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Entry tags:
02 🍆 SO PARDON ME WHILE I BURST INTO FLAMES
Characters: Joseph Kavinsky & CR
Summary: First, Kavinsky is hassling Loki Odinson into taking a care ride with him. Some time later, Kavinsky is running away from his problems and straight into a vampire-consuming ball of fire called the first light of dawn, when a handsome blue-skinned bandito appears out of nowhere (because he can teleport).
Date(s): One fine mORNING in late January 2018
Warnings/Notes: Burning, graphic description of pain; mentions of past drug use, etc.
closed to Loki;
Summary: First, Kavinsky is hassling Loki Odinson into taking a care ride with him. Some time later, Kavinsky is running away from his problems and straight into a vampire-consuming ball of fire called the first light of dawn, when a handsome blue-skinned bandito appears out of nowhere (because he can teleport).
Date(s): One fine mORNING in late January 2018
Warnings/Notes: Burning, graphic description of pain; mentions of past drug use, etc.
closed to Loki;
[it's not by prearrangement that the dream thief finds the god of mischief. mere coincidence with a dash of luck, and the fact that there's only so much to do in a population of a few thousand, especially when your magical biology programs you for a distinct inclination into staying up deep into the nights when other people are asleep. it's not like the place is big enough for timezones. there's a slight overlap between nocturnal creatures and people who, as a matter of course, happen to live on the edge. and who's edgier than loki odinson!closed to Kurt;
not that kavinsky thinks of it that way, of course. mostly, he's driving around in a fast car with his dog-shaped daemon scuffing around in the back seat, when his headlights flash over the demigod's tall, narrow frame. in a blink of an eye, or the twist of a steering wheel, the dream thief is pulling over to the slick stretch of sidewalk that loki is measuring out with his stride. buzzing the window down as he decelerates.]
Hey, sweetheart, [he calls out, grinning, the shit-eating kind, but all white fangs and gaunt cheeks. he peers out at loki, his heavy eyelids half-mast. he looks like some turd lord frat boy with an excess of designer tattoos-- fire bird blossoming on the side of his neck, skulls peeking out of his arm, under the short sleeves. vampires don't worry about winter weather.] You wanna come for that ride?
[it starts with kavinsky running. he isn't running to any particular place— there's sixty miles of woods out here, and all of it seems repetitive. it wouldn't take long to run in a straight line, but you know woods. trees. trolls. now and then, he's also running from things like that— monsters, creatures of the wood.
at some point, he also runs from his daemon. she's annoying as fuck— warning him two hours before sunrise, then an hour. then forty minutes. she won't shut up, so he leaves her, earphones in, secondary media device blaring what passes for rap in xistentia into his skull. he can get home in ten minutes. he knows. he's done it before, hopping mossy trunks and cutting through rows of corn fields. once he hits the outer roads, he knows the way. it's easy. he doesn't need the fucking dog; she always catches up to him at home.
but there's something about shame and longing and grief and loneliness, which are also things that he is running from, invisible but powerful nonetheless, that have a way of dilating time, more than any drug that he used to take to medicate away those feelings. and he doesn't know, he doesn't notice, until the heat starts to seep through the blue air of pre-dawn, like summer warmth, except pain flares in his next step and
then
he's swearing, bolting, slamming up against a tree, fleeing into the tall shadow of the next one, his eyes roving the woods in a panic, disoriented by his own terror. pain starts at the edge of his shoulder. and like a child, he begins brokenly to cry.]
superhero pose YOUR SAVIOR IS HERE
little does he know that the dream boy's suffering from much more than physical pain, at the moment.
it's the only thing he can focus on, though, when he's watching someone's skin melt off beneath the drape of his coat, falling in pieces across his bedspread. the smell is still burning his throat, but there's little he can do about that. he does not have enough anxiety to spread between sizzling vampire flesh and making sure kavinsky doesn't die in his bedroom, so he focuses on the latter, squeezing his eyes shut when tears spring forth.
there has never been a time where kurt's felt helpless in any situation, yet sitting here, holding kavinsky-- someone he thought to be one of the strongest people he knows, he is at a complete loss.
but, through the muddled state he's allowed himself to succumb to, he steels what bit of courage he has left and forces past a quivering breath.] You're welcome. Look, I know it's hard to speak right now, but please— [there is no 'on the verge of' in this moment. he's begging,] tell me what I can do to help you.
no subject
but he understands. he can hear what kurt is saying-- sort of. mostly. he understands that kurt means to help him. he's better at grasping that concept these days. two years in eudio and a long few months in xistentia, that sum experience has opened his heart and his mind a little. life is more than what other people dream to you, and people are more than predator and prey. sometimes nightmares even end. it's part of growing the fuck up, that he knows that now.]
