The Weeaboo Sock (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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bakerstreet2016-08-15 08:02 pm
weebsock) wrote in bakerstreet2016-08-15 08:02 pm
Secret, secret, secret
 SECRET relationship; The fact that you're in a relationship with this person isn't public knowledge. Actually, no one knows about it except for the people involved. Maybe you guys are just private like that; on the other hand, it may be a necessity to keep things a secret from others. Maybe you're both team mates, and others on the team would give you grief, or you're not suppose to be dating, or you're not the type to usually date and you're only testing the waters. Perhaps it's the combination of you two, possibly an odd couple, that would bring some controversy or some teasing. Or, you know, you could not want to deal with friends and relatives being busybodies. Your reasons are your own. Are you content with stealing moments to be together as a couple? Do you want to make your relationship known and the fact that you can't drives you batty? Remember, there are lots of benefits to dating in secret. You can be yourselves completely, away from prying eyes, and get to know each other better as potential longterm romantic partners. In a way, it's ideal. ...still, do you ever wish you could scream from the rooftops how much you care for your significant other? how to play.
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fucking choked at the taylor swift thing
Kavinsky, Ronan, Gansey, that's what they all have in common. Simply being near them can cause stomachs to knot and flip, only their individual characteristics define whether it's the pleasant kinda excitement or the ball tightening. Kavinsky hopes he's made Gansey's balls shoot up into his body now and again.
He opens the can with his middle finger after bracing it against the Camaro's roof. It's the finger he exercises the most, after all. Strong stuff.]
What, your lap's reserved for Parrish?
[The taunts never cease, they've only widened to include insinuating Gansey is plowing every one of his people. Instead of it being daddy and mommy, Dick and Lynch, it's the hedonist and his harem. Kavinsky doesn't count himself among them. He sets his hip against the car, soaking up the metal's heat as he chugs down half the coke in one go. He lets his lips stay wet when he's done. Gansey can look at them.]
I'm this close to fucking off, I'm not even kidding. You're only half as fun as you think you are.
[He walked out the way out here in a clean shirt, mostly sober. Kavinsky isn't going anywhere until Gansey tells him to.]
Let me feed you something.
[Surprisingly, he doesn't grab his crotch through his pants, he's patting his pocket instead. Mostly sober. Of course he has something on him.]
Then I'll tell you everything you want to know. It's a good trade, man. You should take me up on it.
bad blood is his theme song tbh
Lounging back against the windshield and letting the heat roast his bones, he turns his head, giving Kavinsky a look. Really? He thinks not. That's when he's momentarily distracted by the wetness of Kavinsky's lips. Just a brief flick of his gaze that goes between Kavinsky's eyes and mouth before he glances away again, leaning his head back and finishing off his can. It leaves his own mouth sticky and sweet, and he runs his tongue over his lips, only glancing back when Kavinsky mentions feeding him something.
It actually is surprising that he isn't grabbing his crotch through his pants. Which he may have preferred if the alternative is drugs, whatever pills Kavinsky dreams up and then ODs on. ]
You know I don't do drugs.
[ What else is he going to assume is in his pocket? Unless he's somehow managed to shove five slices of sausage and avocado pizza in his pocket, Gansey doubts he's going to want to swallow whatever's in there.
In fact, he has something in his own pocket. He pulls out a leaf—no, not pot—and drops it onto his tongue to get rid of the sticky sweet taste of cola. Mint is his thing, his signature. As soon as it touches his tongue his tastebuds sing. Closing his mouth, he tugs the leaf between his lips slowly, relishing the familiar sting of fresh air. It's probably the closest Kavinsky's ever seen him to sporting anything near an orgasmic expression, eyes hooded and the crease in his brow deepened as he works his tongue around the leaf.
Once he tugs it free he shrugs, tilting his hand toward Kavinsky, offering it to him. Gansey doesn't think he'll mind that it's second-hand. ]
You should try this instead.
[ It won't get him all fucked up, for one. There's plenty to do sober that's fun; he doesn't need to get high. Or so says the school's golden boy. ]
no subject
As long as he can keep his own feelings under control, because everyone knows what happens if Kavinsky's slighted. If they're a bad man, they die. If they're a good man, Kavinsky-- Kavinsky does not have much, does he?
Gansey declines the offer, like he's expected to, and the thief is prepared to slam the pills down himself. They're the rare sort that won't cause him to pass out on Gansey's car: uppers. Specially prepared for this meeting of the minds, only Gansey is drawing attention to his mouth. Perfect, like the rest of him. Not only presidential, but kingly. Pretty as a painting by one of those Renaissance artists hiding how much they wanted to fuck boys.
He doesn't know if Gansey has ever made someone drink his spit before. It would not take much effort. At that exact moment, he hates him and he wants him both more or less the same.]
What do you get out of this, Dick?
[A small voice: Me? Do you want me?
A loud voice: He gets everybody, it's so fucking boring.]
Your leaf in my mouth?
[He asks it as he takes it, like he had the coke, though he doesn't need the taste of it wiped away. The leaf is placed on his tongue. Gansey's saliva, Gansey's signature, now branded onto his tastebuds as he shuts his trap and breathes through his nose. He refuses to be calmed by this. It's soothing.
He doesn't want it to be. It's so soothing.]
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[ His voice is soft, velvety in its delivery as he raptly watches the way Kavinsky places the leaf onto his tongue. They're living in a world of quid pro quo but Gansey wants to be more than that. Always has. A boy that chases sleeping kings across the world believes in magic and right now he can feel it snapping at his fingertips. Like a craving.
Sometimes, not even he can deny those. It might be a bad idea if he considered it beforehand but he doesn't. It's instinct that leads him to lifting one hand and brushing his thumb against Kavinsky's lower lip while he sucks on the mint, grazing along its curve. Softer than it looks, still wet from coke and spit, and that same thread from earlier catches a flame.
