thisavrou_log | o6 🔥 all that time you thought i was sad

[they don't usually manage to switch before kavinsky cums. it's kind of an irritating point for him, actually, that he gets so into it with bryan. bryan's broad hands on his gangly hips, bryan's funny little bunny teeth on his neck. when they're apart, kavinsky does shit like remind himself that he has kind of a weak chin and his hair looks stupid, but when they're together, he spreads his legs like a cat in heat, yowls, pushes back on him, and the other boy nails him at the perfect fucking angle every single time, like his cock is burrowing a vacation home in his body, architectured to fit his every need. nine times out of ten when bryan is fucking him, kavinsky can't think about anything besides getting off on it.

but now and then, kavinsky remembers to push him out, push him down. once out of the ten, he gets his fingers into bryan and then he fucks him.

and today is one of those days. sprawled out on one of kavinsky's ludicrously huge beds, one of the boy's muscular thighs flung over his tattooed arm. he can see that bryan's close, the sheen of sweat on his sternum, the dewy puddle thickening on his stomach, the jagged catch of breath in his jaws, which don't look weak; they look beautiful.

and something about this thought infuriates kavinsky, because kavinsky is an insane person. and just like an insane person, his blown-out pupils sharpen and he leans in, leans down, and puts his arm down over bryan's throat. the furious ratchet and thrust of his hips doesn't stop at the squeeze. they both deepen, simultaneous, something feral and mean-spirited and childish in the predatory glower of kavinsky's stare.]

[Bryan's not an overly proud person. He's been hungry enough times to know that if it came down to it, he'd do pretty much anything to get what he needs. It's that fact alone that's humbled him to the point that he doesn't feel excessive amounts of pride in any one particular skill or thing he might be good at. Not even sex. Which he knows he doesn't suck at, usually, but then there's this thing he has with Kavinsky.

With all his pale skin and tattoos, his stupid smart mouth that says the weirdest fucking things, and the spot where his lips come to an end, the corner of his mouth that curves up into this ridiculous smirk that makes Bryan want to kiss him. Well, every time they fuck, he leaves Bryan feeling like some kind of sex god. As dumb as that sounds when he thinks it.

It's not until they switch that he's less hooked on how quickly he can get Kavinsky to come or how easy it for Bryan to - no, he gets damn sentimental. He's not supposed to like him. Or want him. He's gotta be all kinds of messed up to still be in love with Nate and like the way Kavinsky smiles sometimes or how his back arches when he's thrusting into him. It's worse when Bryan's the one taking it because the other boy hits that spot inside him and he shakes all over. He thinks about that when they're not together.

Especially now, though, when he's drilling into him hard, and his cock is flushed red. It almost hurts. He doesn't get it, because nobody has ever been so rough with him. Always soft and gentle, easy. Kavinsky treats him like he can handle it, like he won't break from having his legs spread wider and there's an arm over his throat, pushing down.

It's mean and aggressive and he can't breathe at first, but that cock keeps hitting the right spot and everything gets fuzzy around the edges. He reaches up to grab Kavinsky's arm, fingers curling at his wrist and elbow, back bowed and hips rocking down to meet him. He opens his eyes, they flick up to meet Kavinsky's and his pupils are black, erased of all color and he really, really likes it. His lips part to say it but nothing comes out.]

[the black consumes bryan's eyes, and it seems only natural in the presence of kavinsky, who is rather dark in all the ways that matter and also a big fan of substances that blow up your pupils huge. he watches it happen with greedy interest, close observation. which isn't to say he stops, of course.

no, he's still rutting in hard between the broader boy's open thighs. feeling the flinch and clench of the muscles cut tight over bryan's hips, the jump of the heavy ones laddering his stomach. by now, kavinsky has spent enough time fucking j that he knows how to line it up so his dick doesn't switch angle and fall out of a hole when he's hitting it hard and fast; it's muscle memory, no more and no less than riding a bike. riding the tender pink ingress of bryan's body, mainly, trying to fuck his lungs inside out, rasping his name. or that was the goal until the impromptu strangulation happened.

you know. as it is.]

You think you're so fucking pretty.

[it's not real disdain in kavinsky's voice. all the fondness in his gaunt face can be accounted for by that, actually. how pretty bryan is, the firm rectangles of his tits and the intrigue of hair curling down from his navel, his adam's apple, the haughty line of his nose. kavinsky is a vain and shallow creature, and if bryan wasn't pretty, they wouldn't be doing this. that's the good part. the part that lets kavinsky ease his arm a fraction of a degree off bry's throat, so he can draw a raggedy lungful of air, even as kavinsky's dick rails another wet thwup thwup twup out of his exposed ass. but kavinsky's never only good, and the other half of the question comes icy, narrow-eyed, in between the sharp grunts of his thrusts.]

Who're you thinking about?

[the accusation is unmistakable. also the threat, the bone of his wrist edging down on bryan's neck again.]

[The thing about him and Kavinsky is that, while Bryan is happy to go along for whatever fucked up ride the guy takes him on, he's not a floor mat. He doesn't let the brunette make choices for him or tell him what to do, he lets things happen that he wants to happen, and then puts a stop to the things he doesn't.

Right now, he wants this, to feel Kavinsky's hard cock between his thighs, shoving into him hard enough he knows he'll feel it for days. He hadn't expected the choking, but he kind of likes it so it's okay for now and he doesn't try to stop it. His moans are cut off in his throat - rumbling in his chest in little uhn-uhn sounds as Kavinsky hits his prostate. He could come like this, untouched, and he squeezes Kavinsky's arm to show him that everything's fine, this is all okay. He's enjoying himself and maybe he's kinkier than he thought he was.

