Kavinsky does not care about softball. He doesn't care about kids, or families, or the mundane and dubious pleasures of suburban life. But he has a lot of money and an image to rehabilitate, so his philanthropy has set up the De Chima Vista High School with a new football field, and here they are in late October.
He's sitting on the bleachers. Murphy's on the row below him, sitting between his knees. Kavinsky's mouth is in his ear, explaining the rules, what that line means, it's ten minutes to half-time, every player has a position.
But the distractions occur inevitably: it's more of an excuse to spend time together than it is a real investment in the great American past-time, after all.
Murphy's ears get cold, and Kavinsky rubs them in his fingers, breathes on them, finds excuses to run his mouth through his hair. Kavinsky pulls out the panels of his stretchy jacket and folds Murphy up in them, and asks sarcastic little things like, Wasn't it freezing fucking cold in the radiation death of outer-space? I thought you was tough, sweetheart. But Murphy can tell there's no bite in them, burrowing backward into their huddle. Murphy zips up the jacket in front of himself, making a two-headed gremlin of them.
"I love football," Murphy proclaims.
"Do you even know which side is winning?" Kavinsky asks, amused.
"It's me. I'm winning." Murphy knocks his head back on Kavinsky's chest and closes his eyes. There's a piece of popcorn stuck inside his shirt, scratchy, but he can't be arsed to move and get rid of it. Around him, the crowd roars. He says, "This is the most amazing sport in the world."
party;
There's so much detail in these dreams, some of it must have been taken from his life with the John Murphy before. But they're carefully, politely edited: no indication of monogamy or of Trigedasleng, which Murphy does not yet know. Generous, if vague references to Kylo Ren, Ronan Lynch, the Meadows. A watercolor distillation of a life more ordinary.
Less ordinary?
In this one, Kavinsky takes him to a mansion garden party, which Murphy is tipsily surveying from a balcony now. Waiters serve hors d'oeuvres on small trays and half the cocktail conversation seems to be about stock portfolios. Real diamonds stud the patrons' watches, their shoes. Murphy's out of place. He has never remembered so keenly before as now, that he had dirt on his cheeks and one change of clothes in a forest just a year ago. He was afraid he would say something to humiliate himself, knowing nothing of dividends or the price of grain in Spain.
But the liquor fortifies him, and maybe so too, is the apparent fact that Kavinsky had brought him to show him off-- and to enjoy smoked bacon, foreign cheeses, dry-aged steak bites. Silk lining cuddles the spaceboy inside the fitted contours of his jacket; his tailored shirt-- now half-buttoned, drunk woooooo!-- has pinstripes. But if you look really closely, they're birth trees, fogged through, the stark elegance of Mother Nature. Plus, there's a cheese fountain.
"обичам те."
By now, Murphy knows just enough Bulgarian to know what that means. He doesn't have to turn around to know Kavinsky is checking on him. He gets a kiss in passing, Kavinsky leaning over his shoulder to tuck one into the corner of his jaw. Murphy says, "You promised me we'll dance later," as Kavinsky steps away to go to his next chat.
Kavinsky's voice is light: "I got you. I could never forget."
home;
In this one, they're back in Murphy's room. The one with the big window that overlooks the forest; the one that Kavinsky had shattered, a couple of months ago. But the wan, misty timeline behind the dream insists that Joseph Kavinsky stays here sometimes and has for months. (And with a different spaceboy, it had been true.)
They'd had sex not long ago. Easy to tell; Kavinsky had slapped down a towel over the sticky patch where Murphy came, the excess that Kavinsky hadn't managed to catch with his mouth. They should go shower, probably, but enough orgasms rounds will have soporific effect on anybody. Murphy's body is heavy on the mattress, lazy and sated.
"You want anything?" Kavinsky asks. His face is so near that Murphy can see only one of Kavinsky's eye in his right eye, and only the other one in his left. There's nothing in his field of vision except for Kavinsky's face. "Cheese fountain. PJs. Fuzzy slippers. Weed? LaCroix."