Kavinsky's plan isn't a bad one. Stupid, he is not. Kavinsky's in a special place of close enough yet not within the snare of The Group. Touching Kavinsky's lips is way too thrilling and he's quite focused; Gansey might as well be Leonardo DiCaprio during the scene in Titanic when he's drawing a naked Kate Winslet—steady gaze, flicking up between lips and eyes again. Quietly intense.
A less proper young man might just call it what it is: Eye-fucking. ]
Just thought you might like it. There's more out there than pills.
[ Even if they're uppers. Mint is soothing; Gansey knew that when he offered it, fully aware that it gave its own kind of euphoria. There were reasons why it was used in medicine and teas.
Reasons he's not thinking about now. Not when he's tracing along the shape of Kavinsky's lip, forgetting himself before suddenly remembering and dropping his hand away. Too intimate. He fully expects some lewd comment about it, so he reclines against the windshield again while he waits for it. ]
It's good, right?
[ Casually, like he hadn't just caressed the guy's mouth.
What does he get? What does he want? Suddenly, it feels like he's walking a tightrope and he's teetering, heart thudding painfully in his chest as he squints up at the sun high in the sky. This game might be just as dangerous. But what's the reward for playing? Continued peace among all magic-types in Henrietta? Gansey's a good guy but he's not that altruistic.
Maybe he does want Kavinsky.
The heat from the car beneath him burns into his flesh dully as that thought flits across his mind in a foreign voice. Maybe he's about to have a stroke. ]
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Kavinsky is a coyote; he is only the top dog as long as nothing bigger comes along. Bring in the wolf, bring in elegant savagery. The coyote wants to prey on chickens and tail-wagging dogs, it wasn't made with the intent of taking on--
Gansey touches his mouth.
Gansey touches his mouth so smooth and truthfully that Kavinsky can't call him a fag or even perv.
His father did try to kill him, that wasn't a lie. Hands around his throat and all. Heavy hands, unkind fingers, they closed and closed. But Gansey, he's got these lovely hands that would feel great with the thumbs bearing down on your windpipe. Hell, Gansey doesn't even have to touch Kavinsky's neck to choke him.
Joseph-- Kavinsky. He's no literary genius, but he remembers a book in a doomed-to-fail French class, and he remembers a prince and a rose and then a fox (which is like a coyote) and the fox-- the fox says something like:
You're responsible for those you've tamed.
Not an exact quote. Good enough.
He won't be tamed. The mint leaf is spat out on the ground by his feet.]
Let's take a nap. I'll dream up something big. Something cool. It'll make your dick soar straight-up 'til it knocks the sky's eye out. Say you're down.
[Finally, Kavinsky is dragging himself up onto the Pig, purposefully positioning his coke can between his thighs as if to request Gansey become jealous of it. He takes a chance. Thumps his fist lightly against Gansey's chest.]
I could even take you with me. Mommy ever offer you that before you put it in?
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Gansey's brows both lift as he looks at the poor ruined leaf left in the dirt. But it's over and done, a new page turning and chapter starting, because Kavinsky's crawling onto the Pig and those soft lips are way too close for comfort. The can between the guy's thighs does grab Gansey's attention but he doesn't let himself think about it. Just a way to keep it straight (nothing here is straight).
Lifting his head, he's caught by the idea of dreaming. He's always been a sucker for magic and everything that might connect him to Glendower.
The pragmatic politician's son knows better than to say yes. Dreaming can be dangerous. Ronan had always done it on his own for that very reason; he didn't want to fuck up and hurt someone. Scattered feathers and bloodstains weren't unusual at Monmouth Manufacturing, behind that wooden door that Gansey knew better than to open without permission.
But... he is a wolf, a wolf that smells blood. Attracted, drawn to the bait, he wants. Wants to see what Kavinsky's gonna dream up. Gansey's not magical like everyone else he knows. Ronan dipping into dreams, dreaming up the impossible and making it possible, drawing out crazy amazing wonderful things into the real world. Adam was Cabeswaters' hands and eyes, speaking to the trees through tarot cards and playing the magician. And Blue? Blue was surrounded by psychics and could amplify their powers. Even Noah was different now they knew the truth about him.
Sitting up, he studies Kavinsky for a long moment. Thinking about his answer. Everything boils down to one decision: What the hell? Why not?
Ronan had never offered that. Maybe he hadn't known how. Gansey's intrigued and once he's intrigued he has to know. The eccentric, obsessive side that so few people get to see. There's a light in his eyes that he doesn't offer to just anyone. ]
No, he never has. [ He grabs Kavinsky's wrist, pressing his thumb into where the boy's pulse is strongest. ] All right.
[ A smirk quirks at the corner of Gansey's mouth and again he looks like the predator he denies he is. No, he doesn't know. It doesn't even cross his mind. He follows his desires with the ferver of a scholar on a mission but doesn't realize that he'd push those limits, do more than any booknerd would really do. ]
Show me. Give me everything you've got.
[ It's not a request anymore. ]
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He's betrayed by his pulse that skitters and leaps. The only person he's taken along the ride for a dream, or joined for the occasion more like, is Ronan who had a particular aptitude for it. But they've stationed themselves in the vicinity of a leyline and Gansey is lying to himself if he doesn't think he holds his own special talent. Control. A voice that commands and then everything else falls into place. (Super)natural leadership. Kavinsky's mouth is the driest its ever been, then the wettest. He's salivating and he'd swallow Gansey's spit like OJ, which is disturbing and also normal. Gansey's an inspiration and a cancer.
There's one last chance to escape:]
Unless you want to wait twenty minutes for you to get sleepy, we'll have to do it my way.
[His hand wriggles into his pocket, feeling around for an oblong shape among the many pills crammed there. He fishes out two, holding them like a magician would playing cards between his fingers. Here's the magic act. Pick a card, any card.
They're poison green and semi-transparent, his latest experiment. Would he be Gansey's thief or his chemist?]
Come with me.
