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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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?

[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?

[ He follows Kavinsky's gesture with his gaze and thoughtfully eyes the VIP tanks. Hentzau isn't a private man by nature, preferring instead to play out his life in the open air with absolutely no discretion whatsoever. Still, he can appreciate the simple pleasure of being able to actually hear what someone is saying without having to yell over the DJ's indiscriminate airhorns, so he nods. ]

Give me a moment to say thank you for my drink.

[ It's not kindness, it's greed. Rupert wants to make sure that the grey-suited man doesn't forget him for next time. He collects his drink and shoulders away from the bar, flashing a grin as he backs away into the crowd. ]

Manners maketh man, and all that.

[ See you in five, Jaguar. ]

[mm. kavinsky watches the young man peel off to talk to the fucking old one, a ghost of a smile on his face. he glances across the counter at the older man, who's already stepped back, waiting to receive a word or a kiss or a maybe three minute blowie? from the young german.

huh.

kavinsky drops into the crowd, vanishes in order to go and buy bottle service. he's not-- arrogant, exactly, in thinking that rupert won't stand him up. it's a possibility. but it's what happens when someone has obliterated more than half your emotional capacity spectum, and you were a grandiose asshole to begin with. he can kill a bottle of bubbly on his own. he could find someone else to play with. he doesn't know what he wants, and somehow that's better than being too keenly obsessed with one thing.

he gets into the massive wine tank. the music is muffled through these steel walls and the velvet padding screwed into the sides, but there are a couple small windows cut in, so it's not too claustraphobic. he starts to grind up a pill on the small, mirrored table, not. cautious, not by a long stretch.]

[ The thought does cross Rupert's mind, albeit fleetingly. He could let Jaguar wait for him in the tank while Rupert makes a beeline for the valet parking to sweep a portal beneath that beautiful car and drop it somewhere of his choosing. South America, maybe. But that's an awful lot of effort considering that the easiest way to earn some playtime in the car is sitting in a VIP wine tank with pills and champagne. The thought is dismissed as quickly as it comes and Rupert dutifully does as he says he would: he gives his thanks to the older gentleman and slips his number into that grey blazer pocket without him noticing. It takes exactly five minutes.

...And yet there's a further three minutes before Rupert swings up the stairs, movements made jagged and nonsensical through a sudden burst of strobe lights. He can't be on time, it's a point of pride; Rupert's manners don't extend far enough to include timekeeping, clearly.

Rapping sharply on the metal once, twice, is the only warning the other man gets before Rupert lets himself in, breezing into the small space as if it were his front room. He takes in the small mound of pill-powder on the table with a cursory glance and smiles a glittering smile. ]

Keeping busy? [ His voice sounds too loud to his ears after the joyous din of the dance floor. Sliding into a seat he eyes Jaguar with curious anticipation, examining him all the closer under the relatively cleaner light of their shared little space. What an interesting fellow he looks. ]

Killing time, [is kavinsky's answer, which is somehow simultaneously both agreement and correction. by now, there's a fine powder neatly cut into a tiny circular hill on the table. he's sitting over it, his knees spread and narrow shoulders hunched, slouchy but symmetrical, cutting the figure of an undisturbed flame as he looks up at rupert with a lambent stare of his own.

he wonders what powers this kid has. should be fun to find out.] C'mon.

[he breaks out of his thuggin' posture, straightens. slaps his hand down on the plushy seat beside him.] A little coke, a little ex. [false. some dream-substance that does the work of both, with less of a drop afterward. highly addictive, as a consequence, but kavinsky plans to share the dose. you can think of it as a public health service, in a certain light. he licks his thumb.] What's your name, Germany? Or codename. Whatever.

[rupert is an import. it's an educated guess. the way the natives respond to him-- there's that celebrity buzz, that vibe, that second sense. maybe a dash of conceit in rupert's stride.]

Hentzau, [ Rupert replies promptly, happily taking the offered space. He folds himself into the seat like assuming a throne, hiking his skinny jeans at the knees as he goes. ] Rupert von Hentzau. Ruritanian, not German. [ With casual bitterness: ] Although it's all the same in this world, apparently...

[ He leans forward over his knees, examining the powder briefly. Cocaine for a Victorian of his status and background was like taking baby aspirin in the morning, but ecstacy was unknown territory. Not that he's suspicious; Rupert's far too confident in the depths of his hedonism to find an unknown substance all that concerning. But perhaps that's just his own brand of arrogance; things like this will either kill you or cure you and he doesn't mind finding out which comes first the hard way. ]

Do you know, I'm not entirely sure I want to know your name? [ He turns his attention back to the man beside him, leaning back a little. ] I've been thinking of you as the man with the Jaguar. You're the most interesting creature here. Knowing your name might spoil the fun.

