28 👶 HEARTBREAK MULTIPLIES [closed]

[pillz]

WHO: Joseph Kavinsky & 'friends' ig
WHERE: De Chima, Maurtia Falls, etc.
WHEN: October 2019
WHAT: Catch-all for October, hmu on Plurk @ shramp if you would like to play!
WARNINGS: Possible violence, sexual content, offensive language (racism, sexism, etc.)



closed to kylo ren;

[it's breakfast at the meadows, for those of us who may periodically eat breakfast. and kavinsky is here. it's the first time anyone has seen him back at the meadows after the explosive encounter with murphy last month, but it was probably inevitable that that reprieve would end. kylo ren no doubt feels it in the force long before he makes his way down the steps.

the dream thief is sitting at the table, neglecting a cup of coffee by his hand.] We gotta stop meeting like this, [kavinsky says, almost as if nothing had happened. but this is actually just how he is after things have happened. there's a brief death threats phase, then a violent overreaction phase, then an eerie approximation of indifference phase, and not always in that order or single iteration. he scratches his neck, studying kylo ren out from under heavy eyelids.]

Hey. Hey, how you feel about chopping some wood topless today? Paparazzi would love it. Not gonna lie, I could use the cash.

closed to ronan;

[the joseph kavinsky apology tour of october 2019 starts how you'd expect. on the first day of october, the words,

my bad 😔
can be found spraypainted on the outside of the meadows house in lurid green paint, while smelling eerily like blood, yet fading away politely as the sun makes its way up and down the sky. on the second day of october, the icepack that had been rendered to k's use is replaced in the fridge, and there are irish mince pies too, as well as an automated robotic lawnmower swerving dangerously close to killing the family of voles in the yard outside. on the third day, kavinsky texts.]

come hang out 2day

closed to cassidy;

I wanted to say thanks for letting me stay. [kavinsky seems more normal now. i mean he's never been normal, and cassidy only met him after he began a life of crimes you can get the electric chair for, some parts of the world back home. but a couple weeks ago, when he slept on the couch with a face like an overripe melon attacked by a hacksaw, he'd seemed full of spiky, humming, hideous energy, a wasp hive in a human skinsuit.

but today, he's more like his usual self. healed, obviously. smug and slightly subhuman, cleaned up nicely outside that hints heavily as to the dirt in his soul. and grinning big, boyish when the vampire comes to the door. he seizes cassidy by the hand.] C'mon.

closed to rupert;

[2am at the club, maurtia falls. which club? a club. kavinsky generally just rolls up to the first place with valet and a long enough line out front to look intimidating, flashes his import id, and that's enough to get himself in, even in absence of a cis lady figure.

in reality, kavinsky drinks and does far fewer drugs than he used to, and being at the club is a new kind of high. well, an old one. one that actually predated the drinking and the drugging, but enhanced it. kavinsky actually likes being around people, much as he hates everything including people. he likes how people are hungry, needy, exploitable, fun. he likes the validation of his admirers, the pain of his critics, the rush of conquest any time he breaks someone to his will, even if it's something as stupid as bumping into someone on the sidealk without apologizing.

which he does now. but dr. chilton raised him better than that, and the next moment, he's setting his sights on the neon door at the end of the velvet ropes. he starts toward it, slinging the key fob for his black jaguar into the hands of the valet man along with a fat tip (also credit to: dr. c). he doesn't notice the other young import pausing by the roadside.]

Comments

[crassidy]

[Kavinsky looks so much better than he did when he'd first crawled to Cassidy a few weeks back, both physically and in himself, and Cass is genuinely glad to see it. There's a softness to his smile as he answers the door, tired and mildly exasperated but happy to see a friend happy. Or whatever approximation of 'happy' that Kavinsky can feel, even if that's mostly external.]

W-wait a second!

[The hand grab gets accepted, but the moment the teen tries to pull him outside, there's heavy resistance. Cass is surprisingly strong for one so scrawny, and the pull back gives him just enough time to snatch one of the umbrellas from a pile by the door and open it one handed with an experienced ease. The second that umbrella gifts him a comfortable cone of shade, he relents, letting Kavinsky lead him out with only a mildly bemused mumble of:] Tryna burn me alive, eh.

[He's not holding it against the guy, it's a simple enough mistake to make.]

tw mention of past suicide

[pillz]

[for once kavinsky was not actively plotting to burn anything alive. for once. he looks genuinely surprised when the vampire reemerges clutching an umbrella. oh. oh yeah. it's mostly confusing because, for all that kavinsky is deprived of conventional children's literature and such culture, he is under the impression that sunlight sensitivity exists at extremes for vampires in fiction.]

