, but like he says it so that he knows that he could. So that he knew that Kavinsky... he wanted him to stay. Or at least he wanted him to come back. But he's never been good at saying the real words, the ones under the insults and the gay jokes and the races and this.

The truth, the real truth is this: he wants him. How long has he wanted Ronan for?

Kavinsky is half-high and they're both topless and the sun beats down around them, heating the metal of the car. And he wants to kiss him, he wants Ronan to kiss him instead: but that's an easy sort of recurring daydream, the idea all but haunted him. He wasn't really expecting an answer so the silence doesn't seem strange. Not until he realizes that Ronan is looking at him.

Kavinsky swallows but meets his eyes, a slow blink of dark lashes over his dark eyes. And maybe how he looks at him says more than the words. He'd thought he knew how to play this; that Ronan would need him as much as Kavinsky did. But his heart skips and he feels like he's maybe in over his head. Like he could lose something he needed- give away too much or not enough and not know which.

He's never done this before. Not where it mattered. But there's an ache, longing. He wasn't holding Ronan's hand with his dreaming because K was a good friend -- he was here holding his hand because he wanted to hold his hand.]

[To be fair to Kavinsky, he didn't actually do it on purpose. It just sort of happened, because he didn't really know what this was, what Ronan wanted. Maybe he should have known it would go like this, maybe he should have asked, but he'd been scared, not that he'd ever say the words. When had he ever talked about his feelings before, when had it ever felt safe? Sure as shit not with his parents. There had been a couple times with Skov, but that was different. Maybe they kissed sometimes, but it was never romantic. It was just-- they were similar, and they understood needing the affection, needing to settle yourself in your skin.

If it had been Skov, he could probably have shrugged this off, settled Ronan down, but it wasn't that easy.

This was all his fault really, anyway. For wanting what he thought that he couldn't have, but being unwilling to let go. Even now he wanted to fix this, he wanted to keep him. And months ago, he'd put his hands on him; he'd let Ronan put hands on him, and fuck but he couldn't stop. It had been almost an accident- well, Kavinsky had wanted him from the beginning, so accident wasn't really the right word. But it had been after a race, and he'd lost, and he couldn't even remember what he'd said.

What he did remember was Ronan's fingers around his throat, the way that he'd backed him up against the BMW. Side of the road and no one watching, just a couple abandoned bottles they hadn't finished. K had gasped in a way that wasn't pain and that had seemed to pause the other boy's brain while he tried to catch up. Kavinsky had softly curled his against the skin of Ronan's forearm -- not like he was trying to pull him away, like he was trying to pull him closer.]

Jesus. If you're gonna choke me Lynch, do it like you mean it.

[He'd expected Ronan to pull away, to flinch from the very suggestion of sexuality. And then his head is swimming, and he can't breathe. And Kavinsky shakes, his other hand curling in Ronan's black tanktop, just holding on as his strong fingers press into his throat, his blue eyes watching Kavinsky with an intensity that makes the dreamer burn. K is hard in his jeans, and he almost thinks that Ronan is going to choke him out like this, and the idea is more hot than scary, which is probably fucked, but he's always been a mess. But Ronan lets his fingers ease, stroking almost affectionately against his skin- where the bruises will be later.

Kavinsky is ruined; although he always had been for Ronan. His voice low, a little raspy from the way Ronan had just choked the breath from him.]

--Do it again.

[Things escalate, like they always do with them, and that was probably Kavinsky's fault, too.

The way that Ronan ended up sitting in the car with the door open and space enough between his long legs for Kavinsky's slim body. He was on his knees in the gravel, his mouth around Ronan's cock, lips slick and eager as Ronan's hands almost tenderly hold the sides of his face. Kavinsky slides all the way down, letting the girth of the other boy's cock slide down his throat like he was made for this, and if he could have grinned at the way that he cursed he would have. And Ronan carefully held him like that, not letting him pull back to breathe, but his fingers stroked against his dark hair.

It's maybe the softest they've ever been allowed to be with one another.

K's eyes went fuzzy, but he didn't look away from the other boy. His sight flickering dark at the edges, narrowing down to almost tunnel-vision as his throat flexed around Ronan's cock. His body struggled to breathe and Kavinsky struggled to stay like that until Ronan pulled him back and he could gasp for breath a few times. And then he'd lean back in like he needed this, eyes glassy and almost desperate -- it wasn't like he believed he'd get a second chance. It was a rhythm between them, but not one that could last very long.