[He can't ask for it to be you and me with Gansey, seeing as he's taken by four people already. Unlike Ronan, there isn't a sliver of a chance at isolation. What he'll offer Gansey will be you and me in the moment, a moment that he'll seek to capture continually. Both pills are placed on his tongue. His fingers on Gansey's jaw aren't forceful, but they do beckon him closer.]
This will scare him off. Despite the touching and the looks, he's assumed there is at least one chink in Gansey's armor: has he ever considered boys like this? Seriously? He'll kiss him if he's allowed. He'll show the dexterity of his lips and tongue when he pushes only one pill over. But first, Gansey has to admit why he keeps watching Kavinsky's mouth like he wants to bite it.
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He'd like to argue that he'll wait the twenty minutes but he knows that he won't fall asleep even then. Insomniacs, Ronan and Gansey, left staring into space at three a.m or ripping up cardboard because there's nothing better to do. There's no way he's going to fall asleep unless it's because he's been awake long enough that his eyes are burning, stars are drowning, and shadows have grins.
It's with a grimace that he looks down at those nuclear pills, like they'd make his stomach churn the moment one touches his tongue. It's not him and he wants to reject it based on that principle alone. Scratch that, he should reject it based on that principle alone.
It's the mad scientist in him, the eccentric, the mad adventurer obsessed with having died once that possesses him to begin to reach out to pluck one from Kavinsky's palm.
But then Joseph Kavinsky drops both pills onto his tongue.
He doesn't want to admit why he's been looking at Kavinsky's mouth like he wants to bite it. It's a very obvious answer: Because he wants to bite it. Kavinsky's right about there being a chink in his armor but he's wrong about what it is. Kissing dudes isn't something he's thought too much about but the idea isn't off-putting. He's spent so much time searching across Europe and the U.S.A for leylines and hints as to where Glendower might be slumbering, waiting to meet him, that he didn't spend too much time thinking about kissing at all.
God, but he's making up for it now.
Gansey won't be scared off. Once he's decided to do something he'll always follow through. Always dangerously close to fire, always playing with forces beyond his control. Joseph Kavinsky is a force all his own—an impossible creature surviving through his vices, living off of adrenaline, gasoline, and molotov cocktails.
Yet... somehow, Gansey isn't afraid to plunge. Half due to a cockiness that only a natural leader can have, for sure. The other half? Somehow, those hollow, refugee eyes speak of a fragility that—he's seen before. Not as pained and not as fresh but it's something that tickles his memory and sombers him, makes him want to touch and reach out. Maybe Kavinsky can't be redeemed but damn it, everyone needs someone to believe in them. And Gansey's good at believing. There can be more.
No, his main hesitation is because he's not a fan of drugs, and knows well enough that Kavinsky's no licensed pharmacist. The fingers on his jaw aren't forceful but they are warm, distracting in a way they shouldn't be allowed to. Beckoning, and Gansey relents, leaning in and giving into a temptation that's perhaps even more dangerous than questionable drugs.
At least he's more honest in his kiss than to himself. Lips parted, he makes the kiss dirty, accepting the pill into his mouth but not before brushing his tongue against Kavinsky's. Lips moving, the taste of mint and cola. The weight of the pill in his mouth is slight but feels so incredibly foreign, like it's some symbolic message for what's just passed between them. Except symbology isn't going to possibly land him in the hospital.
He swallows it before he can come to his senses. ]
no subject
Is that being gay or sexist bisexuality? Does he care?
No. But it meant the kiss was his realm and it's not fair for Gansey to come in and put up his flag. The hesitation is too muted and short before he goes for it. Their mouth's press, and it's wet. Has to be, in order to swallow down the pill otherwise dry, but the kiss is slimy and Kavinsky isn't the praying sort, but he could use some disgust right about now. He could use repulsion at Gansey's tongue lapping against his own, or Gansey's eyes close enough that Kavinsky's gaze can't force on them.
He is gasoline. Gansey is a match. Whoosh. Flames that dance on Kavinsky's skin, whisper up through his hair and burns the roots where they're planted. When he swallows the pill, he's swallowing whatever strand of Gansey's DNA that he left behind.
They can't be together. They're here together. Ronan would never kiss him, and the guys before Ronan didn't know how or when Kavinsky's mood was ripe. Gansey's taken low-hanging fruit and it's Kavinsky's fault. Once again, he misread the situation, only this time it leaves him buzzing with arousal instead of fury. He closes his eyes.
Richard Campbell Gansey III. Inside his head, inside his mouth, inside him. He nests there, like he does everyone else. This isn't special. Anyone Gansey kisses would become an addict, whether or not they had Kavinsky's predisposition.]
You motherfucker.
[He says, sweetly. He lays back against the windshield, folding his hands behind his head. They'll end up by his sides, once he conks out, which should be in mere seconds.]
I'm not yours.
[And he's asleep.
Lucid dreaming has been a skill of his since infancy, though he can only remember a smattering of his dreams from toddlerhood til fifth grade. Too young for the memories to be cemented, and the things he took out from his warped dreamscapes were usually discarded or too simple to turn heads. Unlike Ronan, who he now knows is this Greywaren thing, he never had a mentor to guide him or answer the multitudes of questions his power brought about. Everything Kavinsky has built for himself he did with his own two hands.
As soon as he's asleep, he's aware. As soon as he's aware, he's reaching out for Gansey.
I know he's there, he tells Cabeswater. Cabeswater hates him and recoils as he stands at its borders. This isn't the sneak-thievery it's become used to; him being honest in his presence is more vile. You'll like it better if he's here.
The forest curls away from him and hisses steam among the trees. If it wanted to, it could create a simulacra of Gansey, but then it would just be Cabeswater's least favorite dreamer and a bastardization of one of its favorites.
Don't you want your master? Woof.
It does. Gansey will be dragged from wherever his slumber usually takes him to Kavinsky's side, the thief's hand on the small of his back.]
Woof.
