maskormenacelogs | 28 👶 HEARTBREAK MULTIPLIES [closed]

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28 👶 HEARTBREAK MULTIPLIES [closed]

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.]

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[ Sounds like you're talking about my dick. Rupert smiles benignly at his new Jaguar friend. ]

You'll know when I'm talking about your dick.

[ Now, don't distract him please - he's got a car to drive and still shamefully few actual car hours under his belt. In no civilised society would Rupert von Hentzau be scored a passing mark on a driving test, considering that he barely had his own car, his first car, for a week before killing it. But the inner workings of the Jag are at least a little similar to his gorgeous little Mustang and Rupert actually manages to somewhat smoothly pull them away from the kerb! Admittedly with absolutely no signal lights or mirror checks. At least the street is mercifully quiet, with only parked taxi cabs chilling in ranks as they patiently wait for clubbers to spill out into the streets. ]

This isn't cheating. The Mustang is absolutely, utterly dead. This is moving on, [ He adds distractedly once they're moving and heading in a relatively straight direction; the car is a fucking dream to drive and Rupert's attention is split between his passenger and the burning desire to slam his foot on the gas and let the car have her head. If Kavinsky's smile is sly then Rupert's is wolfish with glee. ]

But I'm going to be extremely nice and ask your permission before I treat her too roughly.

[ His gas foot eases forward, the engine answers readily, and Rupert's beside himself. He shoots Kavinsky an expectant look in a silent question - please let him tear the shit out of your beautiful expensive car!!! ]

[while dr. fred chilton definitely renovated many aspects of kavinsky's personality, he didn't touch the young man's deep-rooted carelessness with any and all of his physical possessions. it's just stuff. it's always just stuff.

and it's never really brought joseph kavinsky any comfort, to be honest.

but a boy-- well. 'comfort' is the wrong word for what boys bring kavinsky, but it's the difference between freezing to death, numb and tired, and having a fire. sure, intellectually you know fire is dangerous. it hurts your eyes, eats the air you need to breathe. and burns hurt, inch for inch, worse than any other wound. and yet, kavinsky loves himself some fire. and he loves the boys. (if less so lately, on account of his dick being asleep.)

he makes a courteous little gesture with his right hand. a have at it, across the jaguar's sleek dashboard. he's always been generous with stuff.]

[ The problem with Rupert -- well, one of the many problems with Rupert - is that he genuinely has no idea what he's doing when it comes to cars. And hadn't he warned Jaguar as much? His entire experience of driving cars had taken place in a week that culminated with nearly killing Peter idiot Parker, with very little time spent trying to actually understand the art of it, let alone the science. He knows that pressing down on one pedal makes it go faster, and that's what he does - he jams his foot down on the accelerator with none of the care and courtesy he'd give to encouraging a fine horse, and the car doesn't love it. Rupert knows nothing of revs or engine temperature or intakes -- the pedal smacks against the metal with a satisfying thunk and Rupert thinks that's just brilliant.

Maybe it's the drugs in his system but Rupert's heart kicks in his chest with a burst of fierce joy as the car plunges wildly forward, recovering from Rupert's nasty acceleration and finding her head as she storms along the road. There's little traffic at this time, thank God, but a few drunk pedestrians whoop and holler as the Jag surges up the street, engine screaming. Or maybe the screaming is the woman who dives out the road, leaving a single stiletto shoe in the road that disappears under the wheels with a satisfying clunk. ]

They were awful shoes anyway, [ Rupert notes with a laugh as he eyes the broken heel in the Jag's rear mirror. The window isn't open but he raises his voice to yell: ]

You're welcome!

[man. kavinsky is very generous with his stuff, and don't get me wrong -- he doesn't mind rupert tearin' it up. but it is quite difficult to ignore, even with kavinsky's own less than perfect manual driving skills, how much the jaguar is protesting under rupert's guidance.

it's kind of funny. a smile flickers on the dream thief's gaunt-cheeked face. he's mostly laughing with rupert. mostly. something sly about it, vulpine. fox in a chicken coop, looking at the blood-colored leavings in the rearview.]

No offense, sweetheart. Did anyone actually teach you how to drive?

[fyi his dick has been in hibernation for months, but as of seventy two hours ago, that changed. this is actually only partially responsible for his incredibly stupid decision now, to reach over to the cackling driver in the seat behind him. spread his fingers, the fiery, winged creature on his hand rippling over the stretch of metacarpal bones, and slide his palm over rupert's groin.]