B--blood.
[it's a parched and broken whisper. kavinsky's tattooed fingers twitch, but do not quite crawl against the surface of the covers-- perhaps an abortive attempt to reach for the mutant. but he can't take what wouldn't be fully given. and maybe, he wouldn't have either.]
no subject
kurt's immediate reaction is to stiffen, brief flashes of the last vampire bite flickering across his thoughts. his brow furrows, eyes darting between himself and kavinsky before firmly settling where his hands are gripping his shoulders. it's not just some random encounter with a vampire; many people know and care about the dream thief, some he's familar with and some he isn't, but most of all-- he is one of those people who concerns himself with joseph's well-being.] Okay, [he decides, gently adjusting his arms so they're secured around the shorter male.
moving him isn't something the teleporter's happy about, but he can think of no easier way to shift them besides lifting and situating him in a position where kavinsky can reach the blue of his neck. perhaps, when his mind is less disoriented, the fact he could have raised an arm instead would click. the words leave him before he can second-guess himself,] Take whatever you need, Kavinsky.
no subject
most of the men that kavinsky has ever loved were taller than him, and had dark hair, and kinder spirits than his. he's too blinded right now by fire and pain to register the dreadful likeness between kurt and the specter of his stupid passions past. but he'll remember later, maybe. after.
after his fangs emerge from his burnt and peeling mouth, after his lips scrape brittle and blackened on the smooth blue of kurt's neck. after the points of enamel pierce into kurt's artery, finding them with little trouble despite everything, and the velvet curl of his tongue finds slick purchase against him. there's a tiny flinch of pain first, but kavinsky remembers in a split-second, fumbly but sure, to shift his jaws and press the sweet surge of easy pleasure into kurt's nerves instead.
he drinks.]
no subject
he braces for pain because that's an obvious feeling; no matter the shape of the teeth, being bit isn't going to be entirely pleasant. kurt cringes at the sting, careful to keep the muscles beneath kavinsky's mouth from tensing and rejecting the fangs. his frame shudders at the slick of a tongue, the sensation foreign against his skin, then there's the slightest pressure, some simple movement of those teeth and the warmth seeps in.
lowering one hand from the other boy's waist, he splays it flat across the blankets beneath them, the lingering arm gingerly squeezing, silent encouragement. his head relaxes back and kurt lets his eyes slip shut, relinquishing himself to hedonism for however long the vampire must drink.
there's. something different about this bite, and it's not that kavinsky is half-burnt, desperately feeding because he needs it. (well, it's partially that, but--) he can't explain it right now. so, he lies perfectly still, focuses on settling his breath while kneading over his fellow brunet's hip.]
no subject
to be honest, he probably drinks too much. enough that kurt feels, dimly, that the room is drifting further away, that sounds start to hit a thick cloud of half-deaf nothing before it connects with kurt's fingers. a dim impression of cold. but the pleasure's there to roll all of these strange and discomfitting sensations underneath, a wave of velvet, a chocolate sea, a quagmire of rose petals. a seductive approximation of death tricking the endings of kurt's nerves with a tingling rush.
and for kavinsky, it's good. the rush of blood, its taste and heat. the primal connection between blood and vampire is so powerful that it drives away the too-acute reality of pain. builds a wall between him and it, through which he can still hear the terrible noise of his own suffering, but it no longer seems quite so near.
and after awhile-- after not too long, he wills himself to stop. the fangs part from kurt. a prick of his own blood, a laving of his tongue, and the wounds close.
and then the face that kavinsky hides in the mutant's neck after is not quite so horribly burned and maimed as it had been before.]
