[Sometimes. It was a better answer than no or anything else Kavinsky might have expected. Ronan Lynch dreamed about him; it was almost more than he could have hoped for.

Smiling, confident and in control, he started working on getting Ronan's pants open. He wasn't in a rush; his motions were almost lazy, slow. He should be given a medal for not rushing through it just to get his hands in Ronan's pants.]

Usually, we're fucking. You love it, and fuck, the sounds you make.

[You love me. It was easy to talk about the filthy sex dreams he had, instead of the soft ones. The ones where he slept curled up in Ronan's arms and the dream was so vivid he could feel Ronan's body heat on his skin. Those dreams were worse because when he woke up alone, reality paled in comparison and he wanted to sleep forever so he could dream of Ronan holding him.

A thrill coursed through him when Ronan tugged him closer, and gladly, Kavinsky stepped in, not looking away from Ronan's eyes.]

What're your dreams like?

[He was genuinely curious; what happened in Ronan's dreams about him?

Without even sparing another glance around, he snorted a little, lips curling into a smirk.]

Don't take off anything; this place is filthy.