Kavinsky let Ronan's release slide down his throat, taking in the way he tasted and the way that he felt. He knew he'd probably be dreaming about this for years. And then-- Ronan did not shove his hand down K's jeans or anything. No, instead he traced fingers over K's wet mouth, and then Ro was carefully choking him again, breathing a soft request into the shadows between them. He couldn't get his jeans open fast enough, shamefully hard and aching and showing him what he did to him; it the sort of careless that came from being so close to getting off as the boy he liked choked him in a way that felt as sweet as people kissed in movies.

The other dreamer pressed fingers into the soft skin of his throat, leaving bruises like fingerprints at the base of his neck. And Kavinsky shook and trembled and whined even with no sound to it. He hardly had to touch himself at all like this, just the slightest brush of his fingertips and then his orgasm hit him hard, like a sledgehammer to the face, except pleasure, like-- he couldn't think. All he could do was ache for this perfect beautiful boy that he wanted. His release on his fingers and the asphalt and he was gasping through it, but unsure when Ronan had let go.

And eventually they got in their cars.

He hadn't ghosted him, hadn't walked away, but there had been a moment, alone in his bedroom where he'd wanted to. Because Ronan had hooks in him, knew things about him, knew how to take him apart. And with everyone else, Kavinsky shied away from it, because no one had ever told him that vulnerability was anything but weakness. He'd sort of expected Ronan to avoid him, so when he doesn't answer his texts for a few days he isn't surprised, even if the feeling it curls in his heart is poison. But he says hello when they see each other at school, even if it's usually with a middle finger.

What does surprise him is that after ignoring his texts, he shows to his party.

And Kavinsky had always rolled his eyes at the idea that making things sexual changed things with people, but he guessed that it was different when you cared. Because Kavinsky looked at Ronan and it felt magnetic- electric- like his heart skipped just from standing close to him. He got him a beer and he made a joke, but nothing felt the same, and they fell together because it was impossible not to. Because K had ducked his head while he talked and Ronan had said something about the bruises and K had said something back: and then they were in a back room, locking the door just so that Ronan could shove him up against it. So he could wrap his long legs around his waist and hold on.

This time they kiss.

This time it feels like they're both desperate, like Ronan needs it as badly as he does, like it's more than curiosity -- they're both pulling at zippers and fabric. And Kavinsky really would have loved to have the other dreamer fuck him up against the door, but he's trying not to rush, not to push too fast. So he gets Ronan laying down on the futon, and lets him watch as he preps himself, even if it's maddeningly slow, far more careful than he usually bothers with. But it means that when he slides down on the other boy's cock, it's slick and easy and so good it makes him whimper. At first it's K riding Ronan, and then it's Ronan's hands bruising hard on his hips, lifting him and pulling him down because he has the upper body strength and Kavinsky hardly weighs anything and they both need it.

This becomes a pattern too -- although Kavinsky does get Ronan to fuck him against a wall, and the sex gets a little less careful. Through the school week Ronan ghosts him and ignores his texts and Kavinsky curses at him across the quad, and snarls insults like filth you'd have to wash off. Things seem the same. Or well, things probably seem the same to Gansey. But every interaction, every time he calls Ronan Princess, every time Ronan shoves him- it crackles with the feelings underneath. And then Ronan shows up at his parties, or the races, and yeah, they usually have sex. But also, more than that, Ronan makes Kavinsky feel things he doesn't have the words for.

He makes him want things he doesn't dare to ask him for.

And that's why Kavinsky thinks that this is probably his fault.

Because this is not one of the days when Ronan acknowledges whatever thing this is between them. But Kavinsky had been hanging out by the dorms, waiting for Swan and Skov, and this kid on the lacrosse team had been flirting with him. He was tall, shoulders for days- but the truth was everyone came up short when he was comparing them to Ronan. But K had laughed and flirted back, although he didn't think that he'd meant it, not really. It was just how he was.

