[Ronan might have let his thoughts linger on the fact that Gansey's leaving tomorrow, if not for the fact that they're so close and he can feel the way that his fingers tighten against him through fabric. His heart races, sure that he's crossing those lines they've both avoided for the past two years, and he doesn't think there's a way to take it back if it goes wrong. But there's something about the way that he smiles; wicked and almost possessive that burns in those hazel eyes, and God help him but Ronan wants it, craves it. It's impossible to focus on anything else except the heat and the tension and Gansey--
And then those fucking words come out of the other boy's mouth, and Ronan's breath catches. His blue eyes wide and his pupils blown, heat flushed against his cheekbones. He can't even remember how he's supposed to breathe, a shameless sort of whine in the back of his throat. In a different situation, on a different night, he would have laughed it off, maybe pointed out this is hardly their first date; all lifted eyebrows and a flash of teeth. But Ronan's ability to be that blase was entirely predicated on the assumption that Gansey didn't mean it, that this wasn't real.
Right now the words I liked the idea of you being mine still hangs too heavy on the air between them for the suggestion to feel like anything but truth.
Ronan knows he should say something, needs to say something before he takes it back. But he feels like a mess, flushed and his heart racing, like his ribcage is too small to contain the shape of this. The way that Ronan comes alive in a way he'd thought he didn't know how anymore. He smiles, but it's not a sharp thing, not bared teeth and pretending the words don't make him ache. Instead he's almost giddy, raw with his own want and the idea of Gansey's desire.
He lets his hands shift, trailing from his chest to curl his fingers against his biceps. Just to touch, to feel him under his hands as he leans into him.]
Yeah? [His brain is still sort of short-circuiting; clever responses aren't exactly his strength right now. He doesn't know how to say what he wants. He almost says something instead about how he's never done it on the first date either, and there isn't a rule he wouldn't break for Gansey. But it feels too casual, especially since the truth is that he hasn't done it at all, but he wants him with every beat of his heart.
He lets his hands slide up to the curve of Gansey's shoulders, watching him as his touch stills there. It feels risky, dangerous, and he can't stop from chasing his heart, even if it feels like stepping into dark water, not knowing how deep it goes. Something he wants without a name for it.]
If you don't want me to be your dog, tell me what I am.
[It's somehow heavier than he thought it would be, because the yours matters. Because usually tell me what I am are words that end up in his prayers. It's different, but not.]
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And then those fucking words come out of the other boy's mouth, and Ronan's breath catches. His blue eyes wide and his pupils blown, heat flushed against his cheekbones. He can't even remember how he's supposed to breathe, a shameless sort of whine in the back of his throat. In a different situation, on a different night, he would have laughed it off, maybe pointed out this is hardly their first date; all lifted eyebrows and a flash of teeth. But Ronan's ability to be that blase was entirely predicated on the assumption that Gansey didn't mean it, that this wasn't real.
Right now the words I liked the idea of you being mine still hangs too heavy on the air between them for the suggestion to feel like anything but truth.
Ronan knows he should say something, needs to say something before he takes it back. But he feels like a mess, flushed and his heart racing, like his ribcage is too small to contain the shape of this. The way that Ronan comes alive in a way he'd thought he didn't know how anymore. He smiles, but it's not a sharp thing, not bared teeth and pretending the words don't make him ache. Instead he's almost giddy, raw with his own want and the idea of Gansey's desire.
He lets his hands shift, trailing from his chest to curl his fingers against his biceps. Just to touch, to feel him under his hands as he leans into him.]
Yeah? [His brain is still sort of short-circuiting; clever responses aren't exactly his strength right now. He doesn't know how to say what he wants. He almost says something instead about how he's never done it on the first date either, and there isn't a rule he wouldn't break for Gansey. But it feels too casual, especially since the truth is that he hasn't done it at all, but he wants him with every beat of his heart.
He lets his hands slide up to the curve of Gansey's shoulders, watching him as his touch stills there. It feels risky, dangerous, and he can't stop from chasing his heart, even if it feels like stepping into dark water, not knowing how deep it goes. Something he wants without a name for it.]
If you don't want me to be your dog, tell me what I am.
[It's somehow heavier than he thought it would be, because the yours matters. Because usually tell me what I am are words that end up in his prayers. It's different, but not.]