He sucks in a harsh breath, lungs burning as air flows back in. Guilt flashes across his face, eyes going wide, and he hadn't actually been thinking about anybody else then. Not Nate, only Kavinsky, but he feels guilty for it anyway. And then he's pissed off because instead of picturing the beautiful boy grunting on top of him, he's thinking of someone he won't ever see again. That he misses. Bryan grips Kavinsky's arm and tightens his thighs at his waist, abruptly stopping his movements. He's breathing heavily, lips pinched.]

You. [His fingers squeeze, probably too hard and he pulls Kavinsky's arm from his throat, the other sliding up to twist in his hair, tugging his head back.] Asshole, I was thinking about you.

[Rolling his hips, he drops a foot down and leverages up, twisting and turning Kavinsky over onto his back. His cock slips out, but Bryan straddles his thighs, grips the base and roughly lowers himself back down. He reaches for both of Kavinsky's wrists, pinning them above his head as he presses their mouths together roughly. When he leans back, he rolls his hips and slides his hands down his chest, huffing out a moan as he fucks himself on Kavinsky's cock.]

It might be your cock I'm sittin' on, but you don't get to treat me that way.

[this is the problem with being a skinny little thing, weaker than you preferred choice in big buff sexual partners. except it's not a problem. not exactly. being tossed onto your back and see a man with three-inch-deep pecs work himself down on your cock in fucky humpy hungry inches that would probably make the bed and his back whine in protest if he weren't hungry for more. he sees it, of course. the tiny stab of pain that flares up in bryan's face when his words find a mark. he likes that, because he's a terrible person.

but he also likes this. bryan's hands snapping shut on his wrists. bryan's cut granite thighs opening up around his narrow hips, muscles punching him down steady on his cock. bryan machining him down into the mattress hard enough to feel the bounce and creak of bedsprings. no room for kavinsky to move, to thrust unless bryan gives it to him, and if he can't, then kavinsky's trapped under him, the sleek mystery of hard flesh and handsomely symmetrical bone, a sharp contrast to the soft suck of him inside, around kavainsky's cock. this, kavinsky thinks, would be a good way to die. he strains and gasps and bites bryan's lip, his teeth flaring into a view of a sharp white smile.]

You-- nngh— [—feel so good, but that's irrelevant for our evil little shit purposes. he twists, his narrow feet skidding across the coverlet. pushing his cock up into bryan's body, hungry for the uneven stutter of his eyelashes, the way his voice cracks.] --you say that. Are you gonna-- fuck— lie, an' say there w-was no one?

[Bryan sits himself up, eyes closed and doing his best to ignore the man underneath him. He hates it. Trying to block out what he says but not wanting to stop what he's doing bad enough to leave. He makes a whiny sound when Kavinsky snaps his hips up, barely grazing his prostate but the thrust of hard flesh inside him feels so good.

He can't believe they're doing this. Having a conversation about other people while fucking each other.]

No. [He's never been particularly violent, not as much as some of the others back home. Bryan usually resolves his anger through discussion but he doesn't get mad all that often to worry about it. This puts him in a position where he's genuinely unsure what to do. He doesn't have practice with this. Nate never did anything like this. Nobody's ever treated him quite this way.

With a roll of his hips, he squeezes his muscles around Kavinsky's cock.] His name was Nathan and - [He bites his lip until the pink skin turns white, falling forward with his palms to the bed on either side of Kavinsky's head. He can't catch his breath and he can't come either. He's frustrated and pissed off.] Close.. i'm so close. Harder, like before.

[kavinsky isn't as strong as bryan, but you don't have to be that strong to fuck a boy as hard as he wants. plus he has this really excellent mattress, which is helpful, being able to have the springs coiled underneath you, boosting you up. the bed squeaks furiously, in tandem to the wet, muted smack of kavinsky's thighs against bryan's buttocks. that's easy. the narrow muscles and tendons stand out in the dream thief's back, shoulders, hips.

his teeth stand out against his face. still pretty, but ugly too. (kavinsky's always done this.) (he treats everybody this way.) the conflict twisted up, knotted in bryan's face sparks a malicious pleasure in him, burning hot and dry, counterpoint to the moist pleasure of the other boy's body, the sweet suck of him, how cute his nipples.]

You-- used to— call his name? [kavinsky asks, between the clench and grunt of angled thrusts. his eyes full, upturned, greedy— mean. he knows bryan doesn't like it. he can tell.] Go on, sweetheart. [his palm collides with the side of bryan's right buttock. a saucy little crack of impact.]

[Kavinsky's beautiful and ugly, simultaneously, gracefully and easily woven together into something that catches Bryan's attention and holds it. This is the part where he leaves, right? Pushes Kavinsky away, tells him he's done, and doesn't come back - but there's this little voice in the back of his mind telling him that he wants it, deserves it. This isn't the kind of sex two people who love each other have. It's fucked up and mean and he can't remember ever being this turned on.

The emotional aspect was drawing out his orgasm, making it hard to come, and the waiting almost hurt but it felt better than anything he's ever experienced. Kavinsky fucks him as hard as he asks, giving him what he'd wanted, but his expression is new and difficult to look at, so he drops his head down to the crook of Kavinsky's throat and shoulder.]

