emptynesters | 50 years later meme

[Options are 5 years (when Kavinsky is 22-23, or 10 years, when he is 27-28). After being in the Hive that long, Kavinsky has learned to chill out to many necessary degrees, but not nearly as much as one would like. (The Joker is still a mess and what is he, like, forty?) He's come to terms with certain issues, such as his sexuality (gay gay gay but Hive can make him open up to Certain Ladies) and not needing to be high all the time. His dreaming abilities have become more refined and focused, thus even more dangerous. He's learned to draw from other Hivemates for those dreams as well, which means they're able to directly contribute to what he crafts as long as they're willing to intertwine that closely with the K man.

The sinister aura remains, as does the inability to not yandere or stand in someone's personal space. Those who have bled into him for all this time, particularly those from Mia brood, will have a much better idea of who he is and where he comes from. They'll know all about his on and off again semi-suicidal tendencies and his background re: abuse (dad tried to kill him, mom was prone to breaking things and doing an awful lot of screaming when K didn't drug her to complacency). They'll also know that Kavinsky has definitely killed before and is able to make dream people to take the places of originals. Let's assume he hasn't needed to do this outside of missions.

Overall, if he was attached before, he's even more attached now. A constant brightly lit fixture that stalks the people he cares about and digs in with his claws.

Open to pretty much anything, including assumed relationships of all varieties.]

Edited 2017-04-27 04:00 (UTC)

[ He has an irritating way of finding her when she is least desirous for him. That is his way, and she knows the low murmur of her displeasure is little more than an invitation. There has never been a single moment when their thoughts have combined harmoniously, it has always been a ferocious, strident relationship. Somewhere in the distance of her thoughts, she remembers the back of his hand across her cheek. She turns her gaze towards him, contemplative and heavy-lidded, idle contemplation of stuffing his own fears down his throat. The anxiety stirs in the room, like a breeze lifting. A cat's tail flicking. ]

Joseph.

Honey.

[Their relationship has progressed in a lateral fashion, as tense and ruthless as the day it all began. Kavinsky's changed in the subtlest of ways, more comfortable with himself but no more comfortable for others. And Ilde--from ice princess to ice queen. Her position in the hierarchy has never been more secure, and so Kavinsky hovers near to hear like any thief that wants to dip his dirty fingers into the royal coffers. They're a set of magnets, either stuck close together and squabbling until they find sweet escape, or happily repelled for long lengths of time when their poles don't align.

He is the magpie and her the shiny object, but he's never been more aware that his talons could end up burned.

His voice is a purr. He stays out of kicking range.]

Edited 2017-04-27 04:24 (UTC)

[ She doesn't assume he wants anything more than to be where she doesn't want him. She understands that about him, and so she has learned to accept this game. Play acting upon a hate that may not even quite be theirs any longer, diffused out into the many facets they have acquired, each subtly irritated, none truly perturbed. She contemplates him for a moment before returning to her task, contemplating over a detailed city map, making plans for their next intervention into the lives of the unsuspecting denizens of the universe.

Even as she does, she finds herself pushing back at his presence. His attention on her is insufferable, as it always is. He will play at her borders, slinking closer and closer as she eyes his trespasses with a mounting disdain that he only finds desirable. ]

( You are scum. )

[ Almost affectionate in its familiarity. ]

( And you're soaking for it. )

[Such a response would be sordid enough without the added bonus of their link sending over every connotation. Images of her fair skin against his, only a handful of shades darker. His hands slipping over her hips and ticking at the bottom of her ribcage. The attraction wasn't always so severe, but Ilde is an easy woman to desire, and the Hive has a strong foothold in Kavinsky's soul. Years ago, he began to see what others saw, and it mutated his contempt for Ilde into a worse beast. Lecherous. Troubling.

He doesn't care about the city map outside of how much she cares and how their connection cannot be forgotten within the slurry of the Station.]

( I can go. )

[He says it so she'll tell him he ought to as he sets his ass on a table laden with charts and diagrams Ilde will need access to if she wants to continue her plots.]

