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[Ever since the Forth of July, Ronan sees Kavinsky in his dreams.

He doesn't tell anyone, because it's just a dream, and he likes to pretend that makes it meaningless. But he knows it's more than that, it's the secrets whispered in the liminal spaces of his mind, the way that Kavinsky is still sharp, still knows Dreaming better than Ronan does.

He tells himself that this specter with whom he shares beer bottles of liquid gold is just the world's most fucked up psychopomp. K makes a sly comment over teeth about how fucked his mental state is, and they both grin. It's nothing to fucking worry about, and he lets his heart sing that like a song.

So Ronan doesn't tell anyone. Like he thinks this is a secret he gets to keep, something that will stay in the dark, like he can't see it's too big to hide. Sometimes he doesn't know if he comes for the dreams or for the sharp knife of a boy that seems nestled in this reflection of Cabeswater, kept in his favorite places: among the thorns.

These days it's always summer in his dreams, and his skin is hot and slick, and there's always the sense that there's something burning somewhere, like cars or molotovs. But maybe they were really the same thing. He wonders if that's just Kavinsky's eyes, the way he watches him as they stand under the trees.

They touch, sometimes. Not lips to lips- but fingers to tongue. Kavinsky passing him a pill orange as the Pig that tastes like a sunset and leaves him reeling for days/minutes/hours/no time at all. Ronan cutting open a pomegranate and feeding him the seeds one. by. one. until their hands and their mouths are red and hungry. He kneels and makes an old joke about dogs, and this time neither of them smiles. Kavinsky feeds him a dream, a whole world, makes him devour it from his hand. It's something he eats from his fingers slow- something to savor. Ronan looks into his eyes until there's nothing but this. Fingers heavy on his tongue, and Kavinsky grins as they shift into snakes: Ronan swallows this too. It tastes bitter. It tastes like bliss.

Careless fingers trace the curves of his tattoo and remind him he turned this into a dream, too. Ink and skin to the shifting potential of dreams, back again. Reality- memory- dream.

Kavinsky seems more real, more like himself, and that realization makes Ronan vibrate with a frustration he doesn't know how to say. This is different from chasing each other from stoplight to stoplight, breathing exhaust smoke, K's shitty sunglasses, and the way Ronan's brand of sentiment had been carved to a permanent fuck you. He hadn't known how to want him then, when K had still been alive. Maybe he wouldn't have died, if Ronan had.

When he wakes, he looks at himself from above, that disconcerting feeling of hovering over his bed at the Barns, with two bodies where there should be one. But he doesn't say it, doesn't make a lie of it even if the truth is damning. Near his shoulder, Kavinsky's breath feels as sure as the purr of an engine.

The dream had been so warm and heavy. They'd been warm and heavy. Like taffy and honey, syrup and soft caramels. Ronan knew he was dreaming. He was a King. Dream- memory- reality. Just like K taught him. He took his hand.]

Edited 2021-05-11 12:03 (UTC)

[Kavinsky opened his eyes. Alive. He was alive. He hadn't thought Lynch would do it. He'd thought he'd spend the rest of his existence inside of his head. Never mind how he'd gotten there in the first place; that didn't matter in the end. What mattered was that he was alive. He felt electric, lying there next to Ronan. Spending the rest of eternity inside Ronan's head wouldn't have been too bad, really; he'd felt like he'd had Ronan all to himself.

He pushed himself up onto an elbow, observing Ronan quietly. He knew that look; he'd seen Ronan wake up from dreaming more times than he could count. That in absolutely no way stopped him from rolling over to straddle Ronan, hands on his chest. His cruel mouth curled into a grin, hands creeping up to curl his fingers around Ronan's jaw.]

Don't you fucking regret this.

[He murmured before leaning down to kiss Ronan almost sweetly. Every kiss became less sweet though, more insistent, filthier, as he waited for Ronan to regain control of himself.

Part of the thrill was that Ronan couldn't stop him right now, but the other thrill was being plucked from Ronan's dreams. Clearly, he wanted Kavinsky, didn't he? Ronan was good enough at what he did that he hadn't just made a mistake. And if he had? Too fucking bad. After the things they'd shared in the dreamspace, Kavinsky wasn't going to let this opportunity pass him by. He took what he wanted or he made it himself.]

[Ronan doesn't regret it. He should, but Ronan did not always want the things that other people thought were best for him. There's been too much time, too many words, too many impossible things that passed between them in dreams until want became an ache under his skin, desire like a fever.

The only real regret is that he hasn't figured out how to unleash dreams from their dreamers yet, which ties them together as surely as Matthew. He doesn't really know what Kavinsky is: a forgery, a ghost, an echo in the ley line. He doubts he'll ever really figure it out- isn't sure Kavinsky would want him to. He rolls over and straddles Ronan's body, hands on his chest that he can feel without being able to do anything about.