No, I.. [He doesn't want to talk about him anymore, say his name, pretend the boy underneath him is Nathan. They're as different as two people can be. It's what pulls him to Kavinsky. He's nothing he's ever known before. He doesn't want to let him ruin this.] Jose-

[When Kavinsky's hand smacks against his ass, his mouth falls open on a silent moan and he bites down hard into the meat of Kavinsky's shoulders. He tucks his hands into his hair, curling over and around him, sobbing as his climax is ripped out of him. His cock twitches as he comes with nothing more than friction from their bellies pressed together and the hard cock pushing into him.]

[there would be a layer stripped off the surface of kavinsky's cock from friction burn, if that was how fucking works. but it isn't. bryan's body welcomes him, much as bryan's soul cringes inside his beautiful bones, and kavinsky revels in the smell and the feel of it, the pheremone stink of it on bryan's skin. how the muscles of his chest convulse in wet synchrony with his throat, his thighs, the pink clench of his hole.

it occurs to him belatedly that he should've drawn it out. stuck it in a little shallower, let it slip out, watch bryan try to chase it around with his hole and whine and cry and grab him. it's a cruelty for a different way, he supposes— a different kind of game. he should be satisfied that he won this one, with a boyish mewl as good as he'd wrung out of bryan's throat in the end.

(kavinsky's never satisfied.)]

John. Steve.

[it has the cadence of a joke. kavinsky wraps his tattooed hands around the cut sculpture of bryan's hips, and rolls them over. his strength is less by far, but orgasm has a way of sapping the strength out of a body, and kavinsky has never had much of a problem with exploitation of any kind. he pushes bryan's lax knees up. licks the salt off his throat, and points his cock in again. starts more. fucking, breathing. he's close.] David&mash; [there's an undercurrent of laughter, awful, unmistakable.]

[He chose this. Maybe he deserves it, maybe he doesn't. Bryan's not sure he's in any position to say what anyone should get out of life, but all he knows is that he chose this. He'd been told what kind of guy Kavinsky was, what he's done and could do, but he hadn't cared. He liked him. It was easy being around the other guy. He didn't feel pressured to be good. Didn't have to follow any rules other than what he set for himself.

For the first time in his whole god damn life, he was just Bryan. Himself. All that good clouded his judgement and got him into this mess. Now he was being fucked, hard, after he's already come and sensitive to the point that it no longer feels good. The man in and over him was teasing, laughing, and Bryan wasn't doing anything to stop it.

It was degrading, bordering on humiliating, the way Kavinsky had chosen to bring up Nate - someone he couldn't stop thinking about now. Nate would probably even understand why Bryan was doing all this. Still, he knows when it's all said and done, he'll forgive Kavinsky anyway. No matter how this makes him feel.]

H-hurry up. [Because he's done. He needs this to be done.] Hurry up.

[Bryan rolls his hips, clenches and moves, tries to push Kavinsky faster towards an orgasm.]

Hurry the fuck up.

[kavinsky isn't trying to hurry, really, but he's never been very good at resisting much of anything. the urge to suicide, the tasty of cigarettes. bryan's body is no different. bryan's body might be better, actually, sleek and muscular with salty-sweet smells tucked away into its pores and a wet squeeze and pump so good that it almost makes kavinsky forget, in sneering pleasure less pure than this other kind, that bryan's trying to get him off even though he'd already finished.

in the end, kavinsky doesn't forget. but he does come.

it's all white light behind his eyes, a groaning curse, his teeth clipping the tip of bryan's chin on his way to seeking the other boy's mouth. his skinny hands scrabbling over the tops of bryan's buttocks, as if the plump musculature there requires any help at all, splitting open and opening deep for his cock, separating them in fierce pink thrusts. he says some stupid things. mostly just,] Bryan, [which is the wrong name and therefore the right one, but,] Bryan, [and,] Bryan, [smothering the name on the boy's throat, the sleek pale bulk of chest, his cheek with the lashes drawn tight on it.]

[Bryan's nails dig into Kavinsky's shoulders, tries to focus on how good it feels to be fucked through the aftershocks. Sensitive and worn out but his body reacts, enjoys the way the other boy uses him, the hands on his ass, the way his voice sounds when he says his name. Over and over again as he comes and presses kisses.]

Kavi- [Please, a breath.] -nsky.

[He's coming down, dropping. As much as he'd surprised himself, liked that hand at his throat and the rough way they'd fucked, he can't help but feel that Kavinksy went too far. That he'd wanted to hurt him and he had. Bryan had let him.

His body goes lax, head tilting to the side to look at the wall, drawing away without moving all that much.]

Get off.

[that's

not a very bryan thing to say at all, is it? kavinsky is tonguing the small bones of his throat when the other boy speaks. kavinsky's eyes snap open and his jaws go still. he sucks in a deep wet breath, chilling bryan's throat. and then, slowly, he pushes himself up on his skinny arms. looking down at the boy and his beautiful, glossily muscled body spread out on the rumpled sheets. his profile, because bryan's head is turned away.]

What, [he says. his voice is deliberately and probably unconvincingly chipper, thin chest still heaving with exertion.] You don't wanna go for round two? I can check if you're scared I turned it inside out--

[Normally, he'd enjoy this part of sex with Kavinsky. When he was all soft, spread out over or under him, showing what Bryan usually interpreted for some kind of affection - a few kisses, currently the way he's tonguing his throat. Normally, he'd fall asleep here until they were ready for round two or they found something else to do. It was nice.

What happened wasn't and he needed time to wrap his head around it.]

Just get off, would you? [Bryan tries to tilt his hips back, but there's nowhere to go and he doesn't want to hurt himself.] I think I'd know if you did.

[He tips his head back then, looking up at Kavinsky. Bryan doesn't try to hide that he's upset.]