"I hate LaCroix, man. It doesn't taste like anything. It's just better than three hundred-year-old recycled Ark water."
"Hot choc. Orange soda." Kavinsky smiles. He makes fun of Murphy, sometimes, about the orange soda. It's for kids! But he drinks it with him, then dreams replacements for the stuff they spill citrus stains onto. "I'm serious," Kavinsky adds. "Anything."
Murphy closes his eyes and tries to think past the sleepy haze, but even the latent tingle of the spectacular bite mark on his hip has faded by now. He might as well be floating. In the good way. "Nah," he says. "I can't think of anything right now."
[under the tree on ronan's fancy pantsy christmas morning, there's a small, slender gift with murphy's name block-lettered on the top, but signed by no one. the wrapping paper is black and there's a silver string around the girth of it. once opened, murphy finds a peculiar-looking pen.
it seems transparent. utterly transparent, made of glass that shows a faint, luminous iridescence when held up to the light. there doesn't seem to be any ink in it at all, not black, not even white, nothing opaque within its core whatsoever. but the paper insert says: on your window.
if and when murphy tries the pen on the glass of his bedroom window pane, words start to spell themselves out -- in murphy's script but markedly improved spelling and punctuation. the pen writes in white ink, legible against the transparency, and it always tells murphy something that he needs to hear in the moment that he chooses to use it. these might be little words of assurance, promising he'll be okay if he ever goes back to his homeworld, or that people care for him in this one. other times, it'll give him the words to a song he likes, or even draw a simplified portrait of someone he misses. occasionally, it will advise eating candy or taking a cup of coffee, or offer a firmer form of love as he needs it.
if he tries it on christmas day, the pen will spell out for him:] Today was meant for you, too.
Murphy is seventeen and wreckless. Murphy is seventeen and hurt. Murphy is seventeen and he has hated himself since his father's death at eleven. There are a lot of things that Murphy just wants to forget, just wants to be numb to all of it. But at what cost? He doesn't know but he's hoping Beck can help with that. What a strange world, one where Murphy is asking for his help.
There is Kavinsky but he couldn't heal him in the kind of way that Murphy wanted to be. Kavinsky didn't love him. He isn't his Murphy. He isn't anyone's Murphy. That's what he wanted. He wanted to be someone. He wanted to be someones. That has always been asking too much. It's always too much.
And so that's why Murphy is here at Beck's place. Because Kylo was gone and then soon after Ronan left the Meadows, along with Noah. That left an empty house for Murphy. It was overwhelmingly eerie, more haunted than Murphy had ever known it to be. Nightmares stalking the grounds, animals endlessly sleeping. There was nothing left for Murphy here, just painful reminders.
The car rolls to a stop, gravel crunching under the weight of his tires. With a sigh, Murphy gets out and slams the door behind him. A few moments later, he's knocking on Beck's door.
The door is soon opened and Beck is there, casually dressed in a sweater and jeans. It's been a turbulent time dealing with Murphy - but mostly due to his overprotective associates - so he gives him a rather sharp look then glances out into the hallway, left to right.
"You're alone?"
He's a little on edge, not wanting to be threatened or attacked again.
The memories roll into Murphy's mind like a flash fucking flood.
It feels unstoppable, too many of them-- rolling, pounding through like the boiling ocean surf from a religion dead long before Murphy's time.
But unlike the Bible, there is no real Creation here. Merely the act of it, carnal and full of heat and life, albeit the kind that can't propagate itself in any real sense; not even the morsels of love that Kavinsky's recording had greedily chewed through, crumbs everywhere, so many table scraps.
It's mid afternoon. Oppressively still in the way things often are here at the height of summer— a season that fills Kylo's vast, wide-blown senses with an abundance of opulent excess on the very edge of decay, thick and richly vicid. Everything wilts and sticks to everything else. Skin prickles and shimmers with a fine sheen of sweat. His hands are stained with earth and the sweet green sugar-sap bleed of a day spent haymaking.