[ The laughter has barely died - does Rupert's laughter ever really die? It's always there, just below the surface - as Kavinsky's hand spreads over his groin. This seems to happen an awful lot when driving, he thinks to himself, remembering his high-speed introduction to what Klaus had charming termed road head. In Rupert's limited experience of being a car-owner the ratio of driving to dicking seemed disproportionately high but Rupert really isn't about to complain anytime soon. In fact it's a very good reminder that he needs to buy another car as soon as humanly possible --

He shifts gears noisily. Apparently having a warm hand on your cock does nothing for your concentration! Again: not that Rupert minds. Belatedly he realises he's been asked a question. ]

A few friends tried. [ He moves a hand - a horserider's hand, a fencer's hand, muscled, calloused in strange places - to cover Kavisnky's own, curling those fingers around his groin to keep it in place. Rupert grins at the road ahead of them as they speed along. ] I'm a terrible student.

[hmm. now they're accidentally holding hands, when kavinsky had meant to be grabbing a dude's dick. but of a genre clash. he doesn't mind too much, considering they are definitely about to die in a fireball.

he slides his thumb along what seems to be a firm, lax line concealed inside rupert's trousers. maybe the kid really likes those industrial, heavy-duty falshlights? everybody has a thing. he slides his thumb back the other way, feeling the calluses on the underside of rupert's hand against his tattooed knuckles, wondering what kind of life they came from. (the roughness of kavinsky's own hands have been nearly explicable most of his privileged life, other than his proclivity for touching what he shouldn't.)]

I wouldn't say that, [kavinsky remarks.] You got some talent. But it seems like you got the objective kind of mixed up in your head, sweetheart. Driving for most people is about getting from point A to point B, all efficient, without fucking nobody up.

[there's another little squeeze for good measure.]

[ Point A and Point B. Rupert nods sagely, as if he doesn't have a hand on his dick. ]

In which case, [ He replies levelly. ] Your hand is hardly helping matters, is it?

[ Which is precisely why he's got his hand plastered over Kavinsky's: he doesn't want to risk him moving it just because, say, they are hurtling towards a sharp turn in the road. Kavinsky squeezes and Rupert grins happily, his own hand tightening appreciatively as he encourages that hand to move a little in a sensual little up and down along the curve of his cock.

Rupert has always been quick to rise. Thanks, youth and an insatiable libido. He only moves his hand away when he's sure that Kavinsky's got the picture and, yknow, the need to shift gears to take that sharp bend becomes a matter of critical urgency. They swing around the corner, Rupert taking the car far too wide into the (mercifully empty) opposite lane, and Rupert releases his breath in a delighted laugh. ]

I'll try my very level not to kill us both, [ He suggests, his eyes fixed on the road with manic glee. Beneath Kavinsky's hand his cock twitches appreciatively at the thought. ] I'll pull over if you'd prefer.

Edited 2019-11-26 10:29 (UTC)

[the poor jaguar screams, cutting the corner. the burn of rubber would reek if they were outside, plume smoke if there was enough light to see by. kavinsky's shoulder rams up solidly against the edge of the leather bucket seat. it hurts a little. he kind of loves it.

and he fortunately has too much horrific driving experience to accidentally choke rupert's dick wrong with his hand because of tire-squealing terror. fucking germans. austrians? western europe is all the same to this boy from bulgaria!

the car straightens out. headlights finding the new vanishing point down the road, the darkness around them.] Or you could try your very level best to do something different, [he hears himself say. he heart kicks in his chest with glee. half a deathwish, but only half. he shifts his shoulder, his arm, firming his grip on rupert's groin.] You ever heard of playing chicken?

[there are no other cars in the road participating in this action, and the streets are growing emptier. but kavinsky does not mind reinventing stupid fucking games for his purposes.]

[ Chicken does not sound like a game that's likely to involve getting your cock sucked, sadly, but the way the other boy says it sounds far too much like a challenge for Rupert to ignore. And his hand is still on his half-hard dick, albeit not moving in a way that suggests they're going to get down to things anytime soon. Torn between impatient arousal and the allure of a fun new game with a fun new person, Rupert pauses. ]

Tell me more, [ He says after a moment, shifting gears again to pick up speed. The gear stick catches noisily and Rupert curses with a soft laugh; his brain is too distracted by the hand on his cock that he's so keen to move against. He wants contact, friction, something in reward. ] And be quick about it.