[kavinsky's eyes go flat. then sharpen again. thinking, processing, a piranha making sense of vibrations and salty scents in the water. he's no stranger to people being uncomfortable with him, hating him, wanting him, wanting him even though they hate him, shit like that. somehow, it's different to see the sulk spreading through bryan's sex-tired body, sloping his handsome brow, changing the grind of his voice.

kavinsky rolls his hips back, rocking his cock out of the warm little home it'd made for himself. he twists his mouth into a sneer, walking his skinny knees off the boy. he swings into a sit, starts to work off the condom on his thing, thinking cruel and stupid thoughts, now, that maybe he shouldn'tve bothered. it'd serve bryan right to shit jazz for a day. maybe even catch something. kavinsky is a petty and awful little animal.]

That'll do, pig.

[this is bryan's last chance to get with the pretending everything is fine. kavinsky slaps the side of his ass.]

[Bryan chews his lower lip, acutely aware that Kavinsky's thinking about what happened. His breathing picks up, an annoyed and frustrated ticktap building behind his eyes. He winces when the other boy pulls out and christ, he wants to kiss that sneer off his lips. He could do it, too. Kiss him until he goes all pliant and pretty again. Let them both forget about it. He shifts to his side, briefly hiking his knees towards his chest to curl in on himself. It's a brief respite.

Rolling his eyes, Bryan scoots to the edge of the bed and drops his legs off. There's an ache in the small of his back and his shoulders tense as he pushes of his knees to stand.

He bends to grab his pants, roughly shoving his legs into them. The rest of his clothes he scoops up into his arms, only turning back to quickly grab his device off the table by Kavinsky's bed.]

[it's not hard for kavinsky to read what's going on, even though kavinsky is generally a bastard who gives few fucks about the emotional experiences of other people. he's terrible at people, but not necessarily at understanding that he hurt them. god knows, he's hurt enough people to have a decent statistical sample size.

the main issue is, he's not going to have more sex tonight.

he rolls over on the bed to watch bryan move. as per usual, the other boy's shoulders are beautiful moving in the light of the room (they always do it with the lights on; that's the rule). the cut of his arms, his shoulderblades, the tiny dimples in the small of his back. kavinsky loves his body. less good: that said body seems to be on its way out the door.

abruptly, kavinsky reaches out. his skinny fingers snap shut around the other boy's arm like a viper. nothing that bryan can't break out of, but insistent.]

What the fuck is your problem?

[Bryan tugs at Kavinsky's grip, but not hard enough to pull out of it at first. He does and doesn't want to do this right now. If they talk about it, maybe they can figure out where to go from here, but Bryan isn't sure he wants to stop being mad so damn fast.]

What the fuck is yours?

[He pulls back, twisting and yanking until his hand slides free as his other angrily smacks down on top of his phone.]

I'm leaving. [It's on the tip of his tongue to tell Kavinsky not to follow him, but he's not sure that he would.] You're an ass, so I'm going home.

[His tongue darts out, his lips suddenly dry, but he's still standing there, looking down at the brunette with a mix of anger and confusion. Bryan knows the reasonable thing to do would be to sit down and tell Kavinsky why he wants to leave. Explain that it was what he'd said and when he'd said it, that it didn't have anything to do with the impromptu choking or the rough sex, because he fucking liked that. He's supposed to be rational but he doesn't want to be.]

[kavinsky sees the conflict in the other boy's eyes. the pain and confusion in there is like the canary in the mineshaft, a mineshaft that one might as well call a soul.

kavinsky has neither canaries nor poison gasses. all that's in him is dead brimstone that promises someday soon to catch on fire. there's nothing alive in him. he stares at bryan and feels scorn in his chest, sensing somewhere that there would be 'the right thing' for him to do, too, if he had a fucking canary of his own, some torment about this, some secret pain to share. but he doesn't. and maybe it bothered him once, that ronan had left him exactly because of this; because there was no lonely song echoing in the bottom of his darkness.]

Don't let the doorknob hit your ass on the way out, [he says.] Unless you got some sanitizer on you or you're gonna keep it lodged in there permanent, for a fucking buttplug. [he smiles at bryan, all teeth and no kindness. pretending that he thinks this is funny.]

[r1 is rich with both wealth and other things, bustling with urban activity. restaurants and bars thick on every street, everything from ambulances to massive food supply transport crowding the streets. often, kavinsky can be found on the asphalt as well, driving some ridiculous bullshit supercar he dreamt up, usually knockoffs of the latest extraterrestrial import and their bizarre insectoid designs and iridescent colors. sometime she goes for something more conservative. a white mitsubishi, a grey beemer. a couple of nostalgic throwbacks to his home.

today he's driving something different.

a girl body. his girl body. with her perky tits and thigh high boots, minidress, big sunglasses. he could never be all that fucked to dress up, as a boy, but his learning curve was pretty quick to correlate orgasms with how much skin he could expose and still decorate expensively (expensive-looking). he's been having fun. she's been having fun. it's a good way to kill time, between pressing adam with sleeping pills and watching andyr kill himself (and others) incrementally in the fight ring, plotting her revenge. they will all! rue the day! they thought to cross one joseph kavinsky.

(other times, he gets so bored, he thinks he could die just from that.)

today's a good day. she's watching a couple of brothers cross the street, one blond and one brunette, both familiar. she's always plotting, but in the way of rabies-mad foxes and drunkards. there are no elaborate phases.

just raw impulse and evil outcome.]

Ow— motherfucker!

[she pretends to fall. there's a bus coming. it honks. the nice boys are close enough to save her.]

