Ronan Lynch (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
threesecrets) wrote2021-05-11 01:16 am
threesecrets) wrote2021-05-11 01:16 am
Entry tags:
post for psls;
✞ m/m only
✞ no invitation needed
✞ feel free to just drop an idea
✞ if you wanna do adam & ronan chat me up first
✞ safeaslife#0150 or PM, at your leisure
✞ if you wanna do adam & ronan chat me up first
✞ safeaslife#0150 or PM, at your leisure
no subject
But he gasps softly at the way that Kavinsky puts a hand to his back, and he doesn't pull away from it. There's something unsteady to him for a breath, but he doesn't pull away. It's just- he'd forgotten what it was like. It felt different, having Kavinsky touch him like this, it was more than the slight touch he'd brushed against his side, and he leans into it, lets it linger like permission.
K is the first person to touch him, to remind him what reality had to offer in the first place. Why he'd wanted both worlds, when he'd been young and hungry enough to believe he could have it. He'd dreamt himself boyfriends and husbands and lovers -- he'd even dreamt Kavinsky a few times, but the other boy never stayed. He always left him behind. Ronan had spent a year in an empty dream that was just summer nostalgia, fireworks and bonfires, cars and the way sunlight made the hood of the Mitsubishi almost molten. Bleachers with red plastic cups, milling by the convenience store after midnight with an ice rocket crammed in his mouth because it was too hot to sleep and too hot to lay in bed at Monmouth; he might not care for Kavinsky's movies, but at least he had air conditioning, or so he used to lie to himself.
But what was this world without its King? What was Ronan without him? It had been a year, it had been more and less, but he'd never answered the question. Or maybe he just didn't want to.]
Yeah, I remember. I'll wait for you.
[He understood the things that Kavinsky wasn't saying. He understood that this was a kindness, this was Kavinsky trying to get a shield between Ronan and the bullet. He wasn't going to argue with him. He didn't feel the need to have this fight, but he was sure that K's boys would. There had only ever been one person that could talk them down, anyway.
He wasn't sure that he did remember, at least not in the way of linear memory. It was more.. like muscle memory. The certainty that if he thought about it and walked that he'd end up in his room. None of these memories, reflexes, ever went away; Ronan had just tried to tell himself he didn't need them anymore -- ever the liar.
He wants to say something, like not to get into too much trouble on his account. But this is a choice K is making, and Ronan doesn't want to devalue that, so he doesn't tell him not to. But before he heads to Kavinsky's room, he pauses, looking at him like he was struggling for the right words, the right feeling.]
I-- thank you.
no subject
Letting his hand fall away, he nodded. But then- just as unexpected as before was Ronan thanking him. He knew his boys could be rough, but they weren't rougher than the rest of the world was now. But also, they were capable of things worse than killing someone. Words. He meant words. Hurtful things could be worse than death.]
It's- yeah, no problem.
[He waited until Ronan was out of sight before he took a deep breath and stepped back into the living room. It was a good thing the other dreamer hadn't accompanied him. Ronan would be able to catch bits and pieces of the conversation, raised voices.
Swan, the fuck is he doing here-
Prokopenko, swearing without saying anything meaningful.
All at once, they started talking over each other, making a chaos of noise. Someone, maybe Skov, said something about I'll beat his face.
Then, Kavinsky, louder than before, telling them to shut the fuck up, this is my house.
After that outburst, it was relatively quiet. It took a few minutes after that before Kavinsky joined Ronan in his room, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He was just going to pretend that the whole incident in the living room hadn't happened unless Ronan asked him about it. Speaking of asking though, he had so many questions. Where did he even start?]
I didn't think I was ever going to see you again.
no subject
So he curled up in the roots of a magical tree. He thought he would dream forever; he thought that he wanted to dream forever. He didn't know if he'd be here if he could resist the pull- there was still that voice in the back of his head that sounded a lot like Skov that said Kavinsky was worse off with Ronan. That he only ever hurt him.
But what about now? He didn't quite know. He felt- different from the teenager too scared to say any of the things they had both needed him to.