He's earned it, hasn't he? With all this hard work, he's owed the reward of satisfaction. He's owed, he thinks— and the thought becomes the reality of smooth tile under his bare feet, water drumming on the crown of his head, his shoulders— the indulgence of a shower. Earth-style. And...
And, he decides, someone to share it with.
But this time, it isn't Ronan who peels himself out of Kylo's imagination to slide up against his back, murmuring sins as promises. No. Ronan is curled up contentedly right where he belongs, secure in his position as the favourite of all Kylo's thoughts. This time, he wants... perhaps, they want:
"Joseph," Kylo murmurs in low, indulgent warning. The dream thief's greedy fingers are a tease and test as they slide over his skin, hands closing around his waist like the jaws of a trap— because that's what Kavinsky does, isn't it? Games and tricks and traps when all Kylo wants is the truth. And because Kylo wants the truth, this is where Kavinsky will say something bizarrely cruel or pointlessly ugly, something so nonsensical Kylo doesn't even attempt to imagine the words themselves. They don't matter, anyway.
Kylo knows what Kavinsky wants. (Perhaps, that's the most unlikely part of the entire scenario.) He traps those pale, strangely cool hands under the warm breadth of his own and guides them in a slow, measured glide over his soap-slicked skin towards the prize— and it is a prize, of course, why would the considerable heft of Kylo's erection be anything less than a prize worthy of a hitched breath of surprise— pulling Kavinsky into a tighter knot around himself in the process.
"Shit," is all Kylo has the capacity to invent for Kavinsky's response. He makes it a muttered, breathless thing, like the word has simply fallen loose from his mouth— a suitably awed reaction to match the way he all but glues himself to Kylo's back. Kylo allows himself a low groan, loosening his grip as Kavinsky curls and coils to take the solid weight of him in hand.
He doesn't know what it would feel like, to surrender, to let Kavinsky win. But he likes to think it would be dangerous. Addictive, as only the infinitely reflecting stroke to the ego that sex as a mind-reader can be. Kavinsky purrs something Kylo doesn't hear for all the throbbing heat, the drag and snap of teeth over his spine, the way he aches to spear himself through Kavinsky's body as the punishment he's been begging for all this time— they would be so much hunger together, he and Kavinsky. So much.
But this is the satisfaction he wants. Breaking. Bursting into a surge of power to twist and turn and crush Kavinsky up against the tile, gorging himself on the vicious delight of triumph that floods through Kavinsky's mind as finally, finally, Kylo tears his way into his mouth.
A space boy would not be wrong to wonder what the fuck this is about, even as borrowed lust swells red paths through his blood and in his brain. Did Kavinsky mean to make him feel jealous?
Pretty sure that's a yes. You don't need nearly as much imagination as Kylo Ren has, to figure the answer to that one. A childish dig; look how much I'm wanted. Look, see if you can look away.
But—
[you love him so god damn much it kind of makes your head spin every time you see him.
like, really love. the kind of love that has you flopping back against him when you watch movies, and pressing lazy kisses to the pale column of his throat when it proved bad. you love him when you have stupid fights and you love him more when you're both able to admit you're stupid and get over it.
this is one such time. the car fight had been such a drawn out affair that it could only be funny in hindsight. you're still sort of giggling at the spot on impression of miss piggy your boyfriend had. it's not sexy, he keeps kissing you to shut you up when you try to replicate the sound.
you like this, you like being open and honest and weird and unafraid. totally yourself. it's not sexy. but you've been together long enough that you're not worried about being sexy during sex.
but
he's a picture underneath you, face flushed and lips kiss swollen, eyes half lidded and pupils blown wide with lust. the sun has mostly set, the soft fading light is flattering across his features.
you're on his lap in the car, which actually is pretty spacious and great for this kind of thing so you'll concede that maybe luxury cars are actually kinda worth the money. the windows are fogged - who knows where you actually are, far away from the city. he's hard in your hand which is glowing ever so faintly as you use your powers to really work him up. your pants are halfway down your hips and you open your mouth but he fixes you with a if you're going to make a sex drive joke we're through kinda look and you promptly shut it. ]
Or perhaps it was masochism. Some of these show nothing of the people that Murphy has had, or even knows. Tenderness flaunted at him from another life, but also unmistakably absent from the one that Kavinsky leads now.