[For all the getting around Declan is used to, he has remained pretty static since coming to Savrou, sticking close to St. Monmouth, or wherever the object of his latest affections has invited him out to. The whole thing was starting to feel too oppressive though, so when Matthew suggests they travel to r1, he goes with it.

As soon as they get there, Declan realizes this is the area he should be living in. The Barns was never really home for him, as much as just a place to be, to protect, to wait around until something better could come along. St. Monmouth has a different feel to it, and he has a home there that's more his than anything else he's ever really gone after, even his place in Alexandria.

But being here now, the hustle and bustle of the city, he misses this kind of life and he thinks maybe. But then he watches Matthew chatting away with some stranger and he thinks maybe not and tugs him away to show him some new kind of food he's never seen before.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the woman fall, the bus honking and Declan urges Matthew to stay as he steps off the sidewalk and practically whisks her off the street, back onto her feet.]

Jesus, Mary. Are you alright?

[ Matthew, likewise, is in his element, happily bouncing from one source of entertainment to another, making quick friends of complete strangers (sorry, Declan), and never giving a single moment's thought to living here because home is Monmouth where Ronan and Declan and everyone else lives. But it's nice to be in town every once in a while, where so much is going on, and finding oneself alone is impossible.

He's so caught up in his own meaningless chatter that he doesn't even see the woman, only turns his head a little at the honking of the bus, and then Declan's telling him to stay put and abruptly disappearing from his side. The whole thing is over so quickly that Matthew doesn't even have time to be anxious before Declan has swept the woman to safety (in a pretty cool-looking move, thinks his little brother.) Once the bus has passed, Matthew peers up and down the street to check for further dangers and, seeing none, trots over to his brother and this mystery lady like a friendly dog. ]

Nice save, D!

[ He's smiling again, because of course he is, because he's Matthew, and he turns that brilliant smile on the woman particularly and gives her a cheery wave in greeting. ]

[there had been a weird, pointless moment, asphalt biting into her knee and the bus roaring in close, in which kavinsky thought that declan was going to let the car hit her. that would have been karma, really. for what she'd (he'd) done to matthew back in the old world, and of course frankly also just appropriate for being the kind of vindictive idiot who dives into a busy street, in disguise, for some elaborate revenge.

she's safe. she resists the urge to tell declan, acidly, that he'd taken his sweet time. (he hadn't.) (kavinsky is just bad at dealing with fear.)

(killing yourself is something you need to be ready for; it's less fun without the impulse.)]

Oh my fucking God, [is what she says instead. never ladylike, even when she happens to be shaped like a lady, her arm flung over his shoulder and shoes scraping the pavement again.] Damn. Yes. No. Mostly. You have some nice biceps, homeboy. [nothing helps you look rattled like actually being rattled. she straightens, and pats declan on said bicep like someone trying to distract herself from a near death experience, which is also incidentally true. her breathing is shallow. she tries to make it deeper, glancing over tower the little blond boy who comes over. ah yes. the erstwhile kidnapping victim.] Oh, there's two of you.

[outside the mansion, kauto has become a paranoid place. especially for moirans like kurt, who have been offworld lately-- these days, all of his hard work, his civic duty during missions, has become polluted by fears and the worsening cold, the changing conspiracy of physics in the raging storm between the planets. too many unpredictable factors rule the world. and these days, they're talking quarantine. yellow tents. needles. the peacekeepers, those intermediaries hunting travelers in the streets, marked by silver bands across their sleeves. kurt hadn't gone offworld, not recently, but the concern is still there.

it's a good time to be a pointy-tailed blue teleporter and hang out at home with good books, loyal friends. television. in here, it's quiet. sun shining on the gardens outside. only familiar voices in the hallway, and the familiar cadence of life within the walls.

bamf.

technically, this sound is familiar too.

the boy attached, however, is wrong. he is wrong in many ways as a matter of fact. he was wrong for grabbing and squeezing and touching kurt when kurt was drunk and nervous, of taking kisses then demanding more. he is wrong for being a kidnapper and a drug dealer, the cause of death and trauma in both worlds past and this one. kavinsky is wrong for being a liar and a thief. but today, mostly, he's wrong because this— teleporting-- isn't a power that belongs to him. and yet here he is, sprawled out on kurt's bed, cigarette in hand.]

Holy shit, [he says.] It worked. Hey, baby.

[That paranoia is what keeps Kurt from straying too far into the other Regions of Kauto; he's got no willingness to offer himself up for decontamination and unsurprisingly, he isn't the only one in the mansion that agrees with him. It's a blessing, honestly, taking into consideration what a lot of them have gone through.

He continues to visit Angie and Adrien though, collecting apples, walnuts and being sure to continue his diligent medical practice with the latter of the two. His anxiety skyrockets when he has to go to the hospital for work, but a few of the people he's gotten close with have promised to keep his secret. The newly acquired shapeshifting powers help with that, too.

Quiet moments with a book in one hand while the other strokes the cat in his lap are the times he relishes, even more so when it means he can avoid the dramas of the outside world.

A tell-tale BAMF is something he's grown accustomed to, except that it's definitely not from him this time.

Hey, baby.

Everything moves in slow motion after that comment; the feline leaping from his lap, the slow turn of his head to look at Kavinsky, stretched out on the length of his bed, a cancer stick smoldering away between his fingers. In one swift movement, his hands move to drag him back and then the book is in the air, as are his legs when he slides too far, ends up grasping at air and tumbles backward off the bed with a thud.