He walks to Kavinsky's room without really thinking about it- muscle memory. When he walks in, it reminds him a little of his dreams. Where Kavinsky left him behind but he'd stayed in the dream. He'd laid in his bed alone, breathing in the scent of him, that feeling like he was just around the corner, going to walk back in any moment. It was his dream, after all. Surely he could bring Kavinsky back to him. But he never does.
He'd given the BMW glowing blue LED headlight frames, a variety of garish paint jobs, as if he could summon the white specter of the moonlight Mitsubishi, all boyish glee trailing him from stoplight to stoplight. Except that he was alone. Sometimes he'd catch a whisper from the corner of his eye- or maybe just imagine it- like something hunting him, a shadow he couldn't shake because he didn't really want to. But there was never anyone behind the driver's side window, never Proko sloppy on the passenger side, with Swan, Skov and Jiang crammed into the back. Bulgarian rap blaring too-loud from abused speakers, abusing his breaks to get Ronan's attention.
It had been a wish, not really a dream. And there was too much contentious history left hanging between them for Ronan to summon him to him like something he could have. Like he could just dream Kavinsky's life around him and pretend that it had never gone wrong.
But it had.
Maybe it was why it had to be Kavinsky to wake him; two hundred years of dreams and maybe he'd still been waiting.
He knows that it's probably a mercy that he can't hear what Skov and Proko have to say about him being here. He's thought so many unkind things about Prokopenko out of jealousy. Like if he could pretend that the boy was unattractive, then he wouldn't have to worry about not being enough. When the truth was that he was not enough for other reasons -- because he didn't know how to choose him until it was too late. He can hear K raise his voice, but not the words. Unlike Monmouth, the sound insulation at K's place isn't fucking awful.
And then a few moments later and he was back, skinny line of his body that Ronan wanted to wrap his around around. K was messing his hair with his fingers and Ronan had the distinct urge to brush the other boy's bangs back off his forehead, to feel his hair between his fingers. To touch him like it's something that he had ever known how to ask for. He doesn't do it, but he recognizes it, accepts the desire. It just doesn't feel like the right moment for it, doesn't feel like he has permission yet.]
I didn't either. I didn't think I'd ever wake up, to be honest. Thought I'd just- dream until the world itself forgot me.
[He hasn't touched anything in K's room, just looking around and quietly comparing the differences between what he remembers. He's quiet for a moment, but then when he looks up and meets the other Dreamer's eyes, there's guilt that shines in Ronan's face, slides from his skin. And when he tries to carefully explain, the sentiment I wanted a better world for you goes unsaid. But it hangs there, between them, like how talking in a dream bares your secrets. He can't not tell him, even if it's not in words.]
I made such a mess of things, K. I thought I could make a better world for Dreamers. But I didn't think it would be like this.
no subject
You're impossible to forget, sweetheart.
[As if Kavinsky, at least, would have ever been able to stop thinking about him, no matter how many decades passed. He could be on his deathbed and he'd still remember Ronan Lynch, the boy he'd nearly died for.
He stepped closer, reaching out a hand to brush his fingers against Ronan's wrist. It was a simple touch but he was trying to be soothing, comforting. It wasn't necessarily his strong suit, but. He could try, for Ronan.]
This isn't your fault. How could it be your fault? I'm just- I'm glad you're here.
[He was so glad to see Ronan he was almost convinced he didn't need to know where he'd been or what had happened. Yet- he was still curious. It just...it didn't feel as pressing now as it had when he'd opened the door and seen Ronan.]
no subject
I couldn't forget you either.
[Kavinsky steps in close, and Ronan doesn't look away, doesn't shift his body so the shape of the space between them is intrinsically at odds. Instead his breath catches, a shiver that runs down his spine. And there's something about Kavinsky's fingers against his wrist that Ronan feels, but couldn't put into words. His touch against the thin skin, against his pulse, so intimate that the other boy could literally feel the beat of his heart if he wanted to. And Ronan's always been weak to these things: hands and fingers, ankles and collarbones- the fragile parts of the body. The intimacy in the different ways you could touch someone.