But just how he was meant Ronan had just put his fist in someone's face- which was admittedly far from shocking or unusual. But he'd grabbed Kavinsky's arm, dragged him a few yards to a dark corner where he could shove him up against the wall. Which was where they were now: Ronan's hands on his body and Kavinsky looking up into his blue eyes like they were his world.

And if Ronan had just been pissed, maybe K would have teased him about it, would have told himself it wasn't a big deal, that he was just in a bad mood. Fuck knows it happened enough. But Ronan was jealous in a way that radiated off of him. And that meant he was hurt.

Kavinsky- he hadn't thought about this. He didn't know how to handle this. Maybe most people would have started with sorry, but that wasn't something he really know how to say, let alone how you followed it. He was a little flushed, his face warm not from the kid with the lacrosse stick, but because he couldn't help it when the other dreamer manhandled him.

He reaches up, and carefully dragged fingers softly over Ronan's cheek, his heart racing in his chest. He knows he's gonna fuck this up. That he's already fucked this up, probably. But he wants to try anyway. Because the idea of losing him is intolerable.]

Did I make you jealous, Sweetheart?

[And it would be easy- so easy- for the words to be teasing, the sort of thing that Kavinsky smirked through. But it isn't. His voice is soft, almost sounds concerned if you didn't know it was him saying it.

And he is. Because he didn't want to lose whatever weird thing this is they've been doing over the past several months. He just didn't know where the lines were, what Ronan wanted, and he'd been too scared of losing it all to ask. Because he wants to date him, he wants to hold his stupid hand and make him stupid breakfast and all that bullshit.]

[Kavinsky had died on the Fourth of July.
Or that was the story that everyone knew- almost everyone.

A Kavinsky had died on the Fourth of July.
And he'd dreamt a copy of Proko to live in a coma in Henrietta hospital.
This was the truth.

It hadn't taken him long after he'd realized that he could dream people to wonder what that meant for himself. None of his copies tended to live very long, of course; with his feelings toward himself, the dreams he brought them from were typically fraught with perils that chased them into reality. But that had been useful in itself- he knew that he could do it long before the Fourth of July- and he knew what it was good for.

It actually hadn't been because he wanted to make Ronan suffer. But Kavinsky had been operating carelessly ever since he'd moved to Henrietta; dying for any hint of another dreamer. And he would have died for it, if he hadn't taken steps to quiet the trail. As pissed as he'd been at Ronan, he hadn't wanted to leave them sniffing around to end up at his doorstep- and fuck knew that Ronan wasn't the brightest bulb in the chest. And the Greenmantles were the sort of people that were so buffoonish you didn't realize they were fucking psychopaths until it was too late.

Take it from Kavinsky.
Take it from Prokopenko- the one he hadn't been able to protect.

He fucking wasn't going to let that happen to him again. And he wasn't going to let it happen to Ronan. He'd wanted- he'd wanted him to come with him. He'd planned a different finale, but it had been fine, in the end. It had hurt, in ways that he thought he'd never get to tell him, but it had worked. Kavinsky made himself the center of attention, dreamt it so that no one really noticed Ronan, no one really remembered. There had been one dreamer, and he had died on the asphalt under the fire and bitterness of his own creation.

Coma-Proko crashed dramatically, to really sell it.
An easy story.
End of.

Except that it wasn't, of course. Kavinsky took off with Prokopenko, and while he wanted to give him a life better than cruising across the country Thelma and Louise style, it was still a life. They still had something, and they had it together. Kavinsky couldn't give him back the one he'd lost, but he could give him this one, at least.

But Ronan doesn't fucking know how to keep his head down- and maybe there were a few pieces of the puzzle Kavinsky hadn't been aware of- but whatever. He is dead now; body in the morgue and all that shit. He wonders, vaguely, what his mother will do for a funeral, but be doesn't stick around to find out. Any lingering bullshit with hitmen and insane assholes is not his mess to clean up. So he wishes Ronan luck and leaves him in the rearview mirror, even if his heart breaks a little, and the other dreamer's name forever lingers on his heart.

But he drags Proko to some shitty matinee and goes down on him in the back of the theater, and he feels a little bit better. It's been a little bit over a year, and he thinks he could have done that forever. Proko at his side, against the world. The boy that had loved him enough to die for him, and Kavinsky just wants whatever they can take. He tells fortunes or sells drugs or trinkets, but mostly because he can't stand to not keep his hands busy; his mind dreaming.