[That's for the trees' benefit so they won't go and stake him. There's only one dog here right now.]
no subject
Wasn't Kavinsky the one that had dropped the pill onto his tongue? It's a belated realization that it may have just been goading that he wasn't supposed to take the guy up on, most guys not nearly having the balls Gansey really does despite his practiced delicacy and prim gestures. A wolf draped in sheep's clothing, wearing it like prada.
Gansey doesn't regret it. From the moment Kavinsky had wet his lips after swigging back that cola he'd been fascinated, a researcher with a passion. He won't get drunk on booze or high on drugs but he'll loose himself in that kind of depravity, beg a kiss or two and then soak it up, remember the taste and texture so he can repeat it over and over in his head at 3 a.m. A prayer that he shouldn't know the words to but does, craving absolution. ]
Why fight it?
[ It's a mutter after Kavinsky's dropped off and he's nodding out, feeling lethargic in an alarming way. It's not a feeling he likes. Natural born leader he is, he hates not having control and that's what drugs take from you—Gansey rests back, shoulders thumping against the windshield, prone right next to Kavinsky.
First it's just black. He has no gift for lucid dreaming, never had. He doesn't even have enough awareness to think to himself: ah, it didn't work. Weightlessness of simply being asleep, but then he's jerked—it's like something's jumpstarting his heart. Gansey can feel it in his throat, choking him, throwing him into reality only it isn't real at all.
The first thing he sees is feet. His own topsiders and then another pair of shoes. Blinking, he glances up, meeting Kavinsky's face before quickly turning his head to glance at the unfurling, majestic forest. So Cabeswater could even do this? Amazing. The fact that it did not seem to be in the best of moods wasn't wasted on him. A thief brazenly traipsing in and then deciding to play with its little king? A dangerous precedent.
Even so, Gansey can't help but to be thrilled. He loves everything about this. The rush, the sensation of reality and the vague hollow pull in his chest that told him that this wasn't quite what he should be seeing. Ronan had never said that he could bring others into his dreams; Gansey wouldn't have asked, either, because Ronan tended to be rather private when it came to his nightmares.
Standing up straighter, Gansey laughs, wearing a boyish grin that doesn't suit the presidential slickness of his school persona. It's much more real. Shaking his head, he looks back at Kavinsky, manic off of a new discovery. ]
You really are a brilliant creature.
[ Gansey had always appreciated the skills and magical talents of his friends; it happened, when you had a love affair with the supernatural since you were 10. God, and Kavinsky's clever. A thief has to be, doesn't he? Couldn't he use that cleverness for... for good reasons?
But now isn't the time for Gansey to wax poetic to Kavinsky about his potential and how he can channel it into healtheir vices. They can't stay here long; he's no dreamer but he can sense the displeasure from Cabeswater, trees leaning away and hostile. Whispers in latin that are too hurried for him make out (and he had never been the best in latin anyway, never really needed to be when there was a Ronan Lynch nearby). ]
You don't really get along, do you? [ He knew this from hearsay, both Adam and Ronan sensing Kavinsky's connection to their magical forest, but seeing it's a different beast. Ah. Well. Again, another thing not to wax poetic on right this second. There's time for that later. He turns his attention back to Kavinsky once more; in dreams his dark eyes strike Gansey as being more... vivid. ] What were you thinking about dreaming?
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Gansey doesn't disappear. He's there, until the dream ends, and at any time Kavinsky could slip away from him. He'd find it all too easy to melt into the shadows while asleep-- he's joined with them in the past. Turned himself to a rippling stream of darkness that skittered through Ronan's forest and foraged for what he needed. As he thinks of it, his skin favors the idea of transparency, and he begins to fade. Stepping in toward the trees, they argue his arrival, but have trouble seeing the thief when he goes spectral. Funny, as they don't have 'eyes' to see in the first place. This must be a spiritual deafening in truth, only translated as a visual so Kavinsky can process it.]
You know, the usual. Condoms, beer cans, things that go boom.
[As he says it, he snatches up a string of champagne-foiled condoms from beneath a bush. The six-pack of dreamed up IPA is nestled between gargantuan vines (he hugs it to his stomach). What goes boom hasn't been discovered yet, but Kavinsky didn't come in here with a plan. That's not the norm. Gansey wasn't supposed to go and kiss him like that so he had to commit to the act. Going in half-cocked is usually a shitshow. The forest isn't as free-flowing as the pockets of energy he ripped his creations from back in the big city.]
Hold these for me.
[He lets go of the condoms which flutter through the air like a perverted ribbon. The light between trees highlights the emblazoned XXL on either side.
Cabeswater sulks and surrounds Gansey with flowers and beauty. For all its despising of Kavinsky, it will shower the golden child with affection. Jeweled butterflies streak through the air beside him.
Kavinsky picks up a stick of dynamite, chucks it into a tree hollow when he changes his mind.]
What do I want?
[Curious question. He usually knows that better than anything.
Even Kavinsky can't steal what isn't there.]
no subject
[ Of course he reaches out when Kavinsky tosses the shining ribbon of condoms at him, instinct taking over. Once the foil touches his fingers he instantly regrets it—condoms, really? That seems so... so crude to have lovely Cabeswater create. Wrinkling his nose, he drops them to the floor, looking down at them with a small shake of his head. Daddy doesn't approve.
Also. XXL? Really? There's something of a chuckle and a mutter that sounds suspiciously like Yeah right. What's Kavinsky really want, a pair of plastic socks?
But, Gansey supposes, he shouldn't be all that surprised. It's Kavinsky. He's not going to dream up a shetland pony named Sugarsnaps for Gansey to ride. Condoms, beer cans, things that go boom. So, so much potential. Pressing his lips together, Gansey's attentions snaps up to Kavinsky's back.
Or where he thought Kavinsky's back would be. It's difficult to see him now; everythings melting into shade and the shadows seem longer. There's movement and the sound of shifting grass. While a king gleams a thief blends. Focusing his gaze, he thinks he's spotted where Kavinsky is in that darkness. And he's got...
