anti-vinsky, an open post

[pillz]

leave me prompts or starters
or simply refer to this as an extremely important reference list
for our future adventures ◕‿◕✿

pothead better driver naps! hyperactive tree, furniture, and church climber cries about anything eerie not dangerous less hairgel!!

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[speedingtickets]

Ronan does not, in fact, say no. But he does sigh heavily, roll his eyes, and make a note to find some better adaptions of Alice in Wonderland in the event something like this comes up again, just so he doesn't have to stare at Johnny Depp's face for two hours.

Not that he actually minds staring at Johnny Depp's face. He just prefers Captain Jack over the Mad Hatter.

He allows Joe to place the laptop in his lap, to rearrange the both of them into something more suitable for movie-watching-back-rubbing combos. It's not uncomfortable, despite how bony and angled Joe is, starkly opposite of Ronan's own lightly muscled frame.

"Everybody's really heavy compared to you," he says, settling back against Joe, frowning at the Disney opening on the screen. His arms rest lazily along the other's legs, fingers curling slightly around the underneath of his knees, thumbs brushing over bone through the fabric of his pants.

"I dunno, like--" He squints thoughtfully, his expression visible in the screen of the laptop when it dims to black briefly. "A four."

[pillz]

"That's pretty low," Joe says. He sounds more thoughtful about it than bothered, or possibly just distracted, his mind roaming further afield. In reality, the field is not all that far away. Although he tends to be a creature of numerous and slightly hyperactive ideas!! generation, Ronan has a way of keeping him here. Sometimes by simply needing help, that Joe is all too excited to trouble-shoot. Other times, you know. It's a lot more straightforward than that.

A hand on his leg, hooking underneath, broad fingers warming him through the denim. Maybe Joe should think about the logistics and fallout before he does things like, you know, offer to give a beautiful boy a backrub while they're in between his thighs. But logistics and fallout are really hard to think about when he's on the go.

The Disney castle glitters at them. The shooting star sparks over the steeple. Joe slides his fingers up the back of Ronan's neck slowly, thumbing around the subtle bump of vertebrates, trying to remember what he was thinking about. Umm. Sleepiness numbers. Yes-- a subjective rating scale. He feels for the tension he assumes is corded somewhere in Ronan's musculature. "You used to sleep good, right?"

[speedingtickets]

Ronan murmurs an affirmative without using any real words, but by making affirming-like noises. He's not looking at the screen anymore, because his head is tipped forward, basking in the feeling of Joe's long fingers against his neck. He does not generally let people get close enough to touch him, let alone stay still long enough for them to give him a fucking back massage.

Maybe he should, though. Or, at least, maybe he should start staying still long enough for Joe to do it. Even if he doesn't let anybody else.

He used to sleep well enough. Back when his life was more or less perfect, and he lived on a sprawling farm of cattle and barns, with a Disney Princess mother that cooked breakfast every morning and a father who came and went, but always returned with the most amazing gifts. Back before he found his father's broken body behind the BMW early one morning. Before his dreams were more nightmares than anything else.

He hates sleeping now. He really does.