[Alcohol doesn't really affect Kravitz. Not in a conventional sense. He can feel what it's meant to be doing, the way it makes the blood in his fabricated body thrum, the buzz that distantly rests in the back of his head. If he really focuses, he can allow it to wash over himself, but people don't get drunk because they want to focus.
But this punch. Holy shit.
Krav is a giddy, giggly mess as he slides in next to Barry on the couch, tucking the blanket over his own legs although he doesn't need it.]
no subject
But this punch. Holy shit.
Krav is a giddy, giggly mess as he slides in next to Barry on the couch, tucking the blanket over his own legs although he doesn't need it.]
Hello there, Barry. Sweet Barry. Merry Barry, sweet Candlenights.
[Close enough.]