The stick of dynamite almost gives him a stroke—the last thing he needs is to wake up to the Pig exploding thanks to that. Apparently it's not good enough for the great Kavinsky; the thief chucks it away and Gansey's heart starts working again.
Crouching down to give some of the flowers an affectionate touch, the little king keeps his gaze on the dreamthief. The flowers lean toward him and there are more whispers in Latin (Make him leave, he's going to steal again, don't let him touch you again) that Gansey still can't understand. Gently, he rubs his thumb in circles on one of the flower petals, trying to soothe Cabeswater. It doesn't seem to work all that well. Apparently Joseph's stolen quite a bit and the forest is holding a grudge—but Gansey already knew that.
What do I want? Gansey tilts his head and stands, stuffing his hands into his pockets while a butterfly lands on his shoulder, bright wings brushing his cheek like a kiss. Striding in that long way that demands attention (the only way the golden boy knows how) he moves closer to his wayward thief. ]
What do you want?
[ Truthfully, he's not even really talking about dreams now. What does Kavinsky want? What will keep him from tipping into the void? There's more than obliteration. Kavinsky's a wild dog that'll suck marrow from the bones of prey, lurk in the shadows and grin a toothy wild sharp smile. But even dogs want something.
What, under all that posing and posturing, does Kavinsky—need? If he could, Gansey would peel all pretense away and rip into the guy's heart. Break open his ribcage and let all of those repressed, piled up needs fall free. Even a guy like Kavinsky has them. Hell... especially a guy like Kavinsky. Gansey's got a theory that dreamers are emotional, incredible, wild things that feel so intensely that they have to get it out somehow. Ronan's like that. And, from what Gansey remembers of Niall Lynch, he'd been that way too. ]
Joseph.
[ His voice is even and he's watching, no longer approaching. Standing still. Grass grows greener beneath his shoes and his hair gleams even brighter in the sun, hazel eyes light like green glass. ]
no subject
The thief is normally swift. He needs to get in, get out. Snatch what he needs, forged as he needs it, and slip away leaving a grease trail of irritation behind him. Mistake after mistake; Cabeswater is pleased at Gansey's appearance, but it isn't above sniffing at the blood in the water. All the blood in his body is rushing to his extremities at the tenderness of Gansey's reiteration of his question and painful use of his first name.
Kavinsky isn't difficult to see, but his form is having difficulty remaining stagnant. Limbs twist, his feet sink further into the mud or they are the mud. Why is there mud? Has it rained? The scent is there, all of a sudden, and it slithers up his nostrils and makes for the section of his brain with the ugly memories. No fireworks here, only the splattering of water on the windows as his father--
He digs his feet out. Stomps as he does so, retains his body, his sweet spot of barely visible. Instead of the forest focusing on loving Gansey, it has decided to protect the king by punishing his rude companion. Kavinsky isn't certain what Gansey saw, but the liquid curve of his mouth into a smirk is the best defense mechanism God could provide a sinner.]
This.
[And he bends down. Near his feet, a black cube, each side a reflective obsidian. He twists it around in his hands until a digital clockface points itself at Gansey. There's a countdown from 10:00.
The trees howl, discomfort.
In myth, knowing a fae's true name can bind it, so either Kavinsky is too human or 'Joseph Kavinsky' isn't good enough a title.]
You should try waking up before it hits zero. I'd fucking hate you to miss the show.
[In a flash, he's at Gansey's side. In a flash, he's at the edge of the trees.]
no subject
What?
[ Joseph Kavinsky is as human as they come.
Gansey's painfully reminded of that when he picks up something far more ominous than a stick of dynamite. Maybe he doesn't speak latin. He doesn't need to in order to recognize the howling for what it is. Warning, danger, discomfort, mistrust. A countdown is rarely good and... and, he's still wondering, what is Kavinsky getting out of this? Again and again and again. Drunk pre-meds and some rubber gloves, five thousand people with designer drugs, champagne cocaine gasoline (and most things in between). ]
Joseph. [ Gansey's tone turns a little sharper and the first few numbers twist downward, countdown detonation, and he presses his lips into a thin line. ] Is this really what you want?
[ The why? in his voice doesn't even need to be said. The lines in his brow deepen and the butterfly that had settled on his shoulder disintegrates suddenly, leaving dust like glitter on his shoulder.
Gansey can't decide if it's because Kavinsky wants to play games or just wants mutually assured destruction—there's no time, no time for that, because the trees are leaning away and the shadows are stretching like aimlessly grasping fingers.
Even if he leaves, wakes up. Where does that leave Cabeswater? Despite what people might believe, Gansey's level of self-preservation is dangerously low. Not out of any self-loathing like Ronan or hopelessness like Adam; what's death to a guy that knows he's going to die soon? That's already died once? Does it even count for him here? His concerns for other people far outstretch his concerns for himself. His magical forest? Of course that matters more.
Questions questions questions. He doesn't even know what kind of game Kavinsky's playing; he's assuming the worst while working off of Cabeswater's reactions.
Gansey isn't a dreamer. He doesn't know how to wake up, doesn't know how to manipulate this space to help him outside of what Cabeswater wants to give him, or help bring Kavinsky to relative sense. ]
Come back here. [ His voice is velvety again, incredibly compelling, the sort of voice that begs to be obeyed in its smoothness. ] We can wake up together.
[ Is this really what you want? ]
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The space between him and Gansey stretches out as a bridge over an impossible drop. The bridge matches the box's black-mirror sides; Kavinsky sees his reflection rippled by the glass. Cabeswater is all around them, and yet the sharp edges and inorganic shape of the bridge-- the space-- reminds him of the dreams he had when he was younger before Virginia was a possibility.
Ronan's special and he gets the fairy forest. What do the thieves get?
