No big, [kavinsky agrees, pleasantly. the beam of the flashlight falls further, sliding a vague patch of warmth down jesse's person, until it ends up roughly on his groin. kavinsky isn't looking down though. he's merely studying the older man, casually, looking almost bored. there is definitely something wrong with kavinsky, but it's hard to put your finger on it when he's merely standing there in the dark, clutching a light in front of the tents like a kid on a widdle adventure, failing utterly to be a monster.
and maybe it's still hard to put your finger on it when he steps nearer, his skinny fingers nipping out to take the cigarette out of jesse's mouth, momentarily exploiting the older man's blindness. he sets it to his own lips, taking a long drag. when he exhales, it's right into jesse's face, a smarting cloud of smoke and a familiar shade of warmth.]
You're pretty straight, [he observes. he turns the cigarette in his fingers, smiles beatifically, and ducks his head slightly to try and aim the cancer stick back into jesse's mouth. his fingers promise to be coarse and faintly salty against jesse's lips.] How fucking straight, is the question.
powerpose & intuition/infomoddyness, lmk if not ok i can adjust easily
and maybe it's still hard to put your finger on it when he steps nearer, his skinny fingers nipping out to take the cigarette out of jesse's mouth, momentarily exploiting the older man's blindness. he sets it to his own lips, taking a long drag. when he exhales, it's right into jesse's face, a smarting cloud of smoke and a familiar shade of warmth.]
You're pretty straight, [he observes. he turns the cigarette in his fingers, smiles beatifically, and ducks his head slightly to try and aim the cancer stick back into jesse's mouth. his fingers promise to be coarse and faintly salty against jesse's lips.] How fucking straight, is the question.