open rp post;

[threesecrets]

+ Leave me a starter, an idea, whatever you like!
+ As always consider this your cw: weird kinks are possible

+ I ship pretty much whatever, though Gansey and Adam are of course favorites. m/m only

+ Hit me up on PM or Discord (thatwasdumb#0150) if you want to plot something.

Comments

[affection_for_research]

You were thinking of something after Kavinsky's substance party?

[threesecrets]

[Ronan drives them home, leaving Kavinsky and the fairgrounds in the rearview.

The drive is quiet, and the night feels soft around them, even though Ronan's heart still aches against his ribs. Longing, and things that are harder to put into words, and the quiet delight of the fire in Gansey. There's something about driving just a little too fast with him in the passenger seat, the thrill in his veins, a different sort of heat. Seeing Gansey and Kavinsky in the same space like that was a strange thing, still under his skin like an ache he couldn't define. Eventually they're pulling up in front of Monmouth, the echo of car doors as he follows Gansey to the doors of home.

This isn't the sort of night that's easy to wipe off of his skin, not even if he wanted to - which he doesn't. He drops his carkeys, but doesn't retreat to his bedroom. The other boy still feels magnetic like this, and Ronan can't turn his eyes away from the sight of it.

Not when Gansey's leaving tomorrow and it has him feeling almost gutted, all twisted up with the prospect of it. There's a desire that curls in his chest to hold onto him, even if just the thought makes him feel brazen. But he's still caught in his gravity, unable to pull away, and so he lingers here. Gansey still bright and smoldering with that heat, and it feels wonderful and dangerous.

He's always been drawn toward things that were guaranteed risks; it's basically the entire explanation for Kavinsky, really.

Ronan smiles over at Gansey, wordless. Something almost conspiratorial, devotional. Standing in the ruins of Gansey's model of Henrietta, pieces of cardboard and paint and shared sleepless nights -- it feels strangely illicit.]