They never stay too long.

There's a faint voice in K's dreams, sometimes, when they're staying somewhere the energy runs thick, like tonight as they leave the pleasure of Miami summer behind them. Sometimes he thinks it sounds like Ronan, but it's different than that. He almost doesn't believe it, because it feels too much like what he wants: someone to change the world, that wants to protect dreams and dreamers. What else had he asked from Ronan back in the beginning? He calls bullshit but Bryde just gives him a challenge: the Fairy Market. Kavinsky hasn't been since he faked his death, but if there's even a chance--

So they go. He leaves Proko behind, because... there's just too many ways it could go wrong, that he could fuck it up. So he leaves him in a motel room in a part of town where people will call the cops if they hear gunshots, and he leaves him a dreamt gun so it'll kill anything that comes after him. He leaves him a car, too. A VW Golf, although it's in a more muted color than his old one, it still feels like an apology.]

I'm not leaving you.

[He murmurs into his hair as he kisses his temple just before dawn. Given how their skin almost smells like each other these days, he hopes that he trusts him. But when has he not?

Hours later and somehow Kavinsky ends up here, staring at Ronan Lynch across the closing doors of an elevator, because his life is always a fucking mess.
This time, Kavinsky lets them.
He doesn't even know if he wants the other boy to try and stop him. Or at least that's what he tells himself, even if it's a fucking lie. But honesty has never been his best quality. And it's been so long, and it still hurts so much. He looks disinterested, like he's looking through him, like he isn't a ghost standing there in the flesh.]

[Jiang almost couldn't believe that this was real.

The whole thing felt impossible: the fact that he had asked Ronan Lynch to model for him, and that Ronan had said sure to begin with. The fact that they were here at Aglionby after hours, which merged into something more like a dream of itself, so very different from the campus that they inhabited by daylight when they were instead here just shy of midnight.

Jiang had also had a few rolls of film with him he wanted to develop, and Ronan had been interested so he'd taken him back into the darkroom while he put it on reels. He showed him how he ran it through the developer and the chemicals, explaining what he was doing, and even letting Ronan help him until the wet strips of the film rolls are hanging up to dry in the red light.

Jiang sort of wants to kiss him, but he doesn't. He just flushes a little, and carefully loads a fresh roll of film into his camera. Yeah, he has a crush on Ronan. But Jiang doesn't think this is particularly remarkable. He's a human being with eyes, after all, and he didn't think it took more than that to think about kissing Ronan Lynch. But Jiang wanted more than that too, the sort of soft things he wasn't sure a boy like Ronan wanted.

The art room is maybe his favorite place at Aglionby, honestly.

It has that old school charm, with wooden floors speckled with wood stain and old paint, smeared clay dust and the chemical scent of developer. There's a wood heater next to the kiln -- given that some projects are temperature sensitive, there are no vents for the central heating that keeps the majority of the classrooms heated in the winter. There are old easels and various sorts of chairs and couches for posing, a sheet tossed over an in-progress sculpture; Jiang lights a scented candle to help it smell a bit more like lavender and less like oil paints and turpentine.

He set up a couple stands with lights while Ronan took off his shirt and lounged on a faded old couch. The lights were warm more than overly bright, but enough to make some shadows for Jiang to play with. He'd had someone unofficially look over his portfolio before he started sending it with his college applications, and the consensus had been that he had too many candid photos and not enough modeled shots. That his photos were very good, but that he needed to show that he could create something with intention, too.

He needed to show people that he had something to say, quote-unquote.
Jiang wasn't sure if he did have something to say. He just knew that he liked photography, and that he liked Ronan Lynch. It feels somehow illicit, almost intimate, when he clicks that first picture. And it becomes an easy excuse for Jiang to so-softly slide fingers against his bicep, urging him to reposition his arm just a little. Or against his ribs, and then kneeling for a low angle as he takes in the line of his back, his tattoo and the curve of his mouth.

God, he's gorgeous.

And they talk, in between the pictures. About art school and how his father wants him to apply to Harvard, but he's thinking about college in DC, and a dozen things that they haven't talked about despite the racing and the parties and the roughing each other up a little. He's passionate, he cares about this.