no subject
he lets himself float, sinking into the dark depths beneath the lull of kavinsky's mouth. at first, kurt doesn't realize that he could literally be drank to death, but any sudden thought of that is eased, his senses alleviated by the rush that follows the slight prickling. his fingers curl up around the bed-sheets, trembling somewhat with the effort it takes in his relaxed state. god, he has the possibility of dying right here and couldn't care less.
except, kavinsky stops, releases his teeth and licks over the bite marks-- another motion that makes him shiver, though he loosens right away knowing he's finished. there's no trickle of blood, meaning either the wounds have shut or vampire saliva has the ability to clot blood.
feeling begins bleeding back into his fingertips, albeit slowly, and once he can move them, he clenches the young vampire's side, releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. iridescent eyes flutter back open, blinking then averting to the male he's holding with as much promptness his addled body can manage.]
Are— are you okay? [kurt asks with urgency. he isn't sure how long he'll be conscious after this, noting the wooziness he's currently suffering, so he must know now while comprehension is still a thing.]
tw past suicide attempt
he blinks. at first, he thinks he's imagining it, but after a moment, he realizes that it's true. he can see kurt. at least, the shadow of kurt, dim against the bed; the curve of his neck, the swoop of his shoulder. he realizes they're prone now, kurt having sloughed bonelessly down onto the bed like a melting ice cream cake and taken kavinsky with him. the bed is dense and firm beneath his head and his shoulder. the room feels very quiet.
his vampire senses aren't what they were still, but he can start to pick things out past the dull throb of healing. he can feel the distant vibration of kurt's slow breathing, his voice dissolving syllables in concentric circles in the air, which kavinsky feels break against him like ripples against the bank of a river.
he can feel the shape of kurt's hands through the fabric of his shirt, the weight of his wrist.]
'M gonna be, [he answers. his voice is slow, almost sleepy. then he moves his hand when he realizes it doesn't hurt anymore, the skin of his fingers lined and strange to look at, but not gorey. he settles his hand on kurt's chest, searching out his heartbeat.] 'Cause of you. Are you okay?
[he'll start to worry in a minute. he'll think of something to do about it in five.]
no subject
he finds it harder than he'd like, blinking through the haze on his brain, an attempt at focusing on the fact kavinsky's talking to him now.] Mmn, [is all he manages for the moment. then, the pressure of a hand that's not his own comes down on his sternum and he stares through the daze, noting the new pink skin it's begun growing back.
yes, good. excellent to see after what he'd witnessed only a few minutes ago. another wonderful thing is joseph's voice, the way it sounds laden with sleep, like the two of them have just woken from an unexpected nap rather than him fighting for his life. beneath the other boy's palm, kurt's heart thrums, slow and steady as he recovers.
and finally, he recalls being asked if he's all right.] Couldn't let you melt away, [teases the mutant, good-naturedly, despite his croaking voice.] Yes, just— somewhat tired, a little lightheaded? If I lie here ...
[maybe he'll be okay? maybe.]
no subject
at five, he's nudging the other boy, a gentle tug on his shirt, fingers under his chin. by now, kurt's face has not only an outline and formless color, but also he has a nose and eyes that seem to flutter, blue cheeks that seem dulled by more than the simple shadows contained inside the windowless bedroom. his vision's coming back. he's healing. and it's only a brief deductive leap for him to remember that the expense of that healing is--]
Hey, sweetheart.
[a weak tug on kurt's shirt, a fumbling touch to his chin. gently niggling and worrying him til he has the mutant's attention. clumsily, kavinsky drags his head closer. incidentally, it leaves a slug trail of burnt vampire patina on the flat sheet, but that's something kurt will probably want to wait to worry about til later.] Hey, hey, [his voice is quieter, gentler than it ever is in real life, even as he digs a fang into his own mouth.] You've lost a lot of blood. My blood can heal you. Kurt--
no subject
he's faintly aware by the time kavinsky's fingers brush his chin, expression apologetic as he meets the face that's now opposite his own. well, he hadn't been expecting to get this close again, but there's blatant concern in the tone of that voice and-- oh, had he really been that badly drained? no wonder something had felt off when the vampire skin didn't feel chilled.