Bygone eras of easier times and golden dicks.
And there's reciprocity in that other Kavinsky's eyes, when he was as generous with his heart as he was with his body, like the one who'd bumped into John Murphy at a New York farmer's market and dashed his hot chocolate across the floor. (There, too, the tiny brown wave had folded itself over, disappeared under itself, into--)
Victor Vale was never a sensual person, in the same way he wasn’t easily drawn into temptation by carnal impulses. Instead, what he found was a preference for the methodical. Yes, Joey could coax interest from him where he hadn’t originally been planning it, but Victor’s preference for control was well-established and well-documented.
The Samodiva didn’t maintain the same low growl that a plane at cruising height did, but it did have a low constant purr that cut through the silence in the same way waves crashed consistently against the hull of a ship en route. It set a pleasant audible backdrop to the low, muffled sounds Victor beckoned from Joey’s frame all tangled up against his own in the chair. Holding the younger man to him, back pressed against his chest, Victor set one coiling arm to grasp Joey’s face, twisting his head back slightly when he wanted to claim his lips and then away when he wanted to drag teeth across the sloping skin of his neck. Then, long fingers could trail up Joey’s throat, tilt his head back and let his touch run across his lips, over his teeth, across the wet velvet of his tongue.
Sometimes, Victor just wanted to pluck at Joey like a stringed instrument, tune him, find what sounds he could draw out of him in unhurried motions. Sometimes, he wanted to turn him into a wet, whimpering mess, which Victor could take as long as he wanted over knowing that getting caught up and lost in the throws of passion himself was a rare and elusive beast for him.
And his other hand could trail elsewhere, press up under the hem of Joey’s shirt, feel the birdcage of his ribs, paint the shape of his sternum, roll across nipples, spider-step down low to his stomach, across thin hips, brush down over his thighs, and tease across a tight, wanting crotch.
What Victor wanted was to hear Joey whimper, moan, and beg. Feel him come undone and trembling against him. Thinking aloud against Joey’s ear, Victor wondered if he should fuck him against the desk, or bring him off in hand (a lazy, slicked stroke applied for emphasis). Or maybe he should have Joey as he is, hips rocking back and forth as Victor thrust up into him from the chair.
Victor’s wolfish smile split to allow slow graze of his teeth against Joey’s ear.
“Tell me, Joseph.”
For a selfish man, Victor could be utterly obliging. All he asked for was a little self-unmaking.
It's a disjointed test, some of it. Easy to imagine that that dark-haired animal piping against Victor's chest is Murphy himself. A question from the dreamer that is half-articulated in the greedy grab of Victor's hands, the truncation of that memory.
Certainly, Kavinsky runs around acting pretty fucking butch in this world. Always showing off. Always compensating for something. I'm the top, motherfucker, and my body knows what to do.
And it would know what to do to yours.
Like it was with Ronan, who had gasped once Kavinsky's mouth left his hipbone, which was already turning pink, promising to shoot a spectacular bite mark like a comet across the trembling ridge, and then he leaned back, surrendering. Ronan's skin smells of want, and it's an ache in his gut.
And when he looks up, there is the Bulgarian boy with a smile as fine as a knife. The oblique muscle of his shoulders oscillates as he crawls along the bed, over Ronan's body, up to meet him at a kiss that barely leaves room for Ronan's voice, which is fine, because his eyes and hands are eloquent, wet and pleading. Ronan's breath catches. This is, sometimes, what love is like. For dreamers.