That's weird, [says the dream-thieving ex-drug-dealer psychopath who once committed suicide with a fire dragon of his own making. but then he reclaims cassidy's hand and tows him toward the car he parked in the 'don't park here' zone across the street. a sleek, two-door jaguar f-style coupe. kavinsky installs the vampire in the passenger seat before coming around to the driver's side.

inside the vehicle, the dash has extended a slender, shiny television screen which is currently playing live news coverage of some type of press release. kavinsky starts to drive away from the curb.] Can you really die of sunlight? That's really a thing?

[crassidy]

[Once slotted easily into the passenger side, with umbrella folded neatly away between his knees, Cass takes a moment to take in the fancy interior, running a slim hand across the leatherwork of the dashboard and seats.]

Yeah, that's legit. 'Bout the only way fellas like me can die though. [He's very casual about sharing the single weakness he has, as if maybe the concept of death isn't entirely concerning to him. This place makes death an even weirder concept anyway, thanks to it's habit of returning folk.]

Why? Planning on offing me?

[pillz]

[on the television, the speaker is quite excited. he is exclaiming about the maurtia falls zoo, new and generous donations, to be unveiled in five days time, once the creatures have acclimated to their habitats. it should, he says, be good for business.]

'Course not, sweet knees. Besides, you don't have to worry about that here. I mean, not even the fucking sun. You couldn't stay dead even if you wanted to, so don't even fucking think about it.

[the man on the tv says,] May we present...

[kavinsky takes a turn and then starts their coast down a long wide main street.] But I thought you was also supposed to be susceptible to like, garlic and beheading and shit.

[the spokesperson finishes:] Cassidy the Thylacine!

[abruptly, the screen cuts to the creature. its long, sloping, striped spine and rump, muscular legs, the thin whip of its tail and narrow muzzle. it doesn't appear to notice it's being observed by the camera, resting up in the concrete enclosure. yes, he did it. he brought back a famously hunted and extinct creature, on a whim, and had it named for the vampire.]

[crassidy]

Nah, none of that other shite works, only sunlight. I mean, y'could behead me, like, but it won't kill me.

[Sometimes he wonders about other vampires. Whether there's any poor sods out there who were beheaded and had their body parts buried in different locations, and whether somewhere out there under all this soil, there's some living head that's been buried for centuries, alone and in the dark, unable to do anything. It's a terrifying thought that he doesn't like to linger long on...

Thankfully the screen gives the perfect distraction. It wasn't something he was paying huge amounts of attention to, but the mention of his name is enough to have his gaze snap towards the screen and stare in distant confusion.]

The hell is that?

[pillz]

[kavinsky, in the meantime, is thinking about the exact same thing. it would have horrified him more before, earlier in his life, long before chilton and his death here in this world had got ahold of him.

these days, it seems like a fun intellectual exercise. with a side of problem-solving, should he ever have the need or want to serially murder somebody here endowed with such powers. buried underground? drowned in the ocean? what would be best? his creepy reverie is interrupted by cassidy's question.]

Alternate name is 'Tazmanian Devil.' Thought to be extinct. Said to be one of the most effective predators in the world, 'til people rolled and shot 'em all in the head. You know, [he flashes the vampire a grin.] They're supposed to be able to open their fucking mouths to like, eighty degrees wide. Like a fucking horror movie. You ever seen Sleepaway Camp?

[crassidy]

[For a moment he's transfixed by the imagery the screen presents, but he still manages to spare Kavinsky a roll of his eyes.]

Y-yeah, I know what one is, they were still around in me time. [Not that he ever actually saw one in the flesh. He can't help but draw the parallels to those poor sods and his own vampire kin, though; apex predators picked off one by one by over-zealous humans intent on murder for no reason beyond "because they can".]

I mean why the hell is that?

[nightmarist]

[ Much like his courtship rituals, Kavinsky's apologies elicit the very opposite reaction they're probably supposed to inspire. Then again, it's likely that Kavinsky's perfectly aware his every action drips with malevolence. Intimidation is how he gets what he wants, either way.

Ronan, as usual, is only annoyed by this technique. He texts back: ]

why would i do that

[pillz]

ucz im apoloiging and thats rare than a fuckin eclipse which peopel will drive to oregon for, and what the fuck is oregon
cmon
itll b fun i promise

[it's not as rare as it used to be, actually. even more insincere most of the time, lately. but kavinsky's relationship with 'sincerity' is complicated, particularly when you factor in one ronan lynch. he generally sounds more offhand and dismissive than he means to be.]

pls

[two eclipses. three. reaching the, people would drive to arkansas level of rarity, if you ask kavinsky. (no one should ask kavinsky.)]

