The murky space between true sleep and the please-thrill-me waking world was (and is) a known purgatory. Being a dreamer, he's more aware than most of when he's really asleep. If he stuck around longer than he needed to, it was to sample a buzz he might not get to try again. The flow, the ebb. He's a connoisseur of narcotics and that stasis became one more downer. What he likes about the void: it's endless. But that means it outranks and outclasses him, so he has to get up. Ease the tube out his neck, ease his body out his cell. His clothes are fine, but he wants to see what he'd look like in the stark, white pajamas. The color is so pure that on his body it's got to be made obscene. Doesn't suit him at all.
He found a spot of floor and took a seat there, watching the other guy. Feeling him, too. That connection between them stretches out like spiderthread dipped in cement, drenched in honey, sticky and solid and part of a web.
Kavinsky picks at the simmering anger and he likes it. The grief-- a heady spice on top. He sends out his warmest regards, wondering if it's only in his imagination or if this stranger (that might as well be his other half) will really, really feel it. God, he wants him to. (Though something is still missing. The puzzle isn't complete.)
Ronan felt like enough, but Ronan never let himself get inside of Kavinsky. Not in his head, not in any fun way. He took what he needed and bailed. But Kavinsky and Scruff McGruff don't have a choice, do they?
Never too early to work out some daddy issues.]
Go ahead and throw up.
[Permission granted. Kavinsky smiles in his bright, white attire.]
closed // cw: Kavinsky is a gross and terrible nightmare teen
The murky space between true sleep and the please-thrill-me waking world was (and is) a known purgatory. Being a dreamer, he's more aware than most of when he's really asleep. If he stuck around longer than he needed to, it was to sample a buzz he might not get to try again. The flow, the ebb. He's a connoisseur of narcotics and that stasis became one more downer. What he likes about the void: it's endless. But that means it outranks and outclasses him, so he has to get up. Ease the tube out his neck, ease his body out his cell. His clothes are fine, but he wants to see what he'd look like in the stark, white pajamas. The color is so pure that on his body it's got to be made obscene. Doesn't suit him at all.
He found a spot of floor and took a seat there, watching the other guy. Feeling him, too. That connection between them stretches out like spiderthread dipped in cement, drenched in honey, sticky and solid and part of a web.
Kavinsky picks at the simmering anger and he likes it. The grief-- a heady spice on top. He sends out his warmest regards, wondering if it's only in his imagination or if this stranger (that might as well be his other half) will really, really feel it. God, he wants him to. (Though something is still missing. The puzzle isn't complete.)
Ronan felt like enough, but Ronan never let himself get inside of Kavinsky. Not in his head, not in any fun way. He took what he needed and bailed. But Kavinsky and Scruff McGruff don't have a choice, do they?
Never too early to work out some daddy issues.]
Go ahead and throw up.
[Permission granted. Kavinsky smiles in his bright, white attire.]
I'll wait.