When they fuck, Kavinsky's fingers shape a chokehold around Ronan's dick, unmoving, giving Ronan just a little friction, a counterpoint to the inexorable thrust of his own cock from behind. Ronan comes anyway, his knees stinging from the ratcheting burn up the fabric of the sheets. And maybe there was another thief's thieving hand knotted over his own, in that last moment, before the vision behind his eyes went into neon rings and black spots.
He doesn't say Kavinsky's name, but it still manages to follow him out to waking in the morning.
There are other ones. Faces, bodies. ImPorts and natives, with their different skin and voracious teeth, the shapes of their dicks preserved in high-definition, alive, technicolor, retained in Kavinsky's archive of stolen memories. It's a long fucking reel, emphasis on fucking. And by the time it's through, they leave neon afterimages in Murphy's memory. Close your eyes, and there they are.
Taunt? Gauntlet, thrown? Only a tease?
Whatever it is, and whatever it meant to be before the AtlanTech glitch bloated it beyond the scope of its original excess, it demands a reaction.
And Murphy gets hit with a slew of memories, a gail force that physically hits him. One memory after another, a seamless, stitched up reel of film, seemingly endless; boundless. They are all vivid and it brings up emotions to the surface.
Murphy’s hurt. He’s angry, but out of everything, he’s just so fucking confused so thank you Kavinsky for this wild ride. You could have at least buckled Murphy in before putting him in a car without breaks. Inadequacy, jealousy, all wound tight around Murphy’s chest. Swelling, bubbling up.
Kavinsky, why have you punished him like this.
Fuck.
He’s quiet for a moment, peeling off his vr glasses. He throws them at Kavinsky, and hoped it hurt. “What the hell was that,” Murphy snarls, vicious and sharp, the edge of the knife’s blade.
He almost forgot about the Kavinsky who shot off a gun into his bed. The Kavinsky that Murphy kicked out. The Kavinsky that Murphy was scared of. This was the Kavinsky that Murphy avoided. Murphy almost forgot that they are all the same person.
Kavinsky looks at the other boy, calculating. Something turning over behind his hooded eyes.
He's had hollower victories than this, actually. Threats from John Murphy; that's always a nice vibe. Familiar.
There's a smile seeping into his narrow face. Ambiguous. It's perhaps one part snide, two parts-- other things.
"What's my other option?" he asks, hands in his pockets. Chaos still abounds around them, but they might as well be an island of their own. "Be 'normal?'"
Audio (set just prior to Peter walking out)
Date: 2019-09-09 02:17 am (UTC)Re: Audio (set just prior to Peter walking out)
Date: 2019-09-09 02:47 am (UTC)Mind telling me how you got my number?
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:text » forward dated to 9/27
Date: 2019-09-26 01:41 am (UTC)But would you maybe want to come to a party next week?
no subject
Date: 2019-09-26 01:52 am (UTC)u sure u want 2 go w me?
but ill go
never been 2 a party
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:9/25
Date: 2019-09-26 01:41 am (UTC)so marco and i are moving into a weird mansion not too far up the road
you wanna visit?
no subject
Date: 2019-09-26 01:49 am (UTC)i red his post
u 2 r dating
sure
yeah
wheres it at?
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:untraceable text
Date: 2019-10-05 10:57 pm (UTC)o-b-e•
l-l-d-p
b-e•-o-h
v-a
l-a-i-t-p-s
e-u-s-p-h-i
t-l-l-e•-e•
r-t-a
no subject
Date: 2019-10-06 12:30 am (UTC)this is fukn weird kavinsky
pre-apoc dreamscape drabbus! (slightly nsfw, mouseover for translations) (sorry i fed up code)
Date: 2019-11-20 09:58 pm (UTC)xmas gift 2019;
Date: 2020-01-01 07:58 pm (UTC)text (backdated to 2/3)
Date: 2020-02-07 02:58 am (UTC)Hey Murphy sorry for disappearing
no subject
Date: 2020-02-07 03:19 am (UTC)he is currently unavailable.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:→action
Date: 2020-02-10 01:23 am (UTC)There is Kavinsky but he couldn't heal him in the kind of way that Murphy wanted to be. Kavinsky didn't love him. He isn't his Murphy. He isn't anyone's Murphy. That's what he wanted. He wanted to be someone. He wanted to be someones. That has always been asking too much. It's always too much.