Perish the thought it be anything of consequence. The bridge jerks forward like a high-speed version of the moving sidewalks at the airport, until Kavinsky is deposited back in the forest and before the boy with the voice that says obey, obey, obey. He isn't even asked to, it just feels like he'd be told to anyway: Gansey is given the box with its countdown permanently stopped between the ninth and eighth minute.
Kavinsky's a solid, visible rogue, and Cabeswater bristles anew.]
Did you just mindfuck me, Dick? You're not even wearing the condoms, and I made them just for you. I'm this close to taking offense.
['This' is intimated by the tap of his index against one nostril. In order to protect himself, he has already resolved not to be upset and to make light of the situation instead. Cool, cool, he won't die today, and he always sort of assumed Gansey wouldn't end up taken out with him. Who will rule the nation if he goes kablooey? There he goes, thinking too small! Who will rule the world?
He wants to be the option Gansey has no choice but to take, and at the same time, he is terrified that Gansey's starting to agree.
If it were up to him, Kavinsky would never get to end it or ruin it or snort it as much as he wants to.]
Does your entourage know you can do that? You're spooky, man. Out of my league, man. I'm out. Too strong for me. This is our last playdate.
[Like he hadn't guessed or didn't know. But Gansey's so good and if Kavinsky (who is bad) feigns light-hearted fear for almost-right-but-off reasons, it's liable he'll back down and start sweating bullets.
Gosh, Joseph, I'm not a monster! he'll simper. They have their roles cast.]
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At the accusation, Gansey blinks. The box is given to him like he knew it would. The numbers are frozen and he relaxes fully, breathing out a short breath before glancing back at Kavinsky's face. ]
Did I—excuse me?
[ Mindfuck him? Nothing of the sort. He completely ignores the jibe about the condoms and merely gazes down at Kavinsky cooly, one hand on his hip, the other still nursing the box. His fatherly disapproval is at an all-time high, the line in his brow particularly drawn.
He's quiet when Kavinsky calls him spooky. Truthfully, he hasn't quite figured out what effect his voice seems to have on people. But it's not something he's about to talk to Kavinsky about; not when he just tried to blow him up. That'll put a sour note on any date.
Again, Kavinsky's underestimating him. Gansey's never sweat a bullet a day in his life. No—Richard Campbell Gansey the Third sets like a sword, tempers and then cools. His eyes narrow somewhat and he purses his lips again. If the light-hearted fear bothers him he doesn't show it. ]
... No, it's not.
[ Delicate words, said slowly and clearly, so there's no misunderstandings. Last playdate? As if. Joseph Kavinsky may be terrified that Gansey's realizing that he's the only option but to take, but he's gone and damned himself on that front. Adam would say that Gansey does not let his things go. Gansey would disagree and say he does not think of people as things; he would not disagree with the second part.
Don't mess with what you can't handle, Joseph. Too late, it's all too late.
Gansey gazes at the box one last time before turning his attention toward Cabeswater. He needs a way to get rid of it; the forest complies happily, opening a deep crack in its earth that. Gansey pulls his arm back and then sends it sailing, a glittering little thing that arches beautifully and lands in the black crease before it closes, swallowed up by dirt and roots.
Then he turns back around on the other boy, grabbing him by the upper arm and giving him a sympathetic look. ]
Time to wake up.
[ And maybe that's all he even needed to tell himself because he feels like he's been punched in the chest. Gansey's heart starts again painfully and he shifts, arm numb under his body from having... turned in his sleep? He's surprised he wasn't so deeply passed out that he could even do that.
Only he finds himself not quite able to move. ]
Ah?
[ Because at some point they ended up spooning on the hood of the Pig. Kavinsky's heavy arm thrown over him isn't something Ganseyboy expected to wake up to—a bomb seemed way more plausible, even now. A bomb made more sense. ]
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Together, they can both believe the bomb would have made things easier to process.
He blows a cool gust over Gansey's ear, then he's squirming his other arm out from under Gansey, shaking off the phantom grip of his fingers. No, it's not. And Kavinsky knew it, but he didn't think about how this is punishment. He drained the leyline, ruffled Ronan's feathers, and nearly got himself (as well as several others) incinerated. Gansey won't flay him or ridicule him for the sake of discipline, he'll play nice and want to spend time working on Kavinsky until the Bulgarian party monster goes all soft edged. Until the cube becomes a sphere. He plans on wearing him down.
Unless it takes too long. The extreme measures at that point cause any quiet Kavinsky had in his chest to be droned out by blaring horns. He sits up, pulling one knee in to his chest and swearing up an internal, mute storm. Share a dream with me, he'd said, only to glimpse a Gansey nightmare.
In the dream, the mint-coke taste was faded to grey. In flavor like color, he relives Gansey's kiss.]
Oh, Mr. Gansey. I know a lot more than you do.
[More than Ronan, too. Took one good look at Ronan's brother, long before he had the idea to trash him in a car trunk, and he knew he was a dream creature. Kavinsky has an eye for it. Dream stuff, magic stuff. A good thief knows when they're yanking a fake.
They also know the real deal. Gansey gave him his signature, in the dream.]
Shit.
[He has to take the edge off, but now he doesn't think sleeping right in front of the boy wonder is his best method of self-sanctity. From his pocket, he produces a small, white pill, and this he presses with his index finger to his bottom lip as he contemplates.]
Here's a game-- tell me not to take it.
[The drug, he means. Something to spray Elmer's glue over the frayed edges of his nerves after that fiasco.]
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Once freed, he sits up, rubbing his arm to rid it of goosebumps and numbness both. Tired—it wasn't even really like sleeping at all, having only made him more tired, shaded purple lightly dusting tearducts. He and Lynch, they're always tired, though Gansey hides it much better than his red-rimmed friend.