He doesn't regret this. Or not yet, at least. Doesn't know if he can temper his worse urges, or even just be here to ride them with him. And he doesn't know if it's enough to keep him from wanting to burn the world.

But for the moment K is kissing him, contact that's warm and almost sweet, fingers pressed into his jaw. It takes minutes, where the other teen can shift those kisses from sweet to filthy, insistent, lust instead of just desire. And then he can move, and all he can think about is touching him. One hand coming up to curl at the back of his neck, a shiver running through him as he was suddenly an active participant.

He kissed him back, want that was like a wildfire. Not a mistake. Maybe not an entirely coherent desire, but it had been real. The way that the touched was different than in dreams. Rarely this literal, and the passage of time always strange and amorphous.]

Fuck, K-- [A curse gasped against his mouth in between kisses that almost bruise his mouth.

He should push him away, collect his thoughts until he can get his bearings. But he can taste him on his lips, feel his heartbeat against his ribs. It's almost overwhelming, the idea of having made him, or even just pulled him from a dream like this. All his best creations had been when he'd been young, when anything had been possible. But Kavinsky is real and here and vital. He's sure it's a sin, but it feels worth it. They'd shared too much for him to pull away.

At some point he'll have to explain him, and he wont have the words. But that's fine. A problem for later. Right now he had Kavinsky on top of him and his skin felt molten.]

[There was his boy, finally back to himself. He was glad when Ronan didn't push him away; Kavinsky didn't know what he'd do with himself if he had. He didn't handle rejection very well, the Fourth of July had been clear evidence of that. He'd wanted Ronan for so long, biding his time until he'd wandered into Kavinsky's web. He could forgive him for rejecting him before. Probably. Maybe.

He wanted so much in this moment. He wanted to sink his teeth into Ronan, mark him, bury himself in him, make him his. He was used to having everything he wanted, and to have had to wait so long for this- He was almost dizzy with lust and want, he felt like he was burning up.

Rolling his hips down, he bit Ronan's bottom lip before pulling back enough to speak.]

Yeah, sweetheart? Something I can do for you?

[His tone danced the line between kind and unkind, an edge of cruelty but not as sharp as normal. It was as close as he got to tender. No one had ever taught him the gentler side of life. He knew he was a fucked up mess, and he swung wildly from accepting and embracing it to hating himself. He found he didn't hate himself in this moment, with Ronan beneath him, hands on him. He could forget about everything but the shape of Ronan's mouth, the feel of his hands.]

[Kavinsky rolls his hips against him and Ronan's breath comes out in a sharp bite of air that's almost a whine. The friction makes him burn, makes his vision blur for a moment as his body jerks up against him in response. He bites at his bottom lip and it pulls a filthy sort of moan from his mouth. He's aching from the lingering effects of the dream, and having K's hands on him before he could even move had just tipped him straight over the edge into something needy. Or maybe that was just having Kavinsky here, body to body again.

He couldn't quite decide if he was willing to be accommodating about the question or not. The way that he called him sweetheart makes him shiver for a moment, just from the familiarity, from how long it's been since he's heard him say it outloud. The way that sounds move different in dreams. He's pretty sure that if he gives him too much that K wont think there's an end to it. But he's not as sharp as he would have been normally, and he can't entirely resist the urge to encourage it.

He grins, filthy and wicked, teeth just above the swell of his bottom lip as he looks up at him, just a touch of a growl in the back of his throat. Ronan was a mess too, still a wild dog at heart, even if it was less outwardly visible.]

Just shut up and touch me. Fuck.

[He doesn't really expect Kavinsky to actually be quiet, so he leans up and tries to make a more persuasive argument with his mouth- lips and tongue, fingers curling in the short strands of his hair to make it deeper. The way he rolls his hips up against him like a plea, like need. He wants this, wants every sexual suggestion he'd ever thrown back in his face. Ronan feels like he's all heat- like they'd lit a spark between them and now it was burning in his chest.]

[Kavinsky had never felt more alive than in this moment. Maybe because he was high on the idea of being real again, maybe because of the way Ronan moved beneath him, the sounds he made. Maybe all of the above.

He let his hands roam across Ronan's neck and shoulders, fingertips dancing over the claws and hooks of his tattoo that crept around his neck. God, he wanted to take Ronan apart, bit by bit, watch him come undone. He wanted all of the things he hadn't been able to have before, and when Ronan grinned, Kavinsky grinned right back. He'd never wanted Ronan more than right now.

Kissing Ronan was a lot better use of his mouth than talking, he could agree to that much. He didn't even try to argue, not yet at least, and kissed Ronan back instead, pressing his tongue into his mouth. Pressing his hips down again when Ronan rolled his up against him, Kavinsky groaned into his mouth. It was good but it wasn't enough. Bracing himself on a forearm, fingers digging into Ronan's shoulder, he reached down between them, shoving any obstacle out of the way, and wrapped his hand around Ronan's dick, grip firm and confident.

Touching Ronan was almost as good as being touched himself and he shivered, pulling away from Ronan's mouth to kiss at his throat, tongue dragging against his skin. Part of him could have been content with just this, but the other part of him wanted more. Needed more.]

Fuck.

[The word came out a groan, but he didn't say anything more.]

[He knew there were reasons that he has pushed Kavinsky away, but with the high of it, the warmth of his body against his and how their skin fit together, it was impossible to remember what any of those reasons were. He was here, here, here. His fingertips tracing over the hooks of his tattoo, and their mouths almost melt together.

The kiss is a little sweet, but not gentle. It's lust and desire, tongue pressed to tongue, hips pressing to hips, seeking friction, pressure-- more. Ronan's only in a pair of thin cotton pajama pants, so there's not much between then when K reaches between their bodies, doesn't take much to shove fabric out of the way. And then his fingers are wrapped around his cock and the moan that tears itself from his chest is wounded with pleasure, shameless need.

It's good, so good that he can't help but lean into it, baring his throat as he tips his head back. Kavinsky's mouth kisses against his throat, the way his tongue glides against skin all wet and hot and real. It's not enough, but he doesn't really know what to ask for. His fingers dragging against skin, a slight scrape of flat nails as he comes unraveled, can't help himself.]

God, please-

[He doesn't even really know what he's asking for, doesn't know what he needs, but he's sure somehow that Kavinsky does. That he's somehow better in reality, better like this where his fingers press to skin and make Ronan writhe, jerking helplessly up into the grip of his hand.]

[Kavinsky knew exactly what he was doing and what he was going to do. He knew what Ronan needed--what they both needed. He could get Ronan off just like this, but that wasn't what he really wanted, no matter how good he felt in Kavinsky's hand. No matter how tempted he was to just jerk him off.

Smirking against Ronan's neck, he worked his way down to his collarbone, mostly kissing, nipping here and there with teeth. The sounds Ronan made had him feeling like fire, like he could do anything, and the scrape of his nails made him shiver. He circled his thumb around the head of Ronan's cock before stroking down to the base, nice and slow, more of a tease than anything. Lifting his head a little, he said-]

Tell me you have lube.

[Because he wanted more than this, and he couldn't just pop off to dreamland to get his own right now. He was, for the moment, reliant on whatever Ronan had. He'd change that in the future--he was always prepared for everything, so long as that 'everything' was sex or drugs.

While he waited for an answer, he mouthed along Ronan's jaw, taking his time despite how desperate he was, how much he ached. He could be patient, sometimes, when it suited him.]

[Ronan couldn't help the way that he whined as Kavinsky slid down his neck, each nip of his teeth drawing a hot sound from his mouth, kisses making him shiver with the warmth. Even if they'd managed to get here before, he never would have been so raw and honest about it. But K had seen his dreams, they'd been in dreams together, all fingers and touch and hands and mouths and pleasure; one creature or two, starved and hungry. What could he possibly have left to hide?

So he lets K hear him, lets himself touch him and cling to him and want in a way that's visceral and burning. They want the same thing, now. K was under his skin, and here and he needed it. He arches into his grip on his dick, the way that he strokes slow, pleasure and friction. But it just makes him want more. And then K is asking about lube and he tries to make his brain work.

He doesn't answer with words, but manages to shift enough that he can tug open the drawer of the side table, and it's lotion and not lube, but it's the closest thing he has. He hadn't exactly planned for this, hadn't exactly done this before. Not like this, where it was real, though K would be forgiven for not noticing that with the tenor of his dreams.]

Here--

[He presses the small bottle into his other hand, a low gasp of want as Kavinsky's mouth presses to his jaw. He looks into his eyes, tugs him up so that he can kiss him, slotting their mouths together again. There's no way to deny that he wanted it, that he was complicit in this. But he couldn't be bothered to give a shit about the aftermath when all he could think of was how much he needed him and how good his hands felt on his skin.]

[He drank in every sound Ronan made, every move he made. Every little thing was fuel for Kavinsky's fire, burning him hotter and brighter. He practically hummed with energy, with aliveness. This had everything to do with their shared want and desire and nothing to do with wanting to impress Ronan. Maybe a little bit to do with wanting to please the boy who'd dreamed him to life, and he wondered, for a moment, if that had been how Prokopenko felt about things. He pushed those thoughts away though because he didn't want to think about anything or anyone but Ronan right now.