And so that's why Murphy is here at Beck's place. Because Kylo was gone and then soon after Ronan left the Meadows, along with Noah. That left an empty house for Murphy. It was overwhelmingly eerie, more haunted than Murphy had ever known it to be. Nightmares stalking the grounds, animals endlessly sleeping. There was nothing left for Murphy here, just painful reminders.
The car rolls to a stop, gravel crunching under the weight of his tires. With a sigh, Murphy gets out and slams the door behind him. A few moments later, he's knocking on Beck's door.
"Hey, it's Murphy."
no subject
Date: 2020-02-10 01:39 am (UTC)"You're alone?"
He's a little on edge, not wanting to be threatened or attacked again.
"If you're alone, you can come inside."
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:text;
Date: 2020-02-21 01:29 am (UTC)Can I ask you a strange question?
no subject
Date: 2020-02-21 05:55 am (UTC)not yet anyway
whats up?
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:text;
Date: 2020-03-09 06:52 am (UTC)wanna get married
Re: text;
Date: 2020-03-09 03:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:1/2
From:2/2
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:1/2
From:2/2
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2020-03-20 02:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-03-22 10:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:march swear-in memory share; (nsfw!)
Date: 2020-03-25 01:58 am (UTC)It feels unstoppable, too many of them-- rolling, pounding through like the boiling ocean surf from a religion dead long before Murphy's time.
But unlike the Bible, there is no real Creation here. Merely the act of it, carnal and full of heat and life, albeit the kind that can't propagate itself in any real sense; not even the morsels of love that Kavinsky's recording had greedily chewed through, crumbs everywhere, so many table scraps.
He's earned it, hasn't he? With all this hard work, he's owed the reward of satisfaction. He's owed, he thinks— and the thought becomes the reality of smooth tile under his bare feet, water drumming on the crown of his head, his shoulders— the indulgence of a shower. Earth-style. And...
And, he decides, someone to share it with.
But this time, it isn't Ronan who peels himself out of Kylo's imagination to slide up against his back, murmuring sins as promises. No. Ronan is curled up contentedly right where he belongs, secure in his position as the favourite of all Kylo's thoughts. This time, he wants... perhaps, they want:
"Joseph," Kylo murmurs in low, indulgent warning. The dream thief's greedy fingers are a tease and test as they slide over his skin, hands closing around his waist like the jaws of a trap— because that's what Kavinsky does, isn't it? Games and tricks and traps when all Kylo wants is the truth. And because Kylo wants the truth, this is where Kavinsky will say something bizarrely cruel or pointlessly ugly, something so nonsensical Kylo doesn't even attempt to imagine the words themselves. They don't matter, anyway.
Kylo knows what Kavinsky wants. (Perhaps, that's the most unlikely part of the entire scenario.) He traps those pale, strangely cool hands under the warm breadth of his own and guides them in a slow, measured glide over his soap-slicked skin towards the prize— and it is a prize, of course, why would the considerable heft of Kylo's erection be anything less than a prize worthy of a hitched breath of surprise— pulling Kavinsky into a tighter knot around himself in the process.
"Shit," is all Kylo has the capacity to invent for Kavinsky's response. He makes it a muttered, breathless thing, like the word has simply fallen loose from his mouth— a suitably awed reaction to match the way he all but glues himself to Kylo's back. Kylo allows himself a low groan, loosening his grip as Kavinsky curls and coils to take the solid weight of him in hand.