[nightmarist]

this better not be some bullshit

[ It's definitely going to be bullshit. Ronan knows Kavinsky. (As much as anyone can know a creature as capricious as Kavinsky.) He is, as Kavinsky likes to put it, probably going to "fall for it" again.

But he will never stop seeing Kavinsky's corpse every time he considers ignoring a text. He promised he wouldn't let that happen again. He promised it to himself. ]

[pillz]

youll have fun.
i promise.

[and maybe just this one time, kavinsky thinks better than to remind ronan that there are no little brothers to kidnap, and john murphy isn't even home to provide much-needed collateral damage. just the meadows, quiet, with all of its dormice and silent walls and slow-changing leaves.]

im outside

[just the meadows, and the world beyond it. which kavinsky had tried to claim for them once, while blind to most of its possibilities. the insinuation is he's changed since then. in some ways worse, maybe, but still.]

[nightmarist]

[ Ronan emerges from the farmhouse a couple minutes later, dressed for this rare excursion into that world beyond the Meadows. Kavinsky is one of the few who can coax him to leave the safety of the farm anymore, which is funny, because there's no one more likely to land Ronan in danger. ]

What's the plan?

[ The itinerary? The strategy? Whichever. ]

mild powerpose lmk if not ok

[pillz]

[kavinsky's waiting outside in his jag. two door, a dark grey coupe with a dimly pearlescent, not quite iridescent sheen to her. she looks like mercury waiting to flow with the slightest shift of gravity, toxic and beautiful. inside, kavinsky smiles at ronan, his teeth white.]

Non-perishable food, spilled blood, and strange magic, sweetheart. The dream thieves special.

[a beat.]

No fire and nobody's getting fucking kidnapped. Promise. [he couldn't not mention it at least once, but this time he is serious.] Get in, loser. [the door breezes open to admit one (1) greywaren, and then they're off, with a scream of rubber on asphalt and the wind roaring through the windows.] YOU MADE UP WITH MURPHY YET?

them!

[leatherboots]

[ Outside the club is a roped off area, separated from the street and the miserable-looking line of people far too uninteresting to be allowed entrance. Here is where the young and pretty clubbers sit and enjoy a breath of fresh air, or air as fresh as it can be when it's shot-through with billowing exhales of shisha and cigarette smoke. It's moderately fresher than the thick humidity inside at least, and this is where Hentzau is - happily sandwiched between a DJ and her boyfriend and discussing how Rupert might further sandwich himself between them later tonight - when that handsome-looking car rolls up to the kerb.

Rupert is no expert when it comes to cars. His experience was something of a crash course, literally, but he knows quality when he sees it. He knows fun too, and he sees it in the feral looking man who leaves the beautiful four-wheeled beast in his wake as he heads towards the club. With a murmur to the DJ and a squeeze of the boyfriend's knee, Hentzau leaves them both behind as he cuts a path through the grey smoke, falling into step behind the young man. Not too close, not too far - a shadow formed by curiosity and the idea that anyone who drives a car like that is either interestingly rich or interestingly terrible, therefore worth following.

As Kavinsky heads in through the door Rupert's already decided to make this into a game. How long can he follow this man, how close can he get, without being noticed. A terrible game, considering that Rupert already, immediately wants to be noticed. It's the worst cat and mouse ever and it hasn't even started. Rupert doesn't even want to win. ]

[pillz]

[kavinsky notices he's being noticed, because he thrives on that kind of bullshit-- a desire for validation that ever refuses to admit to itself what it is. if you ask him, he has no needs. he has no soft bits. only hard bits. and he's arrogant enough to believe that it's to be taken for granted, that people want on those hard bits.

in other words, he dismisses his young stalker initially. his libido is a bit stunted; he's between murders, and that's what happens. sex by itself becomes too simple a prize. he doesn't care. he floats past the bouncers, into the neon and blacklight, drifting indifferently from the bar. the music fills his head, booms in his bones, kicks an arrhythmia into his heart. he passes through the corner of the dance floor, shouldering past a pair of bouncing breasts and their dance partner's sweaty tanktop.

and he realizes only then that rupert is still following. catches it somewhere in the reflections of a sequined dress, the curvature of an upraised wineglass. he doesn't look back, but it does make him smile. what can one say? his self-esteem has taken a hit in the past couple of weeks. it's still nice. he decides to head to the bar after all, curious to see if rupert really is trying to tail him.]