[ Once upon a time he would have been executed for speaking to her that way, it is a pleasure to her, to remind him of that. To conjure up the tortures he would receive, if only she acted upon her bent for cruelty a bit more. There is an inherent cruelty to the Nest, just as there is an inherent love and it troubles her not at all to reconcile them. It never has, and while he imagines the softness and heat of her body, she imagines the inner wet of him, eviscerated. This is the heart of them. Dreamers. One fantasy and one nightmare, and they delight each other in repulsion. Every time.

She sets her hands on the table, eyeing where he now physically impedes her work. She does not try to remove him. She won't stoop so low as the touch him at all, it's what he wants. ]

( You can go. )

[ Frigid in her dismissal, though she hardly expects it to move him. ]

[Her disapproval should be bottled for continual consumption throughout the day; it's a pity times five that he can't constantly bask in the fuck you vibes streaming off the lady. Ilde has such a way about her. She has never joined him in the dream-crafting for good reason: they don't need that monstrosity gobbling up the Nest and leaving behind sparking wires. Tempting, though, sometimes. When Kavinsky knows he's losing himself bit by bit. A purge would save what's left of his soul that's all his.

That might be it. He feels uniquely himself around Ilde. She refuses to accept him. She won't even be congenial.

Kavinsky would thank her, but that would sour the mood.

He leans back on his hands, spreads his legs obscenely wide.]

( Closer. )

[Less and less a suggestion.]

Edited 2017-04-27 04:48 (UTC)

[ She doesn't move. He's using her, even now, to satisfy himself. Such a wretched, impudent bug of a man. That too exists in the Nest. Lust, need, loss. Tangled together the way all things become tangled together as the threads intertwine, twisting, braiding to make something entirely new, unbreakable, disguising what once was. ]

( You only come to us when you are feeling sorry for yourself. )

[ He is a destructive self-loathing creature, a manipulative daydreamer, a charlatan and liar. She feels all of this for him with an utter certainty. ]

( What has upset you. )

[ She might take pity on him, if he told her. ]

[Wretched bitch; she sees right through him as if he was sculpted from solid glass.

He's grown to adore the Nest in many ways. Communication is a breeze, words can be abandoned in liew of sensation. His Brook is a pack formed from a collection of alphas. They're stronger together. There can be no tighter us. But he hasn't lost the niggling dust mote problem of the void in his chest. He's given more than enough and still he hungers.]
( Always got to make things heavy. What if I wanted to help? )

[Her approximations of him always forget the most important title.

Thief.]

Edited 2017-04-28 02:22 (UTC)

[ A sensation like a hand on his cheek, although her hands have not moved from where she planted them on the surface of the desk. She is an expressive psychic being, it's not really something she can resist. Her total condescending tone towards him, however, is not hidden. Nor the threat. What if she cracked him open and took it from him, what troubles him. Bubbled it to the surface with searching fingertips, pressing in to wounds that never heal. Like an increasing pressure on the seams of his skull.

She's at least looking at him, cold and sharp. ]

( I don't need you. )

[ Not the way that he needs her. ]

( Aww. Want me to cry about it? )

[Kavinsky beckons her near, yet watches her move keenly, like a cat judging the range of a child that's pulled his tail before. He gambles with himself, egging her on when she could reach inside his chest and pull out something worse than the heart he was born without. His nostrils flare with heavy breaths--in and out.

He's had hooded bedroom eyes since he was fourteen. Showing concern, sincerely or in jest, isn't his strong suit.]

[ It would amuse her, to see him cry. Perhaps amuse is not the right word, it would not be so much a pleasure as a monument. A moment in time when he was forced to emote beyond his flippant veil. So carefully cultivated to express his wildness. She can tame that wildness. He was just one monster among many, so despicable in his habits but pliable to their manipulation. There is a give and take, to these things. She smiles drowsily at him, plucking at ethereal threads of their many minds, summoning up all the memories of weeping and sorrow that she can lure to them in this moment.