He doesn't know what it would feel like, to surrender, to let Kavinsky win. But he likes to think it would be dangerous. Addictive, as only the infinitely reflecting stroke to the ego that sex as a mind-reader can be. Kavinsky purrs something Kylo doesn't hear for all the throbbing heat, the drag and snap of teeth over his spine, the way he aches to spear himself through Kavinsky's body as the punishment he's been begging for all this time— they would be so much hunger together, he and Kavinsky. So much.
But this is the satisfaction he wants. Breaking. Bursting into a surge of power to twist and turn and crush Kavinsky up against the tile, gorging himself on the vicious delight of triumph that floods through Kavinsky's mind as finally, finally, Kylo tears his way into his mouth.
A space boy would not be wrong to wonder what the fuck this is about, even as borrowed lust swells red paths through his blood and in his brain. Did Kavinsky mean to make him feel jealous?
Pretty sure that's a yes. You don't need nearly as much imagination as Kylo Ren has, to figure the answer to that one. A childish dig; look how much I'm wanted. Look, see if you can look away.
But—
like, really love. the kind of love that has you flopping back against him when you watch movies, and pressing lazy kisses to the pale column of his throat when it proved bad. you love him when you have stupid fights and you love him more when you're both able to admit you're stupid and get over it.
this is one such time. the car fight had been such a drawn out affair that it could only be funny in hindsight. you're still sort of giggling at the spot on impression of miss piggy your boyfriend had. it's not sexy, he keeps kissing you to shut you up when you try to replicate the sound.
you like this, you like being open and honest and weird and unafraid. totally yourself. it's not sexy. but you've been together long enough that you're not worried about being sexy during sex.
but
he's a picture underneath you, face flushed and lips kiss swollen, eyes half lidded and pupils blown wide with lust. the sun has mostly set, the soft fading light is flattering across his features.
you're on his lap in the car, which actually is pretty spacious and great for this kind of thing so you'll concede that maybe luxury cars are actually kinda worth the money. the windows are fogged - who knows where you actually are, far away from the city. he's hard in your hand which is glowing ever so faintly as you use your powers to really work him up. your pants are halfway down your hips and you open your mouth but he fixes you with a if you're going to make a sex drive joke we're through kinda look and you promptly shut it. ]
Or perhaps it was masochism. Some of these show nothing of the people that Murphy has had, or even knows. Tenderness flaunted at him from another life, but also unmistakably absent from the one that Kavinsky leads now.
Bygone eras of easier times and golden dicks.
And there's reciprocity in that other Kavinsky's eyes, when he was as generous with his heart as he was with his body, like the one who'd bumped into John Murphy at a New York farmer's market and dashed his hot chocolate across the floor. (There, too, the tiny brown wave had folded itself over, disappeared under itself, into--)
The Samodiva didn’t maintain the same low growl that a plane at cruising height did, but it did have a low constant purr that cut through the silence in the same way waves crashed consistently against the hull of a ship en route. It set a pleasant audible backdrop to the low, muffled sounds Victor beckoned from Joey’s frame all tangled up against his own in the chair. Holding the younger man to him, back pressed against his chest, Victor set one coiling arm to grasp Joey’s face, twisting his head back slightly when he wanted to claim his lips and then away when he wanted to drag teeth across the sloping skin of his neck. Then, long fingers could trail up Joey’s throat, tilt his head back and let his touch run across his lips, over his teeth, across the wet velvet of his tongue.
Sometimes, Victor just wanted to pluck at Joey like a stringed instrument, tune him, find what sounds he could draw out of him in unhurried motions. Sometimes, he wanted to turn him into a wet, whimpering mess, which Victor could take as long as he wanted over knowing that getting caught up and lost in the throws of passion himself was a rare and elusive beast for him.
And his other hand could trail elsewhere, press up under the hem of Joey’s shirt, feel the birdcage of his ribs, paint the shape of his sternum, roll across nipples, spider-step down low to his stomach, across thin hips, brush down over his thighs, and tease across a tight, wanting crotch.