Kavinsky would accept this offering, the lotion. It was close enough and it would do the job. He didn't get a good look at the bottle for a long minute though; he was too busy kissing Ronan and couldn't bring himself to pull his mouth away. Eventually, he did, at the same time reluctantly letting go of Ronan's dick so he could take the lotion and get a better look at it.]

Good enough.

[He decided.

With even more reluctance, he slid to the side so he could hook his fingers around the top of Ronan's pajama pants and start pulling them down.] Hips up. [Because it was easier that way, and he could pull them down more smoothly, dumping them on the floor. While he was at it, he shucked his own boxers, kicking them in a random direction. Then he popped open the lotion, smearing it on his fingers before pressing them between Ronan's asscheeks, sliding just one into him, slowly.]

[He needed this, needed him, he needed K's breath on his skin, his mouth against his own, the way their kisses were desperate and demanding. Just another way of saying more. He was all fire, all lust and desire and the ache for the impossible boy that he'd dreamed back into his life. He takes the lotion and his fingers pull away from his cock, and it makes him whimper in the back of his throat with how much he craves it.

He cooperates, lifting his hips to make it easier for him to pull down his pajamas, leaving Ronan naked and exposed like this. But caught up in the moment he isn't worried about it for the moment, just so long as the other boy was close. As long as Kavinsky was going to touch him. He gasps, sharp and hot and breathless as his fingers slick with lotion press against him, one finger pressing slowly into him and he trembles with the feel of it. He has to fight to remember how to breathe, thighs spread and he groans with the feeling of it.]

Fuck, K..

[His voice is all heat, face tilting to the side like he can hide the fact of how new to this he is. As if Kavinsky hadn't been in his dreams, hadn't seen how Ronan's dreams of desire were all malformed things of wanting without the shape to put to it, until K had shown him. This isn't much different, but it feels different, the reality of it, the way that it's hot on his skin.]

Please--

[He needs him, needs more. He wants Kavinsky to ruin him in all the ways he can't say, needs to hold onto him. That way that in dreams bodies could become the same, and here, he still wants as close as they're allowed.]

This was the other Ronan. Not a dream.

Maybe it had been the wrong choice, maybe it was why Hennessy had been able to win, to fuck the ley line. Maybe he'd been arrogant and the borders between reality and dreams had gotten too blurry. But it meant he was in Lindenmere when it happened. It was fading, but he thought it would have the power for what he needed. Whatever Hennessy had done took time to travel down the line, but it sapped its power. He didn't know what had happened to Bryde, and he couldn't do this alone. And who could he call?

When he steps into the dream it's on fire. Burning. Anything burns if you hit it hard enough. He needed someone that understood. Reality is just what other people dream for you; back then, Ronan had been the one that hadn't understood. He did now. It's a bomb, just like you-- when the molotov shapes itself into his fingers it's not really a conscious thought, it just is. This is his best shot at what he needs. Kavinsky, who had seen the truth before Ronan could face it. The other boy had wanted him, and Ronan had used him to fix Gansey's car.

His best dreams were so often memories.

"Please," he says to Lindenmere. Trying to shape his intention, what he needs, into a weapon. Like with the sundogs, except better. More honest. It has to be here, where the ley line had touched him, where Kavinsky had dreamed. The way when he'd died it had seemed like he was pulled from himself. If there was any spark of him, it was here. He layers memories on memories. A dragon made of fire, the moonlight white of a Mitsubishi, asphalt and stoplights and adrenaline races, the knife-sharp grin of a boy with white sunglasses sprawled on its hood.

"Hey," Ronan says, grinning merrily. He doesn't ask him if he still wants to burn the world; he lets the dream do the complicated talking for him, the fire in his eyes. He had to do this right. He needed Kavinsky, his only shot at being able to change the world, fix what Hennessy had ruined, make this place somewhere he could live, where people like him and Matthew could live.

"It's just us," he says, like an echo.

Of course, he did. Death couldn't stomp out the flame burning in his chest. Kavinsky wanted what he always wanted; to be entertained. But more than that, he wanted to set fire to the corners of the world. This dream was already burning and he took a moment to appreciate it. He appreciated the flames, the fire in Ronan's eyes, the fact that they were both standing here.

He was itching, restless, desperate to bust out of the confines of the dream, but he wasn't the one with that power right now. So he held steady instead, grinning right back at Ronan. Kavinsky had wanted him before. He wanted him now. Some things didn't change and he was nothing if not a creature of habit.

"You've gotta be desperate, coming to me." But he didn't say it meanly. If anything, he was almost giddy. He'd never thought he'd see Ronan again, but here they were. Ronan looked good; a little older while Kavinsky remained the same as the memories that shaped him. That suited him just fine.

"Unless you've changed your mind." He could see that Ronan had changed his mind; it was rhetorical. Ronan had been fire before, but he'd been contained. Kavinsky'd tried to break him loose; he'd been denied. Now things were different. The dream told him as much. A lot of things were different.

[Kavinsky was well aware. He was painfully aware. There was a reason he wasn't diving into things as fast as he would be normally. That reason was thus; he wanted to ruin Ronan, not do real damage. He might have been primarily concerned with his own wants and needs, but he wanted things to be good for Ronan, too. That was half the fun. So he took his time, no matter how much he wanted to rush, how impatient he was. He moved that one finger lazily, pressing a kiss to Ronan's stomach, his hip, biting gently.]

I'm getting there.

[It was a promise, one he was going to keep.

He licked up the underside of Ronan's cock, to tease him more than anything. Because he could. Because he wanted to. It was an excuse to get his mouth on him, however briefly. Even now, he was giving in to some of his impatience, pressing in a second finger slowly, keeping an eye on Ronan's face, making sure it wasn't too much too fast. He could be considerate. Sometimes.

Kavinsky ached with want and need. Soon, he told himself. Soon. Making sure Ronan was ready for it--as ready as he could be for K--would be worth it. Attention drifting a moment, he bit Ronan's thigh, not gently. Not too hard, but hard enough.]

"A little of both," he admits. If he was still the boy from that summer, he would have lied about it, even if he would never have admitted that he was lying. But he wouldn't have known how to admit to being this desperate, or that he'd changed enough to take back something that had seemed as obvious as it will never be you and me. Gansey was on the other side of the country, or maybe sliding down into Mexico, or on a plane heading for someplace else filled with history and old things and old trees.

Ronan was alone, right now. The idea of trying to fix the ley lines with just Bryde had been intolerable when he'd thought Hennessy was going to leave them. And she had. He knows now that he'd understood that being with just Bryde would be just like being alone. He needs to not do this alone.

He's technically only a year and a half older, but it feels like so much more than that. He feels like he had in the nightwash dream, curled in Ilidorin, greying at the temples.

"I want to change the world. I want it to be someplace we can live, and I don't care if I have to burn it down first. And no one else understands because they're not the ones the world hates." He can't do this alone. And K might be dead, but it wasn't the same as Bryde, who was fully a dream that Ronan had made himself, a response to his own needs and desires. Kavinsky at least-- it might take dreams to drag him back into the world, but he wasn't the same.

"I don't have time. If I wait too long there wont be enough energy for me to bring you through right. So- will you come with me? I need you, K." He knows there are other things he needs to say, like sorry I was a shithead that broke your heart but in the dream thoughts carry too.

He holds out his hand: like an invitation, like a promise.

They were on a time crunch. Kavinsky was aware of it. Maybe it was part of why he was so restless, desperate to escape the dream. It might be his last chance. If he'd had all the time in the world, he might have taunted Ronan for coming to him, of all people, but he also didn't want Ronan to change his mind. He'd come to Kavinsky for a reason, something that was bigger than just the two of them. He could respect that, but even more, he appreciated that they might have to burn the world down to do it. It spoke to his primal aspect, the part of him that craved destruction.

More importantly, though, he latched onto one thing Ronan said; I need you. It meant just as much to him as the unspoken apology. He wanted to be needed, he wanted to be important. He also wouldn't like Ronan as much as he did if he wasn't some kind of an asshole. Kavinsky just didn't want him to be the kind who pushed him away again. He'd been there, done that, and he wasn't eager for a repeat performance.

He had questions, too, but he let the dream carry them instead. What happens when this is all over? Am I just a means to an end?

Closing the distance between them, he didn't hesitate before taking Ronan's hand. A dozen different sarcastic things cycled through his mind, but what he actually said was, "When do we start?" And what, he wondered vaguely, was going to happen if the ley line went down?

"I don't know," he admits, a little helpless. He can pick up those questions in the dream. "I don't know what happens after. But it wont be-- I fucked up last time, okay? Whatever after looks like, we'll figure it out."

He shrugs his shoulders, because even in dreams he's still not good at this shit- putting his feelings or the things that he wants into words. But the dream lingers on the way that he says we. Because Ronan is different, and he regrets how things had ended even if he doesn't know how to say that. And the things he needs now are different. He needs to not be alone, he needs someone that will understand him. And in his dreams, K always says: I know what you are.

Kavinsky closes the distance between them and Ronan's fingers curl against the other boy's hand, tugging him in close, close enough so they can almost breathe each other's breath for a moment. He needs him. He can't do this on his own. Not just because of the practical considerations, but because Ronan isn't steady on his own feet.