[leatherboots]

[ What Kavinsky might see in those reflections is a dark-eyed young man - early twenties at the most, youthful but not innocent - who moves through the clubbers with the easy, purposeful grace of someone who's been born to cut through crowds. And honestly, this crowd in particular has been dull for weeks, with the same faces boring Rupert to death every night (different people, of course, but all of them somehow looking and feeling and drinking and fucking in exactly the same way). Rupert had been praying for something new and exciting and here it was, rolling up on four wheels like his own personal PostMates for interesting new toys, and spitting out strange boys like the Jaguar boy here, blessed with good tipping money. How could Rupert resist?

Jaguar changes his mind and heads to the bar and Rupert pauses, letting him take up a space along the counter before tactically circling around, dipping in and out of what he knows is the edge of Jaguar's peripheral vision. After a moment's thought he settles for approaching Jaguar's left-hand side. For reasons.

He settles his elbows on the bar with a faint smile to await the barman's attention, pretending for all the world that neither of them knows exactly what Rupert's been doing. Just to see whether Jaguar will say anything. ]

tw drugs

[pillz]

[someone buys rupert a drink. a vodka and orange juice. it's not kavinsky, who watches this happen. it's a slightly older fellow in a steel-grey suit, peppery hair, mistaking rupert's demure pretense as a lack of interest in any of the available companions. the barman brings the cocktail to rupert in a tall, cylindrical glass, tells him that it's from the gentleman over there.

and at some point between the drink napkin and the explanation, kavinsky eases into the narrow gap by rupert's shoulder. his cologne eases out -- no longer ax body spray, thanks to dr. chilton's intervention, but something with mahogany and smoke, amber and dark wood trees. not too much of it. he is no longer nineteen. his teeth show white and perfect when he smiles over rupert's shoulder, not looking at him.

no confusion about who he's talking to, though. the blacklight flashes through the white fabric of kavinsky's shirt.]

Alternatively, [he says,] I got pills.

tw drugs

[leatherboots]

[ His gaze sweeps round to meet the gentleman in grey with an easy, appreciative smile. Rupert does so enjoy older people. He enjoys the demanding fuck of an experienced gentleman just as much as he enjoys the delicious insecurity of an older man who can't believe his good fortune that someone like Rupert would bother to go to bed with him. Both fun in their own ways... but ultimately nothing new.

Not knowing about the dangers of accepting open glasses of mysterious alcohol in busy nightclubs - even ones made right before his eyes - Rupert happily sips his free drink. It's strong and the vodka isn't the nicest foil to the wine he's currently swimming in but that's fine. It's free and it's a very flattering token of appreciation from a man who clearly has good taste. But again - it's not new. Rupert could probably pick this gentleman up any time he wanted, on any other night, and he'd happily repay him for his drink in other ways.

So he turns his attention to Jaguar beside him, smelling like a fucking snack as the kids say, and lowers his eyes in demure thought. As if he isn't completely fucking delighted to have been properly noticed, finally. As if he didn't want Jaguar to look at him properly, not over his shoulder. ]

Who here doesn't? [ Rupert replies mildly, his German accent just sharp enough to be noticeable above the music. Although actually, Rupert doesn't, and he doesn't particularly want them either but the statement is too interesting not to pursue. ] Are you selling or offering?

[pillz]

[oddly enough, kavinsky doesn't particularly want to either. he has largely been sober over the past few months, with the exception of a few beers or whiskeys or shots here there. but he never got out of the habit of carrying contraband with him— a seven-year-old habit that no combination of jail and brainwashing ever broke him of.]

Offering. I have a generous spirit.

[that is only mostly a lie. with drugs, paraphernelia, kavinsky comes toward the world with an open hand. in almost every other way, he's a closed fist, one as often choking his own heart as aimed at another person's face. or nards. metaphorical sometimes, super literal others. he decides he likes rupert's accent. he doesn't like the american accent that leaks into his own bulgarian, these days. european accents make him. nostalgic? that's the wrong word.

it's just a little different. and joseph kavinsky is so easily bored anymore.] They do bottle service out of those wine tanks, right? [he juts his chin so that rupert can follow. instead of having rooms, the semi-private partitions in here are massive, silver wine tanks with doors cut into them, plushy furniture inside, velvet ropes outside. overpriced, but thematically heavy-handed enough to be #worthit for young people with money.] Meet you inside?