It makes his blood sear in his veins, reminds him very suddenly of how two hundred years ago he'd lusted for Kavinsky in every way that he comprehended. But of course, he hadn't understood enough, not back when he was seventeen; it had mostly been frightening, had felt like sin. Now, it-- it's something different. It makes Ronan's blue eyes darken, something charged in the way that he looks at Kavinsky for the space of that moment. He looks at him like desire, but not filtered though anger and confusion, not something that he flinches from. He looks at him like someone that has absolutely imagined what he looks like naked.
He'd like to say that he wasn't always so easily affected, but that would be a goddamn lie -- not even the sort he could tell to himself anymore. Kavinsky had always gotten to him, and it's been two hundred years since he last touched someone for real and he's spent a lot of that time aching for him in dreams. His fantasies are a bit more clear now, too- not so completely blind to the things he wanted. So he can imagine what it might be like to have his fingers in his pants, to wrap his mouth around him. And fuck but he's wanted to find out.
But he tries to not get caught up in that rush of wanting, even if it's so intense he feels exposed by it. Instead he reaches out, catching Kavinsky's hand in his own. His fingers are like a caress, tracing up against the bones of his fingers. His breath is uneven, almost flushed. He'd say something about it, but it feels so obvious. And as used to dreams as Ronan is, it feels like a question Kavinsky has to already know the answer to.]
I'll tell you about it, if you want.
[He sighs, and there's an edge to his voice- something complicated, and colored with fire and loneliness. And his fingers trace against the other boy's like an unwritten apology. Because he'd had to suffer to understand.]
no subject
Besides that, Ronan was touching him. Ronan had said he was impossible to forget and he was touching him. Kavinsky didn't think he was easy, he wasn't touch starved or lacking affection in his life, but having Ronan touch him was part of some of his wildest dreams. It didn't even have to be sexual. Despite trying not to, he shivered.]
Okay.
[He shifted his grip on Ronan's hand, lifting it so he could press a kiss to his knuckles without breaking eye contact. He might have been pushing his luck but it was the mildest thing he could think of at this point to test the waters. He didn't know what Ronan had been through, just that he seemed different. And not just because he was more receptive to touching but because he seemed...off. Unsteady, maybe. It was hard to describe, but Kavinsky liked to think he'd known Ronan relatively well. And something was clearly different about him.]
We can swap stories.
no subject
It makes him burn.
He felt like he hadn't earned it, like he should ask before pressing for the things that he ached for. But for as calm as he seemed, there were flames in his heart, just beneath his skin. Because he was still Ronan even after two hundred years. ]
Fuck, K--
[It's like there's something he means to say, something that he wants him to understand, but it isn't in words. It's like something shifts, like Ronan can't help himself, and for a moment his blues are looking at the other boy like he's maybe the only thing left in the world that still matters to him. Like Kavinsky is a spark and Ronan catches fire with it.
He grabs his shirt in his other hand and walks him back a few steps, shoving him up against the wall- careful there was nothing behind him. He doesn't explain, he just kisses him before Kavinsky can say something, ask him what he's doing. Because Ronan doesn't quite know himself, he just needs this, he needs him, he needs Kavinsky in ways that are hard to articulate or explain. There's this connection between them, this line of ley line energy ever since Kavinsky woke him from his dreams... but it isn't why he kisses him.
He's wanted it for so much longer, for hundreds of years, since before the war, when he was just a boy in awe with the idea that it was possible to dream a whole car, when he'd just been a boy that loved cars and his brothers and racing Joseph Kavinsky. He'd never allowed himself to think too much on the details of that last point, because it was so big it terrified him. Now he loves Kavinsky so much it feels like having his heartbeat in someone else's chest, and he can admit that, at least to himself.
So he crashes them up against the wall, crashes their mouths together, hungry and desperate. Unlike Kavinsky, Ronan absolutely is touch starved, and it probably shows in how he drags a hand up the side of his face, how he shakes before he even kisses him. How he whines into the kiss, their hips slotted together, something about the way that Ronan kisses him is filthy, suggests more than just a kiss.]