free hand reaching, nightcrawler thumbs across a newly formed cheek, gliding down from there so he can tap the corner of kavinsky's mouth and — for a moment — he's blissfully happy. then, reality snaps back like a rubberband. "you've lost a lot of blood," he says. and perhaps, it's just that; the bloodloss.
or it could be the prompt shift of panic to some form of contentment. either way, he leans, pressing their foreheads together, some small unspoken thing between only them before his chin tips, allowing him to kiss the dream thief's bottom lip.] Kavinsky—
no subject
kind of likes kurt. and you know. maybe he's also a little grateful that the mutant boy saved him. he feels safe now, in the quiet wake of terror.] I'm here, sweetheart. [it's a mumble, one part boyish, two parts drunk from relief.
he kisses kurt back.
his lips are slippery over the mutant boy's mouth, wet, smearing a moment, before he remembers— that kurt needs blood, too. he shifts his jaw, stealing just a brief suckle off kurt's lips, before tucking his own bottom one into kurt's so he can take the blood. it tastes ordinary, but that only lasts for the first split-second before the extraordinary properties of it emerge like a spotlight cutting through fog. rejuvenation singing through kurt's veins, kicking his heart up three beats, quickening heat in his clawed fingers and behind his eyes.]
no subject
he murmurs an answer, something unintelligible-- not that it matters when he's being kissed back.
the peculiar tang of blood makes the teleporter's features wrinkle; he never imagined that he might be one to drink blood. always a first for everything, though, and there's no going back now with kavinsky's lower lip in his mouth. kurt applies ample pressure around the skin and licks the blood away, almost feverishly.
all of a sudden, he breaks through the haze, warmth rushing back through his limbs, heart revved and pumping.] Kavinsky, [he repeats, tone crystal clear now through their lip-lock. reluctantly, nightcrawler breaks away, both hands cupping the fledgling's face so he can examine him.] You ... you're okay.
[and this time, when he leans to meet kavinsky's mouth, he doesn't think twice about the fact they're sharing blood.]
no subject
funnily accurate, gender stuff aside. kavinsky had had a good run of the orgy the other month— in general, getting laid isn't exactly kavinsky's problem. but there's sex, and then there's sex with feelings, and then there's sex with feelings that he lets himself actually observe and feel to the truer depth of their intensity, and that is rare and far in between. it's easy for him to get naked with people as far as stripping off his jeans and underwear and shirt— nakedness in the other sense, well.
that turns in a whole other universe. and kurt is standing there in the threshold, holding the keys. holding out the keys to him. it's terrifying, but kavinsky is too fresh out of one kind of pain to remember his usual fear of the others. all he can think to do is say,] I am, [in a silly, boyish, incoherent mumble against kurt's bloody blue mouth,] 'lso there's some-- [kiss. kiss, kiss,] —fine print on, [kiss,] my blood, but [kiss.
kiss. but. but he'll finish that sentence in a moment, maybe, when they're done panting burnt vampire fumes into each others' mouths and have come back to rest, forehead against forehead, in the quiet sanctity of kurt's bedroom.]
no subject
each peck is returned with eagerness, followed by a few brief pauses that way he can lap at the blood between them. he's still unsure as to why, but there's something sweet and almost addicting about vampire ichor. so much so, if kavinsky hadn't of said anything between all this smooching, he might have whimpered, pleaded to some extent for more, until he could no longer contain himself.
but he hears the mention of 'fine print' on this little exchange and some firm self-control takes hold. kurt meets the final kiss, holds it long as he can manage then breathes a sigh once their heads are resting together. this is a good break; a moment for him to gather his thoughts, reach for his chin and lick over his lips — really taste the crimson ringing his mouth and —
let the silence sink in.
then, the blue mutant can't resist, curiosity getting the best of him as always. he moves the hand on his face, extends the limb to cup joseph's neck, thumb idly stroking over a pale cheek.] What do you mean by 'fine print?'
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part of him doesn't want to talk about this. part of him wants to go back to blood and sucking face. but he remembers rafa holding him in a cornfield, when he wanted to be held but hadn't yet known it.]