Kurt lies there, momentarily stunned, legs bent over the edge of the mattress after they finally lower. He sits up to peek between his knees then scrambles to roll over, clawing his way up to where he's sitting on his rear, tail flicking anxiously near his head, broad iridescent eyes and the top of his head the only visible thing as he stares at the dream thief.] K-Kavinsky? How did you--?

[Right, the wonky thing with the powers. Of all the abilities, why did it have to be his?]

... hi, [he finally manages, holding his position on the floor, keeping some sort of distance between them. (For now.)]

Edited (english mfer i can spell it) 2017-05-11 05:50 (UTC)

[kavinsky regards the boy on the floor for a long, comical moment. he was horrible the last time they had met, been together on the dancefloor, but somehow it doesn't map onto the good-natured sneer he has for the mutant now. but certain monsters don't know that they are. monsters like kavinsky aren't really bothered with being consistent, keeping up appearances, being worse than what they were last time.

he does what he wants. he's a very specific kind of monster.]

You, sweetheart, are a fucking dork, [he says, brightly. he puts his hands down on the covers and boosts himself forward, up to the edge of the bed. from there, he can swing one foot out, jab kurt sharply in the stomach with the toe of his white running shoe.] You know that? Also I'm fucking your roommate. Housemate. Whatever. I don't think we've ever talked about that. [he leans back, glances around. at the walls. it's thanks to j, of course, that he knows where the mansion is. he'd picked her up here once. once upon valentine's day.]

How's avoiding me going? Pretty fucking good, huh? [not as well as it could be. of course, kavinsky somehow has the gall to appear offended, sniffing, a dark eyebrow raised high on his forehead.]

Edited (fix) 2017-05-16 04:07 (UTC)

[Their last encounter had been more than two months ago, but with Kavinsky in his room, lounging about like he's more than welcome, it feels like it'd been only yesterday.

His position shifts, feet planting and his legs drawing up, both hands reaching out to grasp his knees. The other brunet had made it pretty clear what he'd expected from Kurt and little Blue hadn't been willing to give him what he wanted, which led to anger, hateful words (whether they were spewed with venom because of the alcohol didn't matter at the time), and a well-planned escape on the teleporter's part. Since then, shying away from the older teen seemed simple enough, but much to his dismay and an almost cruel twist of fate, Kavinsky had been able to find him with his own power.]

I ... am? [Questioningly, like he can't believe it. He doesn't, though, since things ended on a rather sour note the last time they'd parted ways. He grunts in response at the prod to his belly, dropping back onto his elbows and glaring up at him.] I guess. To be honest, I'd rather not talk about which of my housemates you're screwing. [While his friend examines the somewhat homely room, Kurt uses both elbows and his feet to slide back, dark brow furrowing at the audacity Kavinsky has-- the fact he looks indignant because Nightcrawler's been earnestly avoidant of him.]

Before today, ja. [He sneers, shrugs his shoulders and presses his knees together, right foot over the left, the length of his tail slinking around to curl across his shins.]

Edited 2017-05-17 09:02 (UTC)

[grim consternation fills kavinsky's soul. or whatever he has going on that is a reasonable facsimile of a soul, as it's quite possible he's too much of a monster for a real one. but even as his internal annoyance rises, his external ire fades away, slipping off his gaunt face and hollow eyes. he looks positively pleasant when he asks, mild as a lamb,] Are you breaking up with me?

Is that what's happening? [he's stopped paying attention to the rest of the room, although it looks okay-nice. it looks like the kind of space that kurt wagner would enjoy, certainly. what kind of hipster has a hammock in their room color-coded to match their puffy couch? a european hipster, obviously. kavinsky slides his butt across the bed, stretching over to grab one of the pillows off the head of kurt's bed. he drags it back, sets it up against the wall. leans himself against it, making himself comfortable. he may not be staying long, but that's no reason not to be a tool.

# the story of kavinsky's life. and canon.]

If that's what you want, you gotta tell me. Afraid to say, I'm not too good at taking hints. [he bucks his hips off the bed for a moment so he can get his fingers into the pocket of his jeans, extricate a pack of cigarettes. if kurt's going to stop him-- well. he honestly half expects that to happen.]

[Folded hands thump the floor as Kurt drops back on them, iridescent eyes widened with bewilderment at the question. He'd been drunk during most of their last meeting, but sober enough to know that nothing had been made 'official' between them.] But we're not dating.

[Are they?

He inclines his head, focusing on his knees while he tries to recall the entire conversation they'd had at the club and his 'guest' proceeds to make himself a little more comfortable. Nothing heavily relationship oriented comes to mind, until he remembers that Kavinsky mentioned something about someone's name. Oh, right-- Somebody to call out when I fuck you, was what he'd said. Nightcrawler's reaction should have been plenty of a response, though if the older boy thought they were a pair ...]

I remember more than enough of our conversation from that night and neither of us spoke of being together in the sense of 'dating.' [And, of course, he swings around to be resting on his knees, elbows landing on the edge of the bed to offer lift in an attempt to reach for Kavinsky's hand. No way in hell was he going to let that happen without a fight.]

[there's no no smoking sign in the room! kavinsky grimaces at the mutant, and then he squirms away, like one of the darling children in peter pan trying to evade their evening medicine or a puppy determined to worry away at the expensive corner of a fancy rug. kavinsky is quite a squirmy fellow when he wants to be. it's something to do with the creepy reptile in him, maybe. or just the fact he's skinny and kind of an asshole.]