But somehow, talking leads to Ronan asking if he can take a few pictures, and Jiang hands over his camera with an easy smile. But his heart races, skips a few beats in his chest. He's tempted to point out that there are better models, but Jiang likes how this moment feels -- and he's selfish enough to not want to give it up. And so he ends up topless, barefoot, stretched out on the same couch, but where Ronan dwarfed the couch with his height and his build, Jiang has space to space.

It occurs to him that it might be the first time that Ronan's seen his tattoo, though; it starts on his shoulder and then curls down the side of his ribs. A waterfall, red roses and white lotus, a snow leopard with claws and teeth. It had been semi-impulsive, which was to say that Skov had encouraged him every step of the way, but he still didn't regret it. It said something he hadn't known how to say with words at the time.

He put his hands over his head, stretching out so his body curved a little in a way that he hoped was flirty, maybe provocative. Because he couldn't help himself. Because he wanted to believe it meant something that Ronan had asked.]

Like this?

[Jiang gives Ronan a box, not much bigger than a photograph, just before he leaves. He tells him to open it later, when he's alone, because it's special. He kisses him, loving and adoring and like he could kiss him for hours. But eventually he pulls away, brushes a touch of his lips against his cheek and his temple. And then he's getting into his Supra and driving back to the dorms.

The box is wrapped in black chromatic paper that turns into rainbows as you shift it in the light. There are a half dozen black and white photographs, Ronan the focus of them all. But it's Ronan through Jiang's eyes: dangerous but loyal, wicked and sharp, unbearably sexy, soft hearted and kind, just happy--

And then the last one was in color. Ronan in the sun's light, a sliver of shadow on the edge of his face- his smile unself-conscious and pleased. He was leaning against the BMW as sunrise turned into a late spring morning, car stopped by a roadside that left whether they'd continue to school or blow it off entirely a question that felt unanswered even if memory knew the truth. But it's the sort of photo that demonstrates the difference between taking a picture and something more. Because the picture is somehow more true than memory. The edges softer, the colors brighter, and the picture feels: it yearns, it loves, its focus undeniably on the boy that it captures. There's a truth in the pictures, but it's in the feelings.

Under the photographs is a leather bracelet, the sort that would blend in with the others that Ronan wore, almost indistinguishable. But it was printed with the words amor est lux; love is light. There's a small note folded inside the bracelet that says just: I thought it might be easier for you like this. I hope it's less awkward than flowers. He signed it with his name, and a small heart. He doesn't ask the question in words, he leaves it there in between everything else.]

[Kavinsky tried to tell himself that it wasn't a big deal; it wasn't like it was the first time they'd had pizza together. Except that tonight it was just the two of them, no pretenses or bystanders. He very pointedly hadn't called it a date or anything, sticking with the safer question of do you want to hang out, mostly for Ronan's benefit. But the memory of the other night and the following morning still lingered heavy for him, made the very idea charge in a way that made his heart race.

He knew that things had changed. Whether it was Kavinsky admitting that he didn't want anyone else, or the fact that Ronan had stayed, driven him home... He didn't know the cause, but he could feel the shift of the tension between them. He'd known that he wanted Ronan Lynch like he wanted to breathe for a while, but he'd tried to play it cool. Like it wasn't as all-consuming as a forest fire.

But Ronan had said yes when he'd asked. And that was-- it was something. It meant that he hadn't fucked this up, yet. That wanting him for real wasn't enough to push this thing between them to breaking. He's not dressed up, but he is a little more put together; dark jeans and a dark patterned button down open over his usual tank top. There's a joke there- about how he hoped it was ugly enough Ronan would take it off him.

Thankfully, he had just finished setting the pizza up in the basement when he hears the door. There's a small cooler with drinks on ice, and the lights were a little low. The music was a playlist of Ronan's electronica; so most people probably wouldn't call the atmosphere romantic, but it was moody, at least. He smiles as he opens the door, a smirk curling his mouth, and he still wears his confidence like just another shirt, but with Ronan there are gaps if he looks.]

Hey, man.

Edited (finishing sentences is for losers) 2023-01-03 00:10 (UTC)

just a small thing :3

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dreamfield au :333

hey jealousy;

once upon the fairy market;

let me take your picture, baby

love and light;

cutesy sexy and feelsy :>