[kavinsky grins like a shark, if sharks happened to have really tidy human teeth set in a row so orthodontically perfect that money must have bought it. the light in here, wired to the metal ceiling, is flattering. to him, to hentzau.

they'd make some good porn if kavinsky's dick were working. maybe the coke will help with that! maybe that's a second date thing.] Aw, sweetheart. [he dresses more like dick gansey iii anymore, but he still talks like himself.] I promise, my name won't ruin a thing. You should go in on this with me. It'll be fun. Promise.

[and with that, he swipes the white powder onto the card he was holding. all of it, with a deft twist of plastic and the edge of one long, tattooed finger. and all of it winds up on his tongue. bitter, but he doesn't flinch -- in part because his eyes are focused on hentzau's face, pupils blown out huge, interested, indolent, even as he leans forward. it's nice to not worry about things, people, past, ronans and murphys and why are there always so many boys with so many names, maybe hentzau is onto something after all.

he pauses for a fraction of a second beyond the tip of rupert's nose, something like a taunt, and then

inevitably, his mouth is seeking rupert's mouth, tongue and tongue.]

[ Rupert watches the intricate ritual in silent fascination: the practiced ease with which he manipulates the crushed pill, the sweeping curl of that mottled finger on the card, the teasing pause that follows the lean. Normally it's Rupert dragging people to the depths like a highly enjoyable millstone; it's a pleasant change to have somebody else, somebody more terrible than him, in the driver's seat for once. So when the other boy's mouth seeks out his own Rupert is more than ready; he meets him halfway for an open-mouthed kiss, all lips and tongue as he seeks out a taste of more than just the drugs. One hand moves to grasp Kavinsky's sharp chin in a firm hold, as if to silently say hold still, don't draw back, as Rupert hungrily laps up his half of the spoils.

He's ready for alien intrusion of the bitter powder, an unnatural grit against an otherwise wet, plump tongue. This absolutely has to be the filthiest way to share and Rupert loves it; he's grinning into the kiss, lips curling unevenly in unbridled delight. Yes, God, he'd definitely made the right choice in rejecting the steely older man in grey. As if that gentleman could have offered anything as pornographically perfect as this.

He pulls away after a moment, his hand still at Kavinsky's chin, just so that he can watch how Kavinsky savours the powder. And maybe so he can be watched in return. ]

Fascinating, [ He remarks in a light murmur and runs his tongue around his teeth, his mouth full of fine sand. God, he'll need that champagne soon. In a minute. Rupert's dark eyes are still on his new friend's for now. ]

You are a generous soul, aren't you?

[half of kavinsky's life before this world was meaningless smut. the rest a desolate search for real love and affection, when he had literally none of the equipment to actually find and keep, with a side of violence, negligence, the other things that undermined his own path to happiness. and that's just the thing.

nights like these are a persuasive facsimile of happiness. they're fun. rupe is fun. while kavinsky needs the validation less than he used to, he looks at the other boy now, so close he can feel his breath, feels the tingle and energetic charge of the drugs starting to diffuse through his blood. rupert's fine nose and plushy mouth look like a distorted mirror. kavinsky wonders what the worst thing is that this young man ever did.]

It's one of my few virtues.

[it sounds like a boast. it's factual. he grins suddenly, laughs -- rupert can feel that on his own cheeks. kavinsky sits back and breaks open the champagne. he isn't celebrating anything in particular. maybe that he's still not dead in any permanent way; that his ex-paramour lives again, even if he doesn't want him anymore; that there is no worse trouble in his life today than there was last year. that he's in no pain he can name.] Let's toast to some shit, and I'll take you out for a ride.

[ Kavinsky's laugh is contagious, not that Rupert doesn't laugh at the drop of a hat anyway. Rupert prides himself on being a lusty, laughing kind of partner in crime; laughter is the vivid reminder that nobody should take anything seriously, and isn't every heinous act so much easier that way?

At the prompt from Kavinsky Rupert presents two elegant glasses; maybe this laughing Jaguar is the type to swill straight from the bottle, who knows, but Rupert's being helpful. ]

We used to open these with swords, you know. My greatest party trick, [ He declares idly, with the air of making conversation, and to hide a moment of thought before he suggests: ]

How about... genieße das leben ständig, du bist länger tot als lebendig.

[ Which, with a little help from their shared nanites, comes through as always enjoy life, you're dead longer than you live. He lifts his eyebrows curiously - will the toast do? ]

[hmm. trust a stranger to get you right where you fucking live. there's no noticeable lag on nanite translation; kavinsky hears what rupert means nearly as soon as the unfamiliar syllables arrive in his ear. it's true. he's been dead a long time, and there is no end to that in sight.]