We don't have to be dating for you to break up with me, [he adds. at this point in the squirmy puppy fight he has a knee wedged up in kurt's slender waist and his shoulder jammed up against a pillow jammed up against the wall. despite the drama of their alleged separation, his gaunt face is suffused with laughter. like it's nothing. or maybe it's something, but it's a funny thing, no matter what it is. cigarettes fall out of the open box in his hand. two, three. jumbling across kurt's bed. it'll stink like hell, if kavinsky gets his lighter.] I don't fucking date.

Did you break up with me? [kavinsky cocks his head. which mostly means that he scrunches his head around on top of the bed, smearing his overly-geled hair wildly out of alignment. he is a playful monster, if he's a monster.] What I wanna know, baby. [he pokes his bottom lip out. a ridiculous moue.]

[Kavinsky's attempt to slither away is a surprise; it doesn't deter Blue from continuing to reach though, fingers stretching in a futile attempt. He could use his tail-- it's longer and possibly even stronger than his arms, yet the thought of bringing such a sensitive limb within the dream thief's reach doesn't occur to him right away. Probably for the best, given their current position.

This is one of those times Kurt's grateful for the inhuman way his spine can bend.] No, you just do whatever you want, [he acknowledges, wriggling to shift so he can balance on Kavinsky's knee. From his peripheral, he sees some of the cigarettes roll along the length of the mattress, but he decides that focusing on his visitor is more important. A mistake on his part, since Kavinsky seems to be in a moderately playful mood and the look he's being presented with is ... cute of all things. A slight quirk of his lips should be something he can easily hide. Nevertheless, he doesn't. His facade slips, if only for a moment, then he returns to the task at hand: keeping Kavinsky from stinking up his room and trying to figure out what exactly he wants.]

Don't look at me like that. [The tone is firm, but the reinforcement is lackluster. Dammit, quit pouting at him, Joseph.] Define 'breaking up' in a more specific way, please. I thought we were friends, but that night at the club-- I told you 'no' and you didn't stop ... [Remembering makes his heart hammer and his throat burn, like when he'd purged the alcohol they'd consumed on his way home.]

[i just kissed you a little, kavinsky wants to say. i just touched you. but even he knows in all his monstrosity that that would be the wrong thing to say, that kurt will have none of that. that frankly none of the other allies in this house, and their probable powers, will tolerate that particular attitude. there's neither guilt nor ethics involved in kavinsky's assessment.

just cost and benefit. and there is no particular benefit to pressing the point in the x mansion, even if he can pouf out with teleportation any time he chooses.] Fine. Are we still friends? [kavinsky stops squirming around so much, like a puppy distracted from toy with the promise of food. someone dropped a chicken wing on the floor.

instead, he reaches out, the cigarette in his fingers. he plants it coyly over kurt's ear, like a gift. the most unwanted gift. but at least, if the cancer stick is sitting there, then kavinsky can't very well light it and smoke it in kurt's room, right?] If I don't kiss you no more. Or smoke up here. [a shit-eating smile fills his face with wide pink lips. kurt should say: no.]

[But 'no' is not what Kurt says. He should-- he knows he should and still, he can't bring himself to do it. The bizarre gesture of Kavinsky tucking the cigarette behind his ear isn't helping him stay angry anyway. His expression scrunches with consideration, half-lidded eyes regarding the teen before him.] Well ... [Kurt trails off, still sounding rather unsure about all of this.

There's a promise of 'no more kissing,' which he wants to protest, only to point out that it wasn't kissing that had been the problem. Instead, he glances from his peripheral in a halfhearted attempt to see where the item had been placed, reaching to remove and bring it around so he can look it over. Easier to simply agree and avoid too much physical contact altogether.] On one condition.

[The serpentine length of his tail stretches out, retrieving an old plastic cup he'd been using for water. In a couple of brisk movements, Kurt shifts enough to stay propped up on Kavinsky while he works, meticulously kneading the tobacco from the tube and pulling the cotton from the filter. After a few more minutes of twisting and tugging, he presents a flower to the dream thief.] Maybe two, [he corrects.] You respect my wishes and-- [pause for dramatic effect] absolutely no smoking in my room.

Edited 2017-06-28 05:26 (UTC)

[kavinsky stays down while the mutant works. he is admittedly a little curious. it definitely looks like the mutant is wasting a damn fine cigarette, but that is nothing new and also kavinsky can magically produce those out of his dreams, so it's a lot less uncool to him than it might be otherwise.

the other boy offers him the flower, clutched in his stubby blue fingers. kavinsky reaches up slowly, as if surprised. connects his digits around its slender, twisted-paper stem, brings it down for him to look. he rolls his grip on it, and the tobacco fronds twirl like a pinwheel. no rainbow, is all.] Works for me, [he says. if it sounds too little, minimized, maybe even dismissive, well— that's probably true. a moment, then he plants his new flower behind his own ear, the fuzzy 'petals' spreading over his temple.]

Y'know.

[he folds his arms langorously behind his head. a lazy gleam to his eye. these days, he doesn't say anything so obvious as, consent is overrated, but he'll push every line in the sand, every time. just not quite so hard these days.] You can still kiss me.

[Cigarettes are awful, okay? They increase risks of cancer, make your teeth yellow, stink up everything within a three foot vicinity ... To him, making them into flowers is a far better plan. (Marvelous dream abilities certainly help with blue mutants' wastefulness, though.)

Kavinsky's nearly stunned look causes Nightcrawler's eyebrows to lift, the edges of his lips quirking with amusement while he watches the tiny 'flower' twirl round and round. He's not thrilled by Kavinsky's tone of voice about their agreement, but it will have to do.]

I'm not sure if— [Oh, but hang on; this is undoubtedly the perfect moment for some shenanigans.