"We start now," Ronan says, with a smile that's wild and hungry, and then he pulls Kavinsky with him. Trying to be careful, to press his intention to Lindenmere, to tell it what he needs as he holds onto the memories.

Waking in Lindenmere it always a little strange, the way the boundary between reality and dreams is a fluid thing, the lines not quite so firm between them. The two sides of himself. Dreaming is more about wanting it enough, feeling the dream, than about waking. So it's a strange thing, hard to know for sure the moment when Kavinsky goes from something in his dream, to a dream real in the world, here with him, aside from the pulse of the ley line.

"I have a car. I don't know how the shit with the ley line is going to affect this place so I want to get to another line. Or else we'll both be fucked. From there we can work out where to start."

Like Bryde had said: dominoes. And the ley lines were connected, like veins. He could still get Ilidorin back, it just meant there was more work. He wanted to find Bryde, but he wouldn't even know where to start looking. But he wasn't alone, at least.

Kavinsky knew one thing for certain; he wouldn't be tossed aside again. He'd bring Ronan down with him if he had to, take them both out together. He might play around with some things, but he'd never been more serious about Ronan. The apologies, the admission that Ronan had fucked up, placated Kavinsky. He accepted them, embraced them, took them as true and honest. Damn right, Ronan had fucked up before. He'd made a mess of everything and then Kavinsky had made it worse. But now there was a chance to fix everything, in more ways than one.

He felt it when he passed from dream to reality, subtle but there. It was the difference between not really breathing and taking your first breath, smelling the forest around them. Feeling the crunch of leaves underfoot, the air on his skin.

Starting immediately suited Kavinsky just fine; he'd never been one for wasting time, especially when the stakes were high. He didn't know just how high they were right now, but he knew things were dire enough for Ronan to seek his help, of all people.

"Sounds like we need to hurry the fuck up, then," he said.

There was a slew of questions he wanted to ask, things he didn't even know if Ronan had the answers to, what had happened to his pack, what had happened to Prokopenko after Kavinsky had died, but he held them all inside because there were more important things to do, to talk about. Like-

"Where are your friends in this mess?" It was potentially a cruel question, but being cruel had never stopped Kavinsky before.

[Ronan is not a boy built for patience, especially not like this, not when his skin is smoldering and he feels like raked-over embers, all raw and burning. And K takes his time, his finger slick as he moves that single digit inside of him. He gasps at the way that his mouth presses to his stomach, then drops to his hip, Ronan's voice shifting into a helpless sort of whine as the other boy bites against his skin. Not hard enough to mark him, but enough that he could feel it. And Ronan was every bit as weak for biting as all of K's dog jokes had ever implied.

He can't help being frustrated, even if it's out of consideration. He feels like he's vibrating with desire. But K licks against his dick and his head goes blissfully blank for a moment. It makes him pliant as the other boy adds another finger, and Ronan lets him press it into his body, his breath uneven and already sort of wrecked. The friction of it, the slick slide of his touch is an ache, and he's hungry for it. His heartbeat is all need, and he lets himself trust that K knows what he wants, and wont be too much of a jerk to give it to him. It's a sort of trust that comes from shared dreams.

He's on edge with anticipation, soft murmurs and whimpers with every shift of his hand. Those dangerous blue eyes clouded ever with desire and lust, all of it for Kavinsky. He'd told him that life wasn't drugs and sex the last time he'd seen him, and his body arches into his touch like an invitation to show him why he was wrong.

Roan moans, helpless at the way his teeth bite into his thigh and it leaves him shivering. That one he thinks will mark, at least for a day or two, hard enough that it makes his hips jerk, has him pressing back against his fingers. A sort of knot of tension in his stomach as K stretches him, opens him up for him. Ronan tight around his fingers and all flushed and unbelievably turned on. No one's ever touched him like this, and the way K gets him ready is almost brain-melting.

They'd touched in dreams, but it was all metaphor and fantasy, wasn't like this, the reality, how visceral it is with heat and promise. The way that K's fingers inside of him make him feel like his skin is boiling. His voice a mess of muttered pleas, catching and breaking on the words as he trembles, needy.]

[Neither was Kavinsky, though taking his time right now had far less to do with patience and more to do with making sure Ronan was ready. And maybe teasing him a little. Kavinsky had dreamed about this, not just with Ronan but earlier than that, during the first time he'd been alive. All the times he'd taunted Ronan, every snide comment he'd ever made, had been partly out of jealousy. For so long he'd wanted Ronan for himself, for them to walk side by side as kings, to have Ronan under his hands like this. They could have done anything, been anything, but he had a second chance now.