I'll drink to that.

[and kavinsky does, once the bottle is made available to him. the bubbles burn on the way down, not meant to be sucked down as quickly as he does it, but it's hardly the most painful thing that kavinsky has ever endured, and pain bothers him less than it used to. besides, it's nice-- the cold heat of it, chasing the hot flush of stimulants through his body. balance is important. he has discovered that in recent years, mostly as a product of deeply unethical psychotherapeutic conditioning.]

How come you like cars so much if you're so fucking oldschool you used to carry around a sword like it was no big party trick deal? [kavinsky cocks his head.] I'm sure we could find some horse dick for you if that's your preferred ride.

[ Honestly, it's a fairly normal toast for Rupert, who is feeling the sting of being potentially dead by the weekend in his homeworld. The fact that they still use the axe for treason isn't something he can bring himself to forget, just as he can't bring himself to fear it either. He sips his champagne at a slower rate, meditatively washing the cold bubbles around his mouth to chase away the last of the powder, and considers Jaguar's off-colour joke. For anyone else from his time and background such a comment would be a duelling offence, but as with very nearly everything in Hentzau's life he doesn't take it seriously at all. And it was rather funny, besides. ]

My preferred ride, as you say, is anything dangerous and pretty, [ He cheerfully replies, enjoying the double entendre for all its unsubtleness. Because who cares for subtlety? Not Hentzau. The champagne is dry, his mouth is drier; he licks his lips and shrugs expressively. The powder begins to simmer in his veins; a deliciously warming sensation that he can feel in the beat of his heart and the oversharp dazzle of light glinting off his champagne glass. ]

I chose a Mustang for the name alone, [ He adds off-handedly. ] Alas, it had a very short but very exciting life. Such is the way of dangerous and pretty things.

[if rupert could stop accidentally?? alluding to kavinsky's own being dead that would be cool. but also kavinsky doesn't mind as much lately. emotional amputation. jadedness. a wide selection of numerous, even more painful experiences to choose from.

kavinsky smiles. he's bad at avoiding pretty young things himself, especially ones that make him, on some level, obscurely uncomfortable.]

I feel like you're insinuating something real rude about horse dick, but I take your meaning, [kavinsky says, and that thankfully will be the end of his bestiality-related comments for the moment. sorry to everyone watching from home. he has really bad humor. he laughs, and starts to stand up, his skinny, sinewy frame unfolding. he stretches, catlike.] Bring the bubbly? Let's hit the road. I'll even let you drive, because you asked so nice.

[also because he is not too concerned about quite simply creating a new car out of nothing, if it turns out that the anachronistic horseback rider turns out to be less amazing at driving than previously supposed. his fingers buzz happily.] And you can tell me about how you killed your old car.

[it's not bad luck. kavinsky doesn't believe in luck. he would probably be less of a mess if he did.]

[ He watches with wolfish interest as Kavinsky stretches, and Rupert notes idly that he could certainly take him. In a fight or a fuck, he doesn't care which the other man might prefer. Either would be fun. Rupert's drug-focused gaze catches sharply on the way the Jaguar's clothes shift as he stretches, suggesting a thin frame behind that well-dressed exterior. Skinny creatures can be easily overpowered, even ones with sharp snapping teeth and clothed in barbed wire. ]

Oh! Really? You're too kind. [ Although Rupert sincerely doubts it's kindness that's led Jaguar to offer his car out like that. Boredom and the bloody-minded pursuit of death-defying thrills, more like. Rupert relates. Hard. ]

Awfully trusting of you, however. Hit the road may very well be a literal thing.

[ How you killed your own car. Rupert laughs at that, a little overloud thanks to this fizz of energy that suddenly takes him by storm; he leaps athletically from his seat, snatching up the bottle by the neck and gives the other man a bright smile as he shoulders their little cell door open. ]

That said, would you believe it if I said it wasn't my fault? Because it truly wasn't...

[ Bad things happen to bad people, sometimes. Not enough to put Rupert off, not at all. ]

[is this upstart sizing him up. maybe kavinsky's been hanging out with too many old timey wimey queers, because he literally thought the word 'upstart' in his own brain. it's entertaining. he refuses to feel intimidated.

(which has only ever led to outcomes that he has regretted 95% of the time.) (extreme example: prior to becoming a serial killer, he was actually the victim of a serial killer.)]

I asked you for a story, [he says, stepping out of the metal walls. music surges against them, at risk of drowning out the tenor of kavinsky's voice.] I'm expecting a good one, and it's my job to believe it right up until the very fucking end. [it's so nice to hang out with the homos who actually like to talk. take a page, ronan lynch!! kavinsky shoulders his way through the crowd, emerging from the blacklight and throng of sweating, sequined bodies back into the chill of outdoors.

he didn't spend long in there overall, he realizes. maybe thirty minutes. but the valet is hardly surprised, and the key fob is back in his hand even before rupert's shoes scrape pavement again.] Feel free to name names. Every story needs a villain.

