xistentia | 2 truths and a lie; daemon: moonshined (cw-word)

k.
i'm a shadowhunter. i'm pretty sure i can take care of myself.

( Anyway, she's outside his place. She doesn't bother knocking, he knows she's coming. She just makes sure to make enough noise that he knows she's there as she calls out. )

Besides, crucifixion is so two centuries ago. And I have a mom. You'd like her. ( She's like Clary, only more. She misses her every day. )

Hello Clary-bear, [says her drunk 'father.' he comes to the door, mostly by slamming into the door. luckily, it's a very sturdy door. in fact, the whole place looks nice— very modern, that nonetheless sits handsomely in the forest. considerably different from his weird, skinny brick apartment building with the cavalcade of boys in eudio. the windows are huge.

and quite a lot of them have streaky handprints and graffitied scatology on them right now.]

Baby. [he reeks of alcohol, fumbling over to fling a skinny arm around her shoulders.] P.S. pretty sure brown Asians are still crucifying motherfuckers this day and age. Or the equivalent back in fucking Earth. It's some kind of copycat ritual, you know?

( It's not like she was unaware he'd been drinking, but she's still surprised by the state of him anyway. When he drapes an arm over her shoulders she wraps her own around his waist to steady him, expression careful. )

Are they?

( Usually, she'd fight people like him. But Clary's always been of the opinion that Kavinsky's vulgar mouth is a defense mechanism. She's not here to be pushed away by his thoughtlessness, so instead she kicks the door closed and starts trying to guide him somewhere he's less likely to fall down. )

Please tell me you have a couch.

Behold, a couch, [says kavinsky. who for once isn't lying about it. there is absolutely 100% a couch, leather, sumptuous in proportions, shiny and modern. comfortable to sit on. or to fall onto, which is what kavinsky does now, sloughing off clary's shoulder like so much animal carcass.]

Hey, sweetheart. Don't go for the guys with accents. [he punches a cushion, drags it over closer to himself. wedges it under his skinny shoulder, then sprawls his skinny legs out.] I know it's the shit you're gonna read about in Cosmo or whatever the Hell doubles for that shit in this fucked up dimension. Guarantee, your snatch is gonna itch for months.

Edited (subject header!) 2017-10-13 06:43 (UTC)

( Pulling a face, Clary crosses her arms over her chest to watch him carefully. )

I'm not much of a cosmo reader.

( She's also not much of a person that has sex, right now. Sighing, Clary lifts his legs up so she can sit on the couch beneath them, settling his long limbs back over her lap. He looks like a wreck, and not for the first time she wonders how a person can let themselves get into a place like this. Still, he's important to her, he's her friend, cruel and strange comments aside. )

He's not worth it, you know.

( Because, heartbreak. )

[kavinsky is always a wreck, but he looks more honest about it today. it used to be a good lie, hiding his rampaging bullshit under a blizzard of cocaine and a storm of savagery directed ever at others, but he actually wore that routine out pretty quick. nobody's fooled after the first time you kill yourself, not even-- yourself.] People say that, [he says.] But what the fuck does that mean?

[he doesn't sound angry at her. he's just staring blankly at the television, which has some more inanity on it.]

I already fucking paid. You get home and find out the thing you bought is reeking shit, but the scam artist got outta there an hour ago, man. There a refund for this? I don't think so. You know, I'm not too good at giving fucks about other people, but I hope this never happens to you.

( Pressing her shoulder against his, Clary lets out a sigh. She doesn't know exactly what Kavinsky is going through, but her own love life is endlessly complicated. She's aware of the heartache it can cause. )

I know what it's like to fall in love and have it ripped away from you, K. It hurts. It feels like someone's reached inside of you and twisted everything up. I get it, I do. I even know what it's like to be this angry about it.

( Softly. ) Some days I still wake up and all I can think about is how I wish there was something I could punch, so I wasn't the only one to feel this shitty. Some days it makes me so angry I can't think straight. So I'm not going to tell you not to grieve, because even if he is a dumb asshole, you're allowed to be sad. Just don't get lost, okay?

[there are like five, six points in that speech where kavinsky's lip starts to curl into a sneer, where his eyes start to move in the pits of his skull. where he's about to roll his eyes or laugh or push her, or defuse the subject with some bawdy humor, a backhanded insult that verges on cruel, like the earliest versions of him used to be. but then she keeps saying words, and

some of it is about her, but she doesn't make it about her. and some of it is about him, but it is neither pushing nor prying on his linkin park noise and chaos. he sets his jaw. his bottom lip doesn't wobble or anything so obvious, but it's a nearer thing than he'd like to say. maybe it's because she's a girl. he's always harder around boys, even the ones he was infatuated with— there was a competition right up until the moment one of them opened their legs, and even then. with her, the affectation of family and everything else. it sidesteps his male ego and gets him in the heart.

he opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking at nowhere in particular. looking at nothing. certainly not looking at her. and he always has something to say to everyone, but this time, he just tips over on the couch. sets his head on her lap.]

( She thinks he's going to push her away. Honestly, Clary would be surprised if he told her to leave before he got infected by all her gross softness and feeling ( albeit in decidedly crueler words. ) It's never really easy to know where the wrong step is with Kavinsky, and when he looks away she's sure she's hurtled straight past an invisible line. Surprise flickers across her face and fills her veins when instead he just curls up, his head in her lap. Stilling, she waits for a long moment like he's a wounded animal she doesn't want to startle.

And then her hand falls to the crown of his head to run through her hair. It reminds her of softer moments when she was younger. The nights she would fall asleep with Jocelyn plaiting her hair. Or Luke soothing her after a nightmare. It's instinct and affection and care in it's simplest of forms. It makes her throat ache, but she keeps running the fingers over his head, gaze on the flickering television. Clary doesn't speak. She doesn't think he needs her too. If all he needs is this then she can damn well provide it. )

[you know the funny thing about erogenous zones is they aren't just a genital contact sex-obsessed freudian romance center either. fact is, kavinsky likes getting petted on the head. but sometimes, it isn't that he Likes getting petted on the head. sometimes, he just likes it.

it's relaxing. it keeps his mind present. it brings him solace. and maybe it's not just the hair, the good dog action— maybe it's her, too. red-headed stepchild of his.

the reality is, he wishes he could leave a legacy like her in the great wide multiverse. it's nice to pretend for a little while, in front of tv, and surrounded by empty bottles of alcoholic drink, that the mark he'll leave behind will be less of heartbreak and fire, and more of humility, kindness, a silence that needs no breaking.]

2 truths and a lie; daemon: moonshined (cw-word)

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cw racism

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cw sexual vulgarity

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tw suicide

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she's so pure I almost started crying in the middle of my cafe!!

!!!!!!!!!!

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