He scissored his fingers, kissing along Ronan's thigh for the simple sake of getting his mouth on him. He was half tempted to suck him off, to make him cum like that. But he also wanted to make him wait for it. If things went well he'd have plenty of chances to get on his knees for Ronan, something he didn't do for just anyone. He usually prefered other people on their knees for him. He'd make an exception for Ronan. He'd make a lot of exceptions.]

You've gotta relax.

[He knew. He knew; easier said than done. Especially with how worked up Ronan was, which Kavinsky was never not going to feel smug about. It was all because of him and how much Ronan wanted him. He twisted his fingers, pushing them in deeper, scissored them again. Slow and steady. But his impatience was growing and there was only so much longer he could keep doing this before he just gave up on fingering Ronan.]

Should I make you beg for it?

[As if Ronan hadn't been already, both verbally and nonverbally, begging him with his body, with the way he trembled. Kavinsky was well aware of how much Ronan wanted this, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to be a shit about it if given even a sliver of a chance.]

"Yeah. I've got a car, it's not far." As much as he loved Lindenmere, this wasn't time to wait. He didn't know exactly what Hennessy had done, if it could follow this far down the line. But it was like dominos, cutting off the line there weakened them all. And he remembered the summer they'd lost Cabeswater, and he could imagine the same thing happening again. But whatever it took, he'd fix this. He'd fix it all, so that Dreamers could dream, and Dreams could just live.

So people like Matthew and Prokopenko didn't have to worry about the dumb shit their Dreamers did.

And then Kavinsky asks that question, and Ronan looks away from him. His shoulders tense, his blue eyes tighten, and he lets that question hang on the air. The silence is normally intended for discomfort, but Kavinsky has never minded. Half the time it gave him an opportunity to fill it, and the other half it was almost companionable, filled by the purr of an engine or the roar of a fire.

"Adam and Declan opted to work with the people trying to kill me. Gansey's traveling the world with his girlfriend and his boyfriend. Then there was Bryde and Hennessy. Bryde was one of my dreams, and Hennessy just blew up the ley line because I guess telling me to fuck off wasn't good enough."

His description of Hennessy is flippant, because it has to be. Because otherwise he'll have to talk to Kavinsky about what it was like to stand there asking another dreamer to choose you and being told you weren't enough. And he's not ready for that, yet. He can admit to understanding he fucked up without admitting to the why. When the truth is that Ronan's here with K because it's the only alternative to flagrant self-immolation.

"It's just us."

He waited patiently for Ronan to speak, resisting the urge to tell him to get on with it, to tell him that they were both standing there for a reason. There were so many snide things Kavinsky could say when Ronan finally answered. Of course, the people who mattered most to him had turned on him. What was a little bit surprising was hearing that Gansey was off traveling the world without Ronan. The way Kavinsky saw it, those two had been joined at the hip.

"You and Gansey break up?" Alright, so he couldn't completely resist the snide comments. It wasn't his first nature to be nice. He was capable of it, of course, but he expected loyalty in return.

"No one else understands us," he added. "No one will get you like I do." They weren't too far off, the two of them. He'd seen the same fire burning in Ronan that burned in himself, or else he wouldn't have reached out to Ronan when he had, dreamer or not.

"'Just us' are better odds than I'm used to." Which was usually just him against the world. He couldn't rely on his boys in this kind of situation, either. They wouldn't understand, they'd get in the way. Worse, they'd get hurt. Not that he usually cared about that, but by his hands it was different. "We can do this." Whatever 'this' involved.

[Sometimes, Skov got bored. Sometimes, hanging around with Swan and smoking didn't really cut it. Not even the worry of getting caught smoking on campus was a thrill anymore. He'd gotten over that a long time ago. Besides, no one gave a shit--at least, not the other students. No one was going to tell on him. He needed a different kind of excitement, maybe something that was chemical, maybe something that wasn't. Maybe both.

When Swan finished his cigarette and headed back into their shared dorm room, Skov stayed outside the building, leaning against the wall as he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He didn't think for one minute that Ronan Lynch would willingly give him his number, which was why he'd swiped it from K's phone one drunken night. He considered things for a moment, the late afternoon/early evening sun, the fact K was having a party later that night. Mostly, he considered that he had a few hours to kill.

That done, he started typing, firing off a series of texts.]

hey
hey
r u busy?
it's skov

[He didn't know if he expected an answer or not, but it never hurt to try. If push came to shove, he could annoy almost anyone into answering him just to get him to shut up.]

[Things have been strange since last weekend, since Ronan realized Kavinsky had slipped a collar around his throat and he didn't mind the weight.

Some drunk asshole had been hassling Kavinsky; couldn't find his drugs or something. You drinking anything decent? Ronan had asked, stealing Skov's plastic cup and taking a drink. As if he wasn't paying attention to the red-faced idiot who was dangerously close to trying to put his hands on the boy that certainly wasn't Ronan's boyfriend -- neither of them would use the word, anyway.