Even if he's put out with Kavinsky at the moment for almost setting them both on fire or something to that effect, Gansey hasn't given up. It's foolish to underestimate the lengths he'll go to; he's spent seven years looking for a myth, almost just as long keeping Ronan from doing anything drastic, and only the most patient could deal with Adam's moodswings and constant accusations of control. A grossly patient predator lurking in the bushes with bright eyes, creeping through leaves and stalking, waiting, watching, wearing its prey down rather than scaring it outright. They may all be hunters but they're not all the same sort. What happens when you pin two drastically different kinds against one another? (Other than clashing teeth and bloodied paws?)
Maybe Kavinsky won't be a sphere, but the coyote ain't gonna be a cube forever. Not unless they really do hit oblivion at 95 MPH. Sorry, not sorry.
Kavinsky claims to know more than him and that makes him glance up, brow still furrowed in the same way it had been in the dream. Leaning up, he drags his thumb across his lower lip, teasing the nail into the softness of it. ]
Maybe. And there are things I know that you don't.
[ It's a plain statement. Fact. One he doesn't plan on expanding on even if he had the time to; Kavinsky's pulling out another gosh darn pill and Gansey actively frowns at the sight of it. It distracts him from whatever they may have been talking about before. ]
Jesus Christ. [ Said in his old Virginia money accent, voice flawless as fresh honey and just as compelling. Charming and etched with concern, ] Don't take that, Joseph.
[ It's not a game. It's never a game. He's not even thinking about what game Joseph may be wanting to play. Gansey's thoughts: Why you gotta take those, you rascal? Drugs are never a game to him. Frankly, he's regretting swallowing the pill from earlier. There could have been another way to fall asleep. ]
You could—talk, you know. If something's bothering you.
[ It's an offer to listen that he's sure is gonna get thrown right back into his face. There are certain things he's come to expect, even if he's as patient as a summer day. ]
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The most he'll do is allow Gansey a moment to weigh the facts. Kavinsky called him spooky and wriggled away once they woke. He hasn't taken flight, but he asked to be given an order he never wanted to obey. All of that could be seen as a defiant prick doing what he does best, or it could be dug into.
Gansey likes digging, doesn't he? At tombs, mostly, and Kavinsky is fairly dead (on the inside).]
Time?
[He snaps at Gansey, then splays out his fingers. He has his own phone on him, crammed into a pocket that isn't full of dreamt delights, but Gansey is more likely to find it the first go instead of having to check either side and the back. Hazarding a guess, the time they were asleep couldn't have been more than an hour; it hasn't grown dark around them, Kavinsky will be able to pick his way back without needing a drive from the royal chariot.]
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And so much for manners, on that note. Joseph snaps out that word and Gansey gives him a side-eye, watching with displeasure since the moment that the pill slipped past his lips. There was no real victory when he knew it was something Joseph was going to do anyway; perhaps, why his voice did not hold the level of conviction that it did in a dream. A drug addict smacking back some drugs wasn't exactly unexpected much as Gansey would object.
There's a moment where Gansey simply stares at the other boy. Green eyes digging with trowels and spades. Sure, he loves to dig, but he doesn't often do it for himself—not unless he's alone and left with thoughts too loud to ignore. With something else to focus on he does. There's a lot to peel back about Joseph; like how curious a guy he is. Wanting attention and then violently rejecting anything that might be too—personal? Maybe not quite that. Anything good. It's like he's allergic to it, craving harsh words and treatment instead.
No wonder things with Ronan hadn't worked out. Sex, drugs, and cars was a language Ronan could speak but not one he could live. Despite his bloody knuckles, boxing, and dirty mouth, Ronan wasn't truly—not like that. He was kind in his way, had his own strict sense of morals, and was terrified of his nightmares. At least, Gansey didn't think he was. He'd known Ronan for a long time and liked to think he knew a thing or two about his friend; maybe he was wrong, but would he be here, on the car hood right now with Kavinsky, if he was?
Not that Gansey's like that either. He does, however, find it easier to be cold. Even with his bleeding heart. Ronan could be a match, fire, thunder on a storming night. Gansey was just the freezing, constant rain.
With such an interesting specimen, why would he bother critically analyzing himself? He's not stupid; he picks up on the hints that he's always noticed and Joseph's actions are consistent with what he's suspected... but he plays his cards close to the chest, pokerface spot on even in the worst of times.
So he just shrugs like it's the ravings of a guy that's just tried to kill him in dream-land with a bomb and tugs his phone effortlessly out of his pocket. Of course he knows where it is. Gansey answers his darn phone when he gets a call or text.
Speaking of—a text from Ronan's phone (which had no doubt been sent by Adam) asking where he is. After a quick text back (Out for a breath of fresh air, be back soon.) he closed his messages and checked the clock. ]
We were asleep for about... forty minutes.
[ He sounds mildly surprised. It had felt much shorter, to him. Maybe dreams are just odd like that. Or maybe the whole bomb thing had thrown off his sense of time. ]
It's almost four.
[ Looking back up at Kavinsky, he raises a brow. ]
Why? Want to know how long whatever you just took is going to have you high for?
[ It's better to have an edge then to melt into a puddle with no edges at all, in Gansey's lofty opinion. ]
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Gansey hasn't failed him. What a thought. Ronan proved too fragile, too well-tied by his ideals. There's someone else he wants more. There's something else he wants more. Gansey matters more. The get-along gang matters more. And as much as they are Gansey's circle, his children, his love, he's open to expanding that ring. There, Kavinsky exists as the outlier, right on the edge of the acceptable. He used to think Gansey was boring, in the way, out of touch with that wicked energy at every man's core. Damn Kavinsky if he's wrong. Gansey's more in tune with it than anyone.
Gansey can be the king of summer for his warm and sap-sweet brethren. He can be icy and domineering for Kavinsky, who will not respond well to being pet and given flattery.]
Not what I just took, Dick. Walk with me.
[He means it metaphorically, Kavinsky is sinking back against the Pig's cooled down body.]
I've been doing dream chemistry for a while. What you took with me's my latest and greatest. Forty-five minutes and you saw what I made?