Is this okay? I should've--
[When he parts to steal a breath he can't help asking, but then he shifts so he's curling fingers at the back of K's neck, and he kisses him without really finishing the sentiment or giving him time to answer. I should have asked being what he means, but they've never really been boys that asked nicely for anything, so maybe this isn't particularly unexpected in the ways that they hooked into each other. Ronan nips at the other boy's mouth, the slight press of his tongue against the line of his mouth like a request and an invitation. His other hand goes to his hip, slipping a finger into the belt loop of his low-slung jeans, his thumb tracing against the border of fabric and skin like a promise.
He sorta wants to just shove his hand down his pants, but he's trying to give Kavinsky a moment to breathe, to be sure this was okay first. But fuck, he's like a drug, a contact high every time they touched and he just wants everything he'd been too much of a coward to admit that he needed. That summer when he'd just been terrified of the fact that he wanted another boy, that the boy was Kavinsky, and that he wanted him to fuck him so hard he forgot how to breathe.
He'd wanted him with every awkward and stumbling adolescent feeling that bloomed into teenage desire. He'd been so sure he was doing something wrong, so sure existing was wrong. Now-- he was still willing to burn whatever world didn't want them, if it came down to it.]
no subject
For a moment, Kavinsky's heart felt like it did something funny, like the sort of feeling he got from street racing- except this was a better high, a better everything. Ronan was pressed all up against him and it was better than anything he could have hoped for. They said time healed all wounds but Kavinsky had never gotten over Ronan, never stopped wanting him. He'd tried to tell himself that there were plenty of other people in the world, in his life, and that he could do better than Ronan but it'd always felt like a lie. There was no one who was better than Ronan.
He whimpered, just once, into the kiss, skin heated where Ronan touched him. He even tried to chase his mouth when he pulled away- it took a moment for him to process the question. But then he didn't have any time to answer before they were kissing again and that was okay. Everything was okay. He wrapped his arms around Ronan, one hand shoved under his jacket to clutch at the back of his shirt, the other cupping the back of his head.
It didn't take much to set Kavinsky off, and fuck but Ronan was like a wildfire right now, igniting everything in his path. Kavinsky wanted him desperately, wanted his hands on his body, his mouth, skin on skin. But more than that, he wanted-]
Please, tell me this isn't a dream.
[He pulled away just far enough to speak, breathless but not overwhelmed, desperate for this to be real, for Ronan to really, genuinely want him. He wouldn't be able to stand it if this was just some spur-of-the-moment thing where Ronan was lonely and wanted someone. Kavinsky had tried to give him everything before; he'd give him everything again if he could. He'd treat Ronan like a king, he just- he needed this to matter.]
no subject
But then there was that request, so vulnerable that it makes him want to kiss him all over again. But instead he leans their foreheads together, close enough to kiss him, but not closing the distance, just breathing in the intimacy of the proximity. He's reminded of course, of that summer when he was seventeen. Of how he would have flinched from this, lashed out at those sort of words. He'd come so close to losing him, too stupid and caught up in his own feelings to worry about it until it was nearly too late. He hadn't been able to say the right words, the truth that Kavinsky had known, even in their dreams.
He lets his hand shift from the back of his neck to cup against the side of his face, his thumb tracing against the line of his cheekbones.]
It isn't a dream. In my dreams I can never hold onto you. I-- want you, K. It's been so long.
[It felt like it was probably obvious, but those coarse thoughts of the Forth of July were a sharp reminder that he needed to say it out loud, that Kavinsky needed to hear it. His touch against his face was soft affection, but Ronan rolled his hips against the other boy like punctuation, because he was embarrassingly hard in his jeans just from kissing him.
It was like he was trying to tell Kavinsky that he wanted to kiss him, and he also wanted him without his clothes on, he wanted everything. He hadn't been brave enough to own his own desires all those years ago. The very idea of sex, of a dream where they kissed without their clothes on, would make wake gasping with euphoria before it melted into disgust with himself. The sort of shame that would last all day, like someone might know what sort of pervert he was just by looking at him.
Now he didn't care. He hoped Kavinsky could tell how much he yearned for him, that he wasn't ashamed of it, had learned things about himself walking through his dreams for so long. He wouldn't leave him in his rearview mirror, even if he could. Even if working through this was difficult, even if it meant having to convince Skov and Prokopenko and Swan and Jiang that this would be different, that he was willing to fight for Kavinsky.