Pause, squint, a bit of pondering here and there. He alights with an idea, fangs gleaming as he shifts to plant his hands on Kavinsky's elbows, legs straddling his waist, their foreheads meeting after he lowers.] You're right. [So, Kurt tips his head, leans to where they're a hairsbreadth apart then forgoes those inviting lips to kiss Kavinsky's cheek instead. He withdraws and drops his rear right on the dream thief's thighs, expression too smug for his own good.

Hey, Kavinsky hadn't been specific about where or how to kiss him.]

[kavinsky's eyes are bright and lips parted with anticipation. laying back, looking up at the boy and his blue-skinned face, descending from above, the feel of the other boy's weight sprawled pleasantly across his lap. like a sultan in his giant silky morass of a bed, his own palatial space, waiting for his soft concubines to gently treat him. i mean that's a horrible metaphor, but fairly appropriate to the degree of entitlement with which kavinsky regards the world.

and then kurt kisses him on the cheek.

the dream thief is silent for a long moment, blinking at the ceiling as the mutant withdraws. and then-- he busts up laughing. peals of it crashing across the room, unadulterated and primal. his eyes squeeze shut. you can almost see all the way down his throat.] H--ol—y fuck, you little bastard. [there is a rather inappropriate note of admiration in his voice when he says that. it doesn't particularly make sense, given which of them is being the actual bastard in this situation, but when has joseph kavinsky ever?]

[Gosh, that reaction wasn't anything like what he'd been anticipating.

In an overly deliberate manner, Kurt's head tips to the side, eyebrows hiking up to show just how surprised he is. He has to admit, the way Kavinsky had looked before his abrupt outburst was almost ... tempting, as if that gave him a reason to continue teasing the dreamer. Except, he knows better now; he can't play that game with Kavinsky without falling right into his hands. (Quite literally, in fact, if last time offered any insight.)]

Not the word I'd have used, but to each their own. [Nonetheless, blue demon boy lets a smirk overtake his earlier bafflement at the sound of Kavinsky's laughter. His affectionate tone seems somewhat misleading, although that could only be Kurt looking too far into something that isn't there-- a fondness in the timbre of his voice that makes him wonder: why? It's something that he can't bring himself to ask vocally, though.

He straightens and settles both hands in his lap, fingers laced together, chin tucked close to his chest now.] You're an odd one, Kavinsky. I like that about you. [A beat.] But what I might like more is how you don't seem to care what people think about you.

[how absurdly small this shell of a house is. it looks like half a house. a third of a house. a roof mounted on the ground. kavinsky knows that's the point, of course, but both his mother's mansion in henrietta and his current one in r1, even st. monmouth that he tends to creep from afar, have a dreamer's ridiculous grandiosity about it. this place that adam built for himself is nothing he would have ever thought of.

what's with all the fish? he'd spent a couple moments staring at them, their colorful bodies massed underwater out there. pointless. you can't even pet them, if that's your thing, never mind jokes about putting peanut butter on your dick and

well, you know the rest.]

Plumbing, right?

[by now, now he's inside the small peculiar triangle house. staring up at the ceiling, the place doesn't seem any larger. the steepness of the walls is odd to look at, but it's fine. kavinsky has flopped himself down on the floor here, quite comfortably, where he plans to do his dreaming. pills already in his palm, lurid and red, like blood capsules instead of medicine; either that, or poison.] And electrics. A warm light to shit by. That it?

Yeah. [ Adam confirms and honestly, he should have thought about 5 times more before asking Kavinsky for help in finishing the house but...he's not necessarily of the best frame of mind lately. He's perhaps even a bit self-destructive but more so he doesn't really find Kavinsky to be any sort of imminent threat at all so there is really no harm in this.

He studies Kavinsky where he had dropped to the floor, his eyes briefly on the pills and then looking anywhere but at the other boy. ]

Nothing fancy. [ Just the basics. ]

[the pills jump around in kavinsky's palm when he wiggles his hand.] You gonna at least get me a fucking beer? [he asks. but he expects nothing, honestly. there's a sharky smile on his face, all razor white teeth and dark-eyed terror. he slaps the ugly red drugs into his own mouth and swallows them dry, lays himself back down on the floor.

maybe he should be afraid. he had hurt adam badly once before, you know. but he's a professional predator, and he can smell weakness and make certain predictions about the behavior that those weaknesses tend to drive. it's with some combination of recklessness and genuine confidence that he lays back now, closing his eyes, drawing a slow breath. it's the last one that happens for a little while.

five minutes maybe. he knows adam knows about ronan's power. but even if he didn't, he rather doubts adam would be alarmed by the death of this particular dream thief on his floor.]

[Adam doesn't have a beer to get him so he doesn't bother answering and instead moves to settle and lean against the wall as Kavinsky down the pills. He has no interest in hurting Kavinsky at this time. Maybe he should but he just doesn't.

He runs his fingers through his hair, keeping his eyes on him even though it hardly seems necessary. He doesn't really have much else to do.

After about two minutes, he pulls out his tab and starts scrolling through news stories idly. He briefly reads over the scientific ones, skipping over the more political and such.]

o6 🔥 all that time you thought i was sad

closed to bryan; (nsfw! cw weird sexual choking!)

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fuck i went over my 200 word limit TELL NO ONE

i shall not tell a soul

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cw joke about prolapse

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cries about Bryan's pure soul

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closed to matthew & declan;

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tw suicide

closed to kurt; (cw sexual harassment/coercion)

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cw mention of sexual coercion/assault

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closed to adam; (backdate)

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