[He took something that lasted shorter and made something grander in the past. The dragon. That took-- what? Ten, twenty minutes? He can't really remember. The dreamt drugs don't have the same affect as real ones, they aren't going to deteriorate his mind down to so much mush. But Kavinsky himself doesn't care enough. His trial and error is largely in the moment and done by a process of whimsy.]
Could've taken us both out.
[[He also brought someone with him into the dream; Gansey verified that Ronan had never managed at much. More likely he hadn't thought he could, or should. Kavinsky isn't bound by the same morality. He doesn't have nightmares, he has revelations. Nothing is uglier than what he']s already seen.]
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But he's not. Gansey doesn't curse. Too crude, too impolite, hardly civil. Even if Joseph Kavinsky is one of the last people in the world that being civil matters to. So he presses his lips into a thin line as the crease in his brow deepens again. Cruel, dangerous, walking the line, but impressive. The human in him tastes bitterness. The scientist, the adventurer, nods his head. ]
Less. [ He points that out quietly, glancing away from the boy laying out across the hood of his car, away from the little slip of stomach when the guy's shirt rises from the change in position and dark hair fanned just-so against the windshield. ] You didn't start dreaming it right away.
[ Not when he'd spent time just asleep regularly before being dragged into Cabeswater by roots and tendrils. Plus, they had to subtract the time he'd spent gaping at Cabeswater and playing with butterflies while Kavinsky bounced around the shadows like a ghoul. And then—something spooked him. Why had he suddenly decided to blow them sky high, anyway? Gansey's still not sure. Was it something he said? He knows he's a fuckup with words half the time, when he's not being as smooth as verbal honey. With a tendency to be tactless... not realizing implications others might.
But he can't think of anything. The next thought is that Cabeswater had done something, but he hadn't seen anything wrong, there, either. But would the forest really show its little king anything cruel? Doubtful.
The weight of the questions he has pushes him back against the Pig with Kavinsky, along side but not touching, back against its body as he stares up at the sky. ]
Why? [ Chewing his lip, he closes his eyes, comfortably basking in the sunlight, tanned like an adonis and wholly golden, little prince he is. ] And if you didn't just take some drug, what did you take? Another experiment?
[ If it's going to make something else explosive pop up, Gansey is going to be cross, darling.
Without prompting, a smile curls on his lips. ]
Chemistry... I didn't know you were so scholarly, Joseph.
sorry this took forever! and look at my HTML fail... weh
[It's to Gansey's credit that Kavinsky now wants only for relaxation, not another dip into slumberland. Besides, even if his company wasn't so pitch perfect, the forest has its thistles in a bunch. If he comes back while it's all rapier sharp, he'll be skewered. So far, Kavinsky hasn't fully tested the theory on whether or not if he died in a dream, he'd die in the real world. Theoretically, there's something pleasing about the thought of waking up to a chest full of puncture holes on Gansey's car. While young Richard would be morally obligated to care more for the body than the vehicle, no doubt he'd be stressed over whether or not it would be seen as disrespectful to continue driving the Pig after it had taken a victim.
On second thought, it's not entirely true that Kavinsky's feelings toward needing yes and needing sex are in tune with each other. When his thoughts fuzz up in the dryer, he's got the morbid little thought that right now Gansey could do whatever he wanted and he'd let it slide. Likewise, trailing just behind the first inkling is a second: if he doped Gansey, would he--
No. The prince is smart. The obliviousness pales when matters become serious; Kavinsky only got away with the knock-out drug because Gansey simply knew he was sincere. They went on a dream adventure, didn't they? For once, Kavinsky hadn't really lied (he never promised it wouldn't be dangerous).]
What I meant was... the other thing wasn't-- it's...
[The thing he just swallowed is fast acting. He waves a hand dismal and limply. His head tilts and with his gaze on the ground, he notices the mint leaf from before. How'd it get there? His arm reaches, but it's not nearly long enough.]
Go fuck yourself.
[Kavinsky is speaking to the leaf, though his manners are bad enough Gansey can assume something less and yet more childish if he wants.]
it's cool! also shhh what html fail
Even though his face is smooth, without wrinkles, there's the faint sense of disdain at the idea. It's seconds before Kavinsky's pretty much useless to him—there's no reasoning with someone that's high, and it's... it feels wrong to try to wrangle personal information out of someone that's not in their correct mental faculties. So Kavinsky has successfully stopped Gansey from digging digging digging until he unearths some hard won truth about Kavinsky's psyche. ]
I know.
[ His voice is soft. Yeah—Kavinsky hadn't given him a drug. It had been something else, that. There had been a promise of a world unseen and not of safety, but there had also been a promise of something so spectacular he'd have to jerk off after seeing it. Does Cabeswater count? Joseph hadn't dreamed that. All he dreamed were some condoms, dynamite, and a box that could have killed them both.
Even if the curse was directed at him, Gansey doesn't much care. He's got thicker skin than that, even if such language is decidedly uncivil. But scolding someone that's high's probably quite like scolding someone that's drunk—either it seems funny, or goes in one ear and out the other. Better to chew them out when they're painfully sober.
He's more concerned about Kavinsky reaching over the side of the car. ]
Careful. [ Shifting, he rests his hand heavily on Joseph's shoulder, gently tugging him toward himself and away from the ground and the sad spat out mint leave splattered on it. ] You don't want to fall.
[ Great. What's he supposed to do with him now? There's no way his lofty conscience is going to allow him to send Joseph wandering through the forest to find his way home on his own. ]
Tsk... what am I going to do with you?
[ It's thoughtless, when he reaches up with his other hand and brushes Kavinsky's hair back, smooths it gently. Maybe this annoys him less than Ronan's drinking because... it's sadder, somehow. Ronan always had Gansey to lean on. What does Kavinsky have? A couple of dreams and bad memories? ]
I'll drive you home. Come on, you can stand long enough to get into the car, can't you?