Addiction, [he says.] You can play around with it a little, and I sure as shit did back in Eudio. Clear up your colds, put the blood back in your tight little blue body. [his hollow eyes crinkle slightly, amused.] But it'll take you over if you do too much. Every night or whatever. Your usual-- [he clears his throat a little, but his voice comes back husky and thick with some combination of lust and the usual madness that runs kavinsky.] You'll be a'ight today.
[maybe kurt's going to be mad. meaner people have been madder than him before, though. he looks at the other boy expectantly.]
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he ponders the idea, wonders what it'd be like to need the fledgling's vitae like one might require sleep or food and drink. would he be okay with that? yes and no, taking his uncanny attraction into account. kurt has to admit, he would enjoy the intimacy of such a thing, although needing blood seems too bizarre, even for him.
surprisingly, when he speaks, his voice is calm and collected, blue knuckles dusting across kavinsky's jaw.] Convenient, [he expresses, accentuated by another brush of lips across the other boy's, a slight purr thrumming in his chest.] Thank you for telling me. [considering kavinsky could have been a total asshole and kept right on letting this bloodplay happen until kurt was addicted and dependent on him.]
I'm not sure how I'd feel about that, but. [he meets the older boy's dark eyes, the edges of his lips hinting at mirth.] At the moment, it's all right. I have a feeling my body would thank you for it.
maybe get rafa on your next tag.timeskippy?
—not that kavinsky would have cared, of course. if kurt was pissed, that would be his own fault. kavinsky's ludicrous ego would make it so, recoiling in on itself like a hermit crab prodded by an unwanted stick. he makes a half-hearted grimace when kurt touches his chin, pretending not to like it. but then the skin of his face hurts, so he lets his face smooth over.]
Yeah, [he agrees.] It fixes you up.
[on impulse, he kisses the boy again. ducks forward, quick as a bird hopping between feeders to steal something sweet— and sweet it is, just a quick peck brushed off the blood-flavored blue of kurt's mouth. the next moment, of course, kavinsky regrets it. being stationary for a moment had lulled his skin into forgetting the agony of new growth and burnt abrasion-- the scrape of his cheek on pillow, shoulder across blankets, that jolts through him. it's not at all as bad as it was, but he's tender.]
Fuckin'-- ow. Ow, bitch cunt son of a horse's-- twat— [he rolls away slowly, gingerly, settles onto his back, groaning, laying there like the carcass of a beached whale on kurt's newly stained bedsheets. nor are they stained the fun away, tragically.] Goddamn. Remind me not to--
[you know. all that, again.]
that sounds perf to me!!
Thank you, [comes the breathy reply.
then, kavinsky's lips meet his own again and kurt sinks into the embrace, lazily draping an arm around the shorter boy's shoulders as he reciprocates, full-lipped kisses on his mouth, near the corner and across his jaw after kavinsky leans away-- a motion that warrants bewilderment on the mutant's behalf. although, that string of curses, followed by "remind me not to—" is hard to resist laughing at.
and it's probably inappropriate, but he does it anyway, withdrawing so he can clap the hand around his face in a pathetic attempt to smother his snort. kurt slumps back against the pillows, examining how joseph's stretched across the (in a not fun way) messed up sheets, still snickering despite himself.]
To stay out too late? Or early. [he shrugs, fangs gleaming with utter contentment once he lowers his arm.] Whatever works in this case.
no subject
Sure, [he says.] That works.
[and then
it's a few hours later before kurt has gone and gotten him. daemon communiques first, then the mutant had gone outside to see him. kavinsky had fallen into what seemed like a light doze— which isn't possible, because he's a vampire, but maybe it's because he's also half-dreamer. mostly, it's because the pain didn't all go away. some things take time. and other things take
an angry mother. which is who darkens the step of kurt's bedroom doorway in a moment, beside the young mutant himself. by now, the scent of burnt vampire flesh has settled into the still air, pungent. he's still settled down on top of the blankets, his cheek nested in the pillow, the vague feel of foreign scars still playing under his tattooed fingers when he moves them.
he doesn't know that in three, two, one—]