He kisses him again, tender but with that same sort of needy desperation, that same way that it's not-quite sweet, that Ronan is too hungry for him, and can't help but make it filthy. His hand on his hip slipping his fingers into his jeans, just to touch against his skin. But it's also a touch like a promise. He hadn't known how to want these things back then, but he does now. Fuck, but he aches for him now.]
no subject
Ronan wanted him. He'd dreamed about Kavinsky. K didn't care that it'd been over two hundred years and that the world was ravaged and scarred- it was better late than never. Besides, the time had passed in the blink of an eye for him. That summer was still relatively fresh in his mind but so was everything he felt for Ronan. He couldn't ignore it; he couldn't deny it.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat.]
I want you, too. I never stopped wanting you.
[And fuck, Ronan wasn't the only one who was hard. The only thing overwhelming in this moment was how much Kavinsky wanted him. The way Ronan touched him was- it was almost more reassuring than his words. He tipped his face against Ronan's hand, nuzzling into his palm. He wasn't touch starved but this was different than with Proko or any of the others.
Pushing his hips against Ronan's, Kavinsky kissed him back, more desperate than tender because it was hard to balance the two things right now when he wanted him so much. But- he loved Ronan, he knew he did, even if it felt way too soon to actually say it out loud. It wasn't like they barely knew each other, it'd just been so long. Kavinsky didn't just fall in love, he didn't think he'd ever loved anyone before Ronan but- it was such a strong feeling.]
no subject
[He murmured the words against his mouth, pressing kisses to his mouth, heated and needy. He was desperate for him and he didn't care if it showed. He moaned helplessly as Kavinsky pushed his hips back into him, and Ronan took it as invitation to just shamelessly grind up against him, just to feel something, just to feel him.
Even if it was just the friction of how their erections pressed together through the layers of their jeans. It was almost too much, almost overwhelming. Rough fabric and the soft cloth of his boxers, and the friction of how they pressed together. Then Ronan was trailing kisses down his jaw and the side of his neck, wet and with just a slight tease of teeth; not enough pressure to mark his skin, but just enough to make sure he felt it.
His hand shifting, undoing the button and then the zipper of his jeans, and he didn't even really stop grinding against him until he had his hand in his pants, until he was shoving his pants down just enough for Ronan to curl his fingers around the thick girth of his cock. He cursed just from the feeling, the warmth and the heat. And fuck, fuck but it had been so long, and Ronan should have done this so long ago, and it's been so long since anyone had touched him and he has to press his face into Kavinsky's shoulder to steady himself, because he wants to cry just from how much he wants him.
Instead of crying, he just wraps his hand around his cock, firm and tight as he slides his hand up and down. He strokes him a few times before sinking to his knees. His blue eyes on Kavinsky's, and he doesn't break eye contact, not even when his knees hit the floor. Not even when he keeps sliding his hand over him, rather insistently jerking him off, leaning in so that he can fit his mouth around the head of his cock. Ronan letting his tongue slide over skin, desperate to feel him like this. He whimpered audibly with how good it felt, better than anything just to be able to touch him, taste him. To know he wouldn't leave.
He wanted to take all of him into his mouth, maybe even slide him down his throat, but he was so desperate for everything he couldn't get his brain to realize that meant he had to stop touching him first. So for the moment his mouth just trailed after his fingers. He was on fire, felt like he'd burn everything he touched, but Kavinsky had always been burning too- he thought that he could take it.]
no subject
He groaned against Ronan's mouth when he grinded against him, hand sliding a little lower down his back. It was nothing compared to when Ronan got his pants open and his hand in his boxers and- Kavinsky wasn't usually so affected by these sort of things but his pale skin was flushed and he felt a little weak in the knees. It was a good thing he had the wall behind him to help hold him up. He would have laughed at the way Ronan swore if Kavinsky himself wasn't so tangled up in the feeling of his hand on his dick. Instead, his eyes fluttered shut for a moment and then he was peering at Ronan through his dark lashes.]
Oh, fuck.
[It was something like a gasp or a murmur as Ronan got down on his knees, Kavinsky only letting go of his shirt with great reluctance. It took a lot of effort not to just put his hands on Ronan's head and push him down on his cock, but he managed, even if his hands shook a little. He didn't want to ruin the moment- and what a moment this was shaping up to be. He'd figured there'd be a lot of talking, explaining, maybe they'd get angry with each other- not this. This was something out of his wildest dreams.
He moaned, utterly shameless, as he kept eye contact with Ronan. Honestly, he was so turned on he wasn't sure how long he was going to last with Ronan's hands and mouth on him. But he didn't want the other dreamer to stop, either, so he did his best to hold together the scraps of his self-control.]
Fuck, Ronan.
no subject
It hadn't seemed like Kavinsky would complain.
He keeps looking up at him, a bright glimmer in his blue eyes, and maybe something rather like a smile, despite his mouth being currently wrapped around the other boy's cock. Ronan wasn't particularly inclined to pull back, to let K slip from his mouth without a very good reason. He does eventually figure out that he has to pull his hands away if he wants to really take him in his mouth, letting them drop away to rest on his thighs. Not touching himself, but close enough it wouldn't take much to undo his jeans. Mostly he doesn't because much like Kavinsky, he's already almost on edge with how turned on he is. And he doesn't want to get himself off before the other dreamer.
He loves the way that he moans, the way that Kavinsky watches him. Fuck, but this is impossibly hot. He already wants to do it again-- and again and again and... Okay, so the truth is that he doesn't want to stop. He wants to stay and he wants to spend a day where all they do is eat and breathe and figure out how their bodies feel when they fit together. Not that he thinks this world will give them the luxury, but he still wants it.
Kavinsky cursing and moaning his name is something he wants etched in his brain forever, something he wants to know so well that he could dream it. How it tastes and feels and the weight of it. Not because he wants to copy it in his dreams, but just because he wants it memorized. He wants to know it like a truth. He murmurs in response because it's really the easiest sound to make without pulling away.
And he wants to take him all the way down and see what sort of sounds he makes then.
But it's been a while since he's done it outside of a dream; two hundred years, plus-and-minus a century or two, depending on how dreams parsed the years. So it's not quite graceful, not like something out of the porn that Ronan had never been brave enough to watch. But he slides down on him, letting the thickness of his cock bury into his mouth and he whines around him, because it's different, better, it's Kavinsky. He takes him too deep too fast and he gags at first; not enough to make him stop, but his blue eyes water and his throat flexes around him.
Fuck, he should have done this before everything went to shit. He should have gone down on him in the Mitsubishi after they raced, when he showed up to his movie nights more for Kavinsky than because he was interested in what they were watching, at the parties that made him burn. Should have touched him every single chance he had, and K had given him so many chances, he'd just been oblivious, trying so hard to deny what he felt. He reaches up to catch Kavinsky's hands, tugging them up to his scalp like an invitation. And then he tries to angle himself a little bit better before trying to slide all the way down.
Filthy, sure, but it feels like something perfect. K's cock saliva-slick under his tongue, and he just wants more, wants to give him everything.]
no subject
He didn't give a single flying fuck how graceful or whatever Ronan was; he wasn't here to critique his methods, he was here to- fuck. With Ronan's guidance, he slid his slightly trembling hands to the back of Ronan's head, not pushing, just touching for the sake of it. Whimpering in the back of his throat, he almost told Ronan not to push himself too much, not to make himself uncomfortable, but Kavinsky was very rarely the voice of restraint and that wasn't going to change right now.
Instead, he shifted his hips forward a fraction, fingers petting across Ronan's scalp. Everything about this moment with the two of them was perfect. The world might have been in shambles but fate or something had brought them together again. He didn't even care if he'd dreamed Ronan at the moment; he was too caught up in the moment, wrapped around Ronan's finger.]
Ronan.
[It was a gasp, breathless, because he was spiraling ever closer, brain fuzzy with pleasure, skin heated. His world had shrunk down to only include the other dreamer; everything else, for all intents and purposes, didn't exist.]