A reminder. A push. He cannot hide from her, from them, from us. ]

[The sorrow wraps around him like a midsummer heat. Every time one of their teammates has broken down and Kavinsky had no choice but to feel his own heart squeezed. He spent so much of his life refraining from empathy. He clutched at those that reminded him of himself, the lonely and the marvelous. But here, it doesn't matter if they share anything in common but the Nest. Their pain becomes his pain. Their tears wet his eyes. He blinks a few times, warding the misery off with a firm contempt.

They're both weaving rapidly--her, the sadness, him, everyone's resolve joined to his own.

He flings himself down onto his feet, closes the gap, grabs for her face. If she doesn't strike him, in one way or another, he will kiss her.]

[ Sam is willing. He lets Kavinsky draw from him for his dreaming as he pleases, occasionally sends him exasperation if he does it too much - protects him when they're on missions, heals him when he veers too far into self destruction.

There are times when he doesn't, times when he lets Kavinsky feel the pain to remind him that nothing is without consequence, but he suspects it isn't exactly a punishment. And there are times when he's aware that somewhere down the line he will have to do more to keep his nestmate alive, times when he slowly becomes more aware that he will do it it, when the time comes.

But it hasn't, and if Sam has helped to chill Kavinsky out a little bit, then Kavinsky has also helped to ramp Sam up a little.

There'd been a battle, this latest mission, but it's dying. They've won, and there's only those who are the most determined - or who love the destruction - that are still going.

Sam's wings tuck in behind him as he lands a few feet away Kavinsky, pausing a moment to watch the way the fire from the explosions lights him up in silhouette. It paints a very pretty picture - but then, Kavinsky usually does. ]

( Gonna burn yourself up. )

[Half a decade ago, Kavinsky snorted coke off a balcony railing not unlike the one he's leaning over right now. He has a grenade in his hand, the pin between his teeth as he waits for the ideal moment to do his part in aggravating the chaos down below.

Sam's presence acts as a cue. He lobs the grenade boldly into the fray. The pin dangles between his lips.

His hands clap over his ears a split second before the explosion rocks the building down to its foundations. His eyes are so bright they could be powered by LEDs, electric reflections of carnage transposed over pupil and sclera (the former has swallowed up his iris). Kavinsky is alive and ravenous.

He turns to Sam and the hunger eclipses everything else. Kavinsky arches back over the railing--contorting himself into an exaggerated C--and spits out the grenade pin. It sails down into the turmoil and police sirens. Before he can lose his balance and join it, he rights himself so that only his head is tipped.

It's all so fucking glorious and he has at least three dozen other people inside his skin, many of them appreciating a job well done.

He's also snorted coke off this railing, but he really didn't need to. For a while now, he hasn't needed to.

Feels good, though.

K opens his mouth to the sky, breath surging out of him in ecstatic puffs. He would eat the stars and torch the planet's triplet moons if he could reach them.]

( Time to evac already? )

[The younger man's thrall will prove infectious if Sam isn't cautious.]

[ Sam watches him, lit up from the inside out, a force of destruction and hunger, and amends his previous statement.

Kavinsky is already burning himself up.

Sam's always cautious when it comes to Kavinsky - and yet, he isn't. Five years ago he picked Kavinsky up and wouldn't let him down, tried to push him on a path with a better ending than the one he was on now, and he hasn't really put him down since. Kavinsky might snarl and hiss and tell him to go fuck himself sometimes - might make a move on him at others - but he's pretty sure that it's half for show now.

It's been a few years since Kavinsky seriously attempted to flirt with him. Which is a pity, because it's been a year or two since Sam started watching for it, ready to add an edge to the way he flirted back.

There's wind humming in his veins, roaring in his ears, and his body is still buzzing with adrenaline from the flight. It flows between them as Sam steps closer, as free with his physical affection as ever as he covers Kavinsky's hands where they're holding onto the railing. His ability activates automatically, scanning Kavinsky for any injury. ]

( Nah, we got a little while yet. Some of us wanna make sure no one's gonna be left to come after us. )

[They share the same Nest, the same found and smashed together "family." Kavinsky knows the birdsong of Sam's attraction. He's taