[kavinsky's tone is light, befitting the conversation as it's gone so far. he doesn't look like he's doing what he's actually doing, which is: gazing upon murphy in wonderment. wondering how he turned out like this— how he isn't afraid enough of pain to pull forward. how it is he can dismiss it as spite, and mean it, and still fit himself into the sharp-edged hollow of kavinsky's side and nip him and rest there in the dubious warmth of a vampire's body like a butterfly drinking off a terrapin's shell.]
Spite? [a rough-skinned forefinger, bony, drifts across murphy's chin. comes up to his bottom lip, the pout of it. there isn't quite enough irony in kavinsky's expression or the touch of his hand to sell it as casual. a little too much sincerity peeking through, with the unblinking curiosity of kavinsky's stare, and everything. but it's been one of those days. one of those rainy-ass days.]
If that was true, wouldn't it be the only shit you got left in you.
no subject
[kavinsky's tone is light, befitting the conversation as it's gone so far. he doesn't look like he's doing what he's actually doing, which is: gazing upon murphy in wonderment. wondering how he turned out like this— how he isn't afraid enough of pain to pull forward. how it is he can dismiss it as spite, and mean it, and still fit himself into the sharp-edged hollow of kavinsky's side and nip him and rest there in the dubious warmth of a vampire's body like a butterfly drinking off a terrapin's shell.]
Spite? [a rough-skinned forefinger, bony, drifts across murphy's chin. comes up to his bottom lip, the pout of it. there isn't quite enough irony in kavinsky's expression or the touch of his hand to sell it as casual. a little too much sincerity peeking through, with the unblinking curiosity of kavinsky's stare, and everything. but it's been one of those days. one of those rainy-ass days.]
If that was true, wouldn't it be the only shit you got left in you.