Anyone that knew Ronan or had seen him around Kavinsky in the last few months, would know better. But so much of him was pretense- brittle lies he told himself. Ronan couldn't help but notice the tension, the way the other kid pushed into K's space. Taller, broad shoulders, held himself like the typical Aglionby entitled dickhead. He thought he'd been on the Crew team with Gansey, but wasn't entirely sure. Not the sort of person he thought was worth remembering.

Ronan's never really hurt someone for Kavinsky before, but he always watches when things start to escalate these days, white-knuckled and his jaw tense. Recently he simmers as fast as the other boys, as defensive as everyone but Proko, or maybe Skov when he's spoiling for a fight. But K's dream boy had raced Swan in their twin Golfs, and they were still out front of the fairground, drinking on their cars and watching the collisions. And tonight, Skov seemed more interested in the potential fireworks.

So Ronan stepped up to Kavinsky, Skov's stolen drink still in hand, close enough it looked almost carelessly intimate for a moment. Close enough to put his body between a kid with something to prove and the other Dreamer- but he only looks at K, like he's drunk enough to be oblivious. But Ronan's smile is dark and vicious, the apples of his cheeks flushed with fury and the other teen with his sharp but delicate Slavic features just smiles back.

There's a moment where they look into each others' eyes, and it says more than Ronan could ever put into words. If he's anyone's dog, it isn't Gansey's anymore. And Kavinsky doesn't see the need to keep Ronan on a leash, to pull him back from the edge. To make him play nice and civilized, retrain him as Adam had said to Blue one afternoon as he walked in Ronan's dreams.

Skov's drink is nothing but a dirty lie, a cheap excuse. The Aglinbro jostles into Ronan from sheer proximity as he pushes K, spilling whatever it was Skov had been drinking into Ronan's ripped tee-shirt. It was clumsy but colorful; something he'd spray painted with Jiang when they were particularly high one night. A spilled drink is an easy excuse for the way that Ronan pivots with a snarl, bared teeth, his fist like a spring sprung as it slams into the boy's face, bloody knuckles yielding a bloody face.

Ronan gets a few swings in before it clicks that no one is going to drag him back, click a leash around his neck, say the magic words. So the kid stumbles back, and makes the decision to leave rather than go another round. Kavinsky seems like he rides a high that isn't just chemical, and later he slowly bleeds the adrenaline from Ronan's body; pulling a different sort of prayer from devoted lips.

The next morning Ronan vanishes. He stops answering K's texts. The realization finally catches up to him, but later than for everyone else- as usual. It's not the fight the night before that hits him. Instead, it's something about the sight of his BMW parked neat next to the Mitsubishi, in a line with the Supra and the rest of Kavinsky's pack of dogs. Like he was one of them.

Ronan had never thought of himself as one of Kavinsky's pack before. He doesn't even quite know when it happened... but it dawns on him that he belongs with them more than he does back at Monmouth. Going back, juggling his two worlds, was becoming impossible- and Ronan was losing track of reasons why he wanted to try. Even if he wont say it out loud, he knows which one burns anticipation in his heart.

There's no cruelty to how Ronan disappears though, and Kavinsky knows Ronan's mercurial moods -- he'll show at the party, at least. The fact that Gansey and Adam stop by the Barns, all disappointed looks it just makes him long for it that much more. When Skov texts, Ronan still almost throws his cell into the wall, but it's more reflex than true aggravation. The fact that it only takes him a few minutes to answer is the true sign of how he feels about it.]

no
the fuck do you want anyway?

[Which is actually sort of cordial, by Ronan Lynch standards. The truth is that he's glad to see his name.]

[Maybe Skov had been wrong about thinking Ronan wouldn't want to hear from him. He was wrong plenty of times, after all--usually in World Hist. Maybe someday the combined power of Swan and Jiang studying with him could get him to remember the right shit. Or maybe he'd just fail out of Aglionby. He was sure that would make his family proud. They already thought he was a loser.]

u want to hang out or something?
Swan's around too
we cud have a ménage à trois

[Look at him putting his French classes to good use. Actually, he'd never been taught that in class. He'd learned it on his own. He was also joking about that part, though he might have been the only one who found it funny.]

i've got weed
or we cud do something else
break some shit

[He knew an abandoned old shop in Henrietta where one of the windows in the back wasn't boarded up as well as everyone assumed it was. But also just getting high sounded good, too. Anything that would help pass the time until K's party.]

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post for psls;

for Kavinsky; your ghost was my first forgery

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For Kavinsky; Mister Impossible Spoilers;

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Dream pack shenans

ohmygosh im sorry ive meant to tag this for too long and it festered and this happened

This tag was worth the wait