[kavinsky slouches slightly, indolently, his posture a boast: that he was the villain in his.]

[ Rupert doesn't possess the self-awareness or strength to punch through the fourth wall and point out that both of them are fictional villains, but even he knows on some intrinsic level that there's something sweetly ironic in Kavinsky's words. He settles instead for pointing out: ]

Everyone is a villain in someone's story, aren't they?

[ The air is cold and sweet, but that could be the hyperawareness brought on by the cocaine. He takes a lungful, closing his eyes briefly at the razorblade sharpness of the night air in his throat.

Fair's fair, isn't it? Jaguar is being generous and a story is meagre payment in return. And Rupert does so enjoy talking about himself, even when the story doesn't paint him in the best light. When he opens his eyes again Rupert is smiling serenely, face upturned to the night sky. ]

A friend of mine threw another boy into the road. A test of the boy's abilities, I believe. Damn well near destroyed my car but the boy was fine, which I suppose is the important thing.

[ According to some people who value these kinds of things! He glances aside at Kavinsky - he'd asked for names and Rupert pointedly hadn't supplied. ]

I couldn't possibly reveal their identities. He's a dear friend and I'm not one of those - what do people say nowadays - narcs?

Oh, my God, [kavinsky says, delighted. 'what do people say nowadays -- narcs?'] You are fucking precious.

[he says it with an accent, deliberately. british, hoity-toity. the valet brings up the jaguar in short order, and then the key fob chirps under kavinsky's thumb, both doors unlocking. kavinsky slides into the passenger's seat, generous as you like. he is basically why anyone hates americans.] Did the boy not consent? [is his next question. brrritishy again. he clips in his seatbelt, because he's not the same breed of heathen that he was once.

assuming rupert does slide into the passenger's side, he'll find that the sleek leather adjusting to accommodate his height and breadth like a familiar-- or invasive-- hand. minimal changes required, really. the two of them stand at nearly the exact same altitude in this world, even if rupert's shoulder span has a few inches on him.]

Sounds like a story with a happy ending, for everybody except for the car. [god how do british people do this. no consonant to end on. caaaahh.] No villains at all. A few friends in their coming-of-age movie. I'm a bit disappointed in you, Hentzau.

The boy absolutely did not consent, [ Rupert informs him gravely. The gravity is spoiled by the belligerence of the grin that will not be contained, no matter how grave Rupert tries to make himself sound. ] Had he not been an imPort then I'm quite sure we would be discussing a murder right now.

[ To say nothing of the fact that Rupert's not even sure he'd be alive if things had gone only slightly worse. He'd definitely felt like dying the next day, when the skeleton-deep agony of his poor bruised bones had really made itself at home. ]

And do you know, I'm not even entirely sure the two boys were good friends? [ He continues conversationally, familiarising himself with the car's sleek interior as he talks. ] I think it was all something of a lark, but the poor young man in who ended up in the road was just as surprised by the turn of events as I was...

[ His deft fingers skim over the ignition button, marvelling for a brief moment before thumbing it gently. The response from the car's engine is toe-curlingly deep and Hentzau sighs in delight as he flexes his fingers around the steering wheel's curves, savouring the rumble through the smooth leather. ]

Ohh, [ He smiles dreamily at his hands. ] I do like your beast.

[kavinsky is so rarely a passenger-side feature anymore. but he doesn't seem to mind right now, leaning back in the seat, one arm up on the window. glancing out the window then closing his eyes almost inadvertently, taking sips of night-time air through his nose. the rumble of engine is soothing, and rupert's voice is like good liquor. the anachronistic import seems to know what he's doing behind the wheel, too.

if he doesn't, well! worse ways to die, if you ask kavinsky. and he's definitely died those less desirable deaths before. it's been a weird year. a weird five years. part of him finds this strangely peaceful.]

That sounds like you're talking about my dick, [he says, lightly. he reopens his eyes and looks back at rupert, who looks -- perfectly at home, there in the cockpit, the leather bucket seat wrapped like a supple hand around his frame.] How long's it been since you lost your other one to nonconsensual vehicular collision? Do you feel like you're cheating on her now?

[there's a sly, vulpine grin at that. kavinsky lets his knees drift wide apart, where he's seated. it's not manspreading if you have your own seat.]

[ 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.

tw drugs

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lmk if this is too infomod

nah ur good

nsfw comment in hurr, also tw drugs drugs drugs

so much drugs

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tw bestiality joke

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nsfwish

still nsfwish