What Victor wanted was to hear Joey whimper, moan, and beg. Feel him come undone and trembling against him. Thinking aloud against Joey’s ear, Victor wondered if he should fuck him against the desk, or bring him off in hand (a lazy, slicked stroke applied for emphasis). Or maybe he should have Joey as he is, hips rocking back and forth as Victor thrust up into him from the chair.
Victor’s wolfish smile split to allow slow graze of his teeth against Joey’s ear.
“Tell me, Joseph.”
For a selfish man, Victor could be utterly obliging. All he asked for was a little self-unmaking.
It's a disjointed test, some of it. Easy to imagine that that dark-haired animal piping against Victor's chest is Murphy himself. A question from the dreamer that is half-articulated in the greedy grab of Victor's hands, the truncation of that memory.
Certainly, Kavinsky runs around acting pretty fucking butch in this world. Always showing off. Always compensating for something. I'm the top, motherfucker, and my body knows what to do.
And it would know what to do to yours.
And when he looks up, there is the Bulgarian boy with a smile as fine as a knife. The oblique muscle of his shoulders oscillates as he crawls along the bed, over Ronan's body, up to meet him at a kiss that barely leaves room for Ronan's voice, which is fine, because his eyes and hands are eloquent, wet and pleading. Ronan's breath catches. This is, sometimes, what love is like. For dreamers.
When they fuck, Kavinsky's fingers shape a chokehold around Ronan's dick, unmoving, giving Ronan just a little friction, a counterpoint to the inexorable thrust of his own cock from behind. Ronan comes anyway, his knees stinging from the ratcheting burn up the fabric of the sheets. And maybe there was another thief's thieving hand knotted over his own, in that last moment, before the vision behind his eyes went into neon rings and black spots.
He doesn't say Kavinsky's name, but it still manages to follow him out to waking in the morning.
There are other ones. Faces, bodies. ImPorts and natives, with their different skin and voracious teeth, the shapes of their dicks preserved in high-definition, alive, technicolor, retained in Kavinsky's archive of stolen memories. It's a long fucking reel, emphasis on fucking. And by the time it's through, they leave neon afterimages in Murphy's memory. Close your eyes, and there they are.
Taunt? Gauntlet, thrown? Only a tease?
Whatever it is, and whatever it meant to be before the AtlanTech glitch bloated it beyond the scope of its original excess, it demands a reaction.
no subject
Date: 2020-03-30 10:17 pm (UTC)And Murphy gets hit with a slew of memories, a gail force that physically hits him. One memory after another, a seamless, stitched up reel of film, seemingly endless; boundless. They are all vivid and it brings up emotions to the surface.
Murphy’s hurt. He’s angry, but out of everything, he’s just so fucking confused so thank you Kavinsky for this wild ride. You could have at least buckled Murphy in before putting him in a car without breaks. Inadequacy, jealousy, all wound tight around Murphy’s chest. Swelling, bubbling up.
Kavinsky, why have you punished him like this.
Fuck.
He’s quiet for a moment, peeling off his vr glasses. He throws them at Kavinsky, and hoped it hurt. “What the hell was that,” Murphy snarls, vicious and sharp, the edge of the knife’s blade.
He almost forgot about the Kavinsky who shot off a gun into his bed. The Kavinsky that Murphy kicked out. The Kavinsky that Murphy was scared of. This was the Kavinsky that Murphy avoided. Murphy almost forgot that they are all the same person.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2020-04-15 05:35 am (UTC)me neither
no subject
Date: 2020-04-15 05:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-05-19 06:11 am (UTC)He's had hollower victories than this, actually. Threats from John Murphy; that's always a nice vibe. Familiar.
There's a smile seeping into his narrow face. Ambiguous. It's perhaps one part snide, two parts-- other things.
"What's my other option?" he asks, hands in his pockets. Chaos still abounds around them, but they might as well be an island of their own. "Be 'normal?'"