[koby keeps weird hours, disjointed and sporadic, and while it's a coin toss whether he's awake in the library or his and quentin's suite, today it's the former. the message gets a long, thoughtful stare, before koby sighs and --
there. an unseen push, careful fingers sinking into the shifting, swirling, near-liquid shape of danny's mind, his thoughts, like submerging a hand in smoke or oil or tar. koby lingers there for a moment, his own presence blush-pink and flaring like the sun on a still sea, unseen fingers curling, uncurling. then:]
It doesn't work that way. I can tell where you are, what you're feeling, but not actual thoughts.
( danny's brain doesn't get much sunlight. that's an understatement, written in fat, bottom-heavy font so no misplaced passerby looks deeper, beyond daddy-barred doors. his oil-slick tarpit brain latches onto the golden glow of koby's aura like something mean and starved, black hole gravity lurching for the nearest star. well, of course he can't know what he's thinking, because if he did he'd know he's thinking about drowning them both, spitefully.
savannah, slow down. reset. spitefully, )
can you feel it when i think about fucking you, then?
[danger, danger, and koby's pulling his presence back, the flicker of his consciousness not so much recoiling as -- reacting, a flare of heat to sear back the lingering oily cling of danny johnson, like too-still water, like dark things teeming and swirling when even the stars go out. then a withdraw, slow, slow, back to the surface, back where koby can skim off the tippy-top thoughts like flotsam in a net.]
Only if I'm paying attention. I'm not, usually.
[but he thinks: his open mouth, his bare body in polaroids, before everything, before he knew better. he thinks: eddie's hands on him, on danny, touch-by-proxy, and the curious sharp part of him probes back, knife-edged, into danny's thoughts.]
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text
there. an unseen push, careful fingers sinking into the shifting, swirling, near-liquid shape of danny's mind, his thoughts, like submerging a hand in smoke or oil or tar. koby lingers there for a moment, his own presence blush-pink and flaring like the sun on a still sea, unseen fingers curling, uncurling. then:]
It doesn't work that way.
I can tell where you are, what you're feeling, but not actual thoughts.
no subject
savannah, slow down. reset. spitefully, )
can you feel it when i think about fucking you, then?
no subject
Only if I'm paying attention.
I'm not, usually.
[but he thinks: his open mouth, his bare body in polaroids, before everything, before he knew better. he thinks: eddie's hands on him, on danny, touch-by-proxy, and the curious sharp part of him probes back, knife-edged, into danny's thoughts.]
You aren't.