[photophobic]

[In fact, feeling Kavinsky's presence through the Force is why Kylo Ren makes his way down the steps. It's also the reason he doesn't simply pick him up with an invisible grip around his neck and hurl him at the wall— Murphy might not have understood it, but for all Kylo's willingness to slip into role as bodyguard, he'd never really felt there was any threat at all.

Beyond the persistent and obvious, anyway. He watches Kavinsky from the doorway, then heads to the fridge to pour himself a nice tall glass of (blue) milk.]

But that is a lie. [He points out mildly, taking a sip. Mm.] You don't need money. Or if you did, you could simply dream yourself some.

[pillz]

You know, Lynch and I are paradoxical opposites in a lot of ways, [kavinsky says, leaning forward over the table. he no longer slouches like he used to, all piano key ribs and concave chest. but he does look hangdog and unkind, even in his preppy clothes and mew muscles, studying kylo ren curiously.] Your boy barely leaves home, but he wants the world to be there, for his home to be part of it.

Your boy would make himself anything he needs, including money, if he had to. Problem is, he doesn't understand shit like: inflation and economic collapse. Networks and systems, sweetheart. Can't tell if his heart is Catholic pure or he's a little dummy. [kavinsky smiles, a performance of warm affection behind that joke. (but the real joke is, that the affection isn't a joke.) (don't tell him that, kylo ren; even though you can probably feel it, in the eddying mud of kavinsky's make-pretends.)]

Or you could just do it for me. [by now, it's an informal habit. hitting on kylo ren, nothing coming from it. that'll change in a little while, but not yet.]

[photophobic]

[Kylo's head tilts slightly as he listens— not to what Kavinsky's saying, really, but the composite image built from all the loosely linked concepts he introduces with his words. His posture. The space he occupies, relative to everything else.

And his lips twist, just briefly, as if he's considering puncturing the structure to see what it looks like as it collapses, but he takes another sip instead before responding:]

Why should any of us have to waste ourselves on understanding money. We already have all the power it would ever gain us.

[pillz]

[kavinsky can't not smile. the force master's blanket declarations of arrogance are familiar to him now, and strangely quaint, adorable, and to an extent believable; kavinsky knows that there's real power behind that ego.]

Close enough, [he offers, diplomatically. he doesn't see value, right now, in poking holes at kylo ren's simple sense of security, but then his relationship with wielding near-infinite power-- and the agonizing inadequacy of it-- tells a very different narrative, never mind his weird career experiences with running a billion-dollar drug industry. sometimes it's fun to be mean!

but other times, kavinsky is genuinely curious about other things.] What isn't a waste, when you got all the powers and tall Goth ass you could want?

[photophobic]

[He frowns. There is something oddly vulnerable in his confusion, as if he genuinely doesn't understand the question— or, at least, the reason why anyone might need to ask it.]

I spend myself on what I need. What I want. What interests me. Anything else is a waste.

[Which... implies something about the amount of time Kylo seems willing to spend indulging Kavinsky, really, doesn't it? Not that Kylo seems to realise what he's said.]

I have no use for money. And even less for studying it.

cw c-word, suicidal ideation

[pillz]

[kavinsky's mouth twists humorlessly on his face. it's not that he doesn't understand. he does. the-- urge, anyway. once upon a time, he'd wanted ronan to go with him, leave everything else behind. he'd wanted ronan to dream a world for just them.

the paradox.]

There are a few billion other people on the planet. Most of them are too fucking boring for any of us to give a shit about. [yes, he heard that sideswipe of a compliment. which is why his mouth bends around a v-shaped, more vulpine smile the next moment.] They work their nine-to-fives until they die, picking up garbage, pushing pencils. You'll never know 'em, thank the fucking Lord.

But here's the catch: every single Fed nerd who designed and built the little robots floating around in our blood, was one of those people. Every Russian or American spook carrying a nullifier device, that could cut you off from the Force or Ronan from his dreams, is one of those people. Hell, even those OTO shitlords are those people.

The guys who built the first fucking nuclear warhead, early 1900s, thinking they might for fuckin' real, set the entire atmosphere on Earth on fire-- was gettin' paid to do it. [there's a detachment to kavinsky's spirit as he says this, something akin to apathy. but fascination too. he is himself everything that he hates about people, after all; it's why he's dangerous to those that kylo cares about.] And now they probably got tech that can actually ignite the Goddamn planet, at this point.

You're sharing a rock in space with six billion shitty little rabid cunts, Kyle. Money is information about 'em. But I ain't saying you should care. [he grins, then stands, picking up his cold coffee.] I care less about staying alive than anybody in this fucking house.