Traditionally, [says kavinsky in his most formal voice,] two cars drive toward one another at top speed. Whoever swerves first loses. Because they're a yellow-belly pussy.

[kavinsky leans over sideways in the seat. pushes a little harder with the hand on rupert's dick, this time, rolls his skinny shoulder into it, puts some wrist in. measuring it, at half-mast, against the length of his hand -- even as he maintains the steady internal narrative that this dick will be, at best, exploring his hand and his mouth. he prefer sucking a big dick to a small one. who doesn't?

he peers into rupert's face, near enough now that he can see the subtle shadows that rupert's eyelashes make on the tops of his cheeks, even in the semi-darkness.]

I got a power that can pull us out. And there's a curve in the overpass coming up. Goes right over a empty lot. You wanna play? Think you can measure up?

[there's laughter behind kavinsky's hollow eyes when he asks that. two kindsm of teasing!]

[ Rupert's very nearly always easily distracted whatever is currently and immediately happening between his legs, and this is no different. His new friend really is getting the measure of him in more ways than one and Rupert is keen not to be found lacking in either of them. He shifts gear again in answer, easing his feet off the clutch and into the acceleration in turn, and grins brightly in the half-light. ]

I'm game, [ He informs Kavinsky cheerfully, adding by way of a caveat: ] But don't you dare let go of my cock.

[ Game or not, Rupert has no intention to die tonight. Not without being sucked off first, at least. ]

[you're so horny, rupert. kavinsky's eyes brighten. this is fun. he likes it. rupert is fun.

and obligingly, kavinsky pops the button and the zip on rupert's pants.

that's still only half the job, mind you. unfortunately, with the way that trousers and bucket seats and sitting down work, he still can't get an entire handful of dick, and certainly not without causing more harm than he intended. but he can get a little skin on skin, and that's important. drawing his thumb along a fat vein, squeeze harder at the artless pop of organ trying to fight its way out from beneath too much underwear and inconveniently lodged thighs. rupert has really nice thighs. not hard to imagine rooting around under there like a pig.]

I hope you like losing, [says kavinsky, brightly.]

Think I've won already, [ He replies, a little thickly now that his attention is so very split. His stiffening prick and the surging clamour of need-want are screaming to be dealt with but Kavinsky's challenge and the demands of the curving overpass ahead of them are louder in his ears. It's a delicious dilemma, adrenaline and an electric sharp libido vying for first place. God, he hopes his newfound friend sucks dick. Rupert's going to need it after this.

Here goes nothing. What a stupid game! Rupert's foot on the gas is relentless as he takes them forward, the engine steadily climbing in time with Rupert's heartbeat. He shifts gear again, smoothly this time, and he squirms upwards against Kavinsky's hand in anticipation of something as they hurtle towards the curve in pass. He isn't going to turn the wheel. He isn't going to turn the wheel.

(He isn't going to let them die, either. But, talking of, he'd still rather die than turn that wheel.) ]

[out of the dark, the concrete barrier, the overpass' edge, roars into view. looks ghostly grey in the headlights, like the finish line to life itself. of course, right before the flat ribbon that it presents, there are marks on the road, swerving off to the side, indicating clearly that this wall was not meant to be driven into.

and yet.

and fuckin' yet.

(kavinsky does think about it sometimes, you know. being alive always seemed like a whole fucking shitton of work. the fucking tedium. the commitment. fleeting moments, instants, burning-bright experiences that then fade away-- those he can do. but it's in those between moments, often when he is alone, usually if he is bored or has too much time to wonder, or remember, or observe himself, that he questions it. what's the fucking point?)

(used to be, if you got to the finish line prematurely, you were done. it was over. you were dead, and the sleep would never leave you but the dreams were finally gone.)

(but that's not how it works here, is it?)]

Well shit, [kavinsky remarks, once they're close enough that it's too late at this speed for a turn to save them. he's made his cars go sideways any hundreds of times. he once did it then saved ronan lynch's life, even. you learn how it works; how fast you can go before the threshold of the turn won't save you. so there's actually a pretty fair distance -- of a couple of seconds, anyway, between the point of no return and the moment of actual collision.

he glances over at the other young man, with his handesome profile, his dilated pupils, his open trousers and half-denuded dick. he smiles.

snap.

and the next instant, there's a wall cool against rupert's back, catching him as his body drops a few inches through empty air, remembering that the last thing he had been doing was sitting down. a hand still on his dick, the skinny young creature beside him in a crouch. music is playing, somewhere. not the heavy drub-a-drub cacophony of club sounds, but some elegant piano-key arpeggios.]

[ Somewhere between the point of no return and the impact with the crash barrier that never comes, Rupert knows that this is a terrible, terrible idea. Contrary to his hobbies (playing with sharp objects) and habits (playing with sharp people) Rupert doesn't actually want to die. Death would be a great adventure, so he'd heard, but the risk that he might not return - that he might be banished back to his home century - is too much. At that point he knows it's not too late, he can rip a portal and save them both (and lose the game) albeit with a bumpy landing; he throws a hand forward, clutching at thin air like a man in the throes of a heart attack, and briefly the world between the car's nose and the crash barrier changes --

A brief, fleeting window into a moonlit desert is ripped away as the pair of them tumble into elsewhere; the comforting embrace of leather at his back becomes a cold, unforgiving wall and a hard impact against a damp sidewalk. Rupert's hands clutch the brickwork either side of him, his face white with surprise and bated breath, and he sags a little against it as he gets his bearings. And somehow Kavinsky still has a hand on his cock (harder now for the life-saving rush of their narrow brush with death). That's skill. Rupert has to admire that. ]

God! You could have ripped my cock off, [ He gasps with a laugh as his heart hammers wildly against his bones. It's only a half-hearted accusation; he'd asked him to keep a hold of him so that was mostly Rupert's mistake, but still. Still. ]

[kavinsky's heart is hammering too. oh god oh god, his heart says. what the fuck is wrong with you.

(this is probably why he gives it to clotho, in the end. who needs that sort of equivocation.)]

Come on, man. I know it was dark, but I knew it was too pretty to to fuckin' rip it off. [kavinsky grins at the other man, bright as a knife in moonlight. by now, the smell of tropical orchids and seasalt are beginning to roll in; your classique luxury hotel bouquet of fragrances, precisely because it is, indeed, a classique luxury hotel. the likes of which are not normally prone to having feckless young men grope each other in the darker corners of their nonetheless public spaces.

kavinsky doesn't care. he's puzzling apart the concatenation of events of the last forty seconds, mulling over that brief flash of desert. his eyes shift to rupert, deducing. recognizing. realizing.

triumph breaks a white, boyish smile over his face.

which rupert gets to see up close and personal, in all its brilliant, enameled glory, when the dream thief straightens swerves close. tucks his skinny hip in between rupert's thighs, his grip tightening briefly on the other man's sex. his forehead touches down on rupert's, gently punting, pinning the back of the other young man's head into the wall behind him.] I won, [he says, very clearly.] I dunno what the fuck you did, but you did something. And you did it before I tried.

[ Caught! Damn. It was too much to expect that this boy, fierce and sharp as a knife, hadn't noticed. Rupert allows him his triumph and his needling smile, and bunches both hands into his nice shirt as Kavinsky swoops over and onto him. The hands make fists, bracing and holding close, half-poised to shove away if he needs to. There's a moment where Rupert isn't sure if this is going to descend into a fight or a fuck but he's ready for either; he can take this boy no matter which side of the knife-edge they land. ]

Actually, no, [ Rupert insists with a glittering smile and lets his eyes drop pointedly down between them with a breathless laugh; he lifts his hips lewdly in a rough, artless thrust against that hand around his cock. ] I'm still rather sure that I've won.

[ Which... isn't addressing the fact that he absolutely did do something before Kavinsky whisked them away. But Rupert has zero inclination to deepdive into his death issues right now, not when there's a more important question on his mind: ]

Now are you going to suck it or not?

[ It's a steely whisper, a challenge veiled in the illusion of choice. And yes, sure, they're in a semipublic space. But that definitely hasn't ever put Rupert off before and it's all part of the challenge, isn't it? And he knows that his Jaguar friend does so like a challenge; he had known this boy was good for it - up for it, even - the moment he kissed those drugs into him. That's a mouth that's built for doing more than just laughing and spitting obscenities. ]

[rupert's breath is hot on his mouth. when you do less drugs, your tolerance goes down, and kavinsky used to do a lot of drugs. he can blame them, probably, for the acquiescence that suddenly seems ffffun. beguiling. it's a conquest he's taken pride in before, getting his mouth on a guy's dong, having that control as his partner went to wet pieces on his tongue.]

You're a shitty date, [he whispers back.

but he jerks rupert's trousers down four inches, and then he slides himself down on his knees. the sleek floor meets his bones with a mild shock of percussion, not enough to hurt. and then he gets to sucking.

and he inevitably makes a game out of the pace. the rhythm to start with is ordinary gratification: fast enough to pump rupert's dick stiff and red, sucked down hard with spit layering rubber over the fat rim of his lip, and then faster. a jagged pace jolting deep down the stem of rupert's cock, to maybe even alarm the young man above him that there wouldn't be an arc to this at all, but then -- abruptly and appropos to nothing, he slows down. s l o

o o w

ly now, his lips scooping a wet, squishing vacuum down the surface of rupert's cock, lewdly audible and unmistakably leisurely. all too obvious now, in the cleanly quiet of the corridor.]

[ Hentzau watches in rapt attention as his cock is swallowed up with alarming enthusiasm with a pleased noise that's far too loud for their semipublic corridor - not that Rupert cares who might hear or see them. He's sure he can hear footsteps in the corridors above them but, fuck it, any bystanders will just have to start a queue.

But then - then Kavinsky changes pace, dropping down a gear, and Rupert sighs an open-mouthed aahhh of pleasure and frustration; fast was good, impatient was good, but god he could learn to love disgustingly slow and thorough too. He's being toyed with, he's sure of it, and the spasm of his hips, the jerking stab of his cock, silently demanding a faster, harder pace, is only half-hearted. Because, good God: ]

That's good -- [ The words are gasped, stuttered between breaths as he grins distractedly down at the impossibly lewd scene before him. But even Rupert knows that not everyone likes being told what a disgustingly wanton sight they look with their mouth full of gleaming wet cock, so Rupert distractedly asks in thinly-veneered politeness: ]

Would you like me -- ahh, Christ -- would you like me to tell you exactly how good-?

[kavinsky encounters a problem about fifty seconds into this process. which is that his own dick starts to rear up to attention with almost painful verve. why? maybe it's the control. that's a nice notion. very ego-syntonic. he can play rupert like a fucking fiddle from down here, laughing so that the obscene vibration at the back of his throat goes into the head of rupert's cock, and sliding his tongue right down to the curly strings.

he pulls his mouth off the sex in question with a funny wet pop. smiles like a fox at the henhouse.] Sure, [he says.] Why don't you tell me all about it, sweetheart?

[he places a nonchalant hand over his own raging, ostentatious hard-on. slides his knees a little further apart, for traction, and shifts himself up. slides the fingers of his free hand over the clammy mess he's made of rupert's shaft now, and then tucks his nose under the base of it, nuzzling a nonchalant kiss in the soft, fuzzy cleft between rupert's balls as the chill air of the hotel chills the spit on the now-neglected head of rupert's cock, just a little. making fun.]

[ Sweetheart. He'd said it before now and Rupert hadn't paid it any mind but now it strikes him as incongruously personal for this highly impersonal adventure. Or simply a little bit condescending. Either way, he likes it, this thin veneer of intimacy in the middle of a public corridor. He grins hazily down at the boy with his head at his groin, one hand reaching to smoothly run calloused fingerpads through Kavinsky's hair.

But Hentzau is too impatient for teasing. Kavinsky's generous blowjob skills are completely wasted on Rupert, a man of simple needs. The lavish attention being bestowed around his cock but not quite on his cock is nice, but ultimately not getting the job at hand done. The fingers in Kavinsky's short hair turn impatient as he twists strands in a sharp remonstration. ]

Get your prick out if you like, [ He murmurs silkily. If they're running the risk of being caught then they might as well make the most of it and both be done for indecent exposure. ] But don't you dare stop sucking on mine.

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28 👶 HEARTBREAK MULTIPLIES [closed]

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nsfwish

still nsfwish

http://nymag.com/intelligencer/2014/12/south-dakota-yanks-dont-jerk-drive-campaign.html

w o w OH and nsfw warning too i guess

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nsfw

cw misogynistic language

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ffwing a bit, lmk if not ok (tw suicidal ideation)

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nsfw getting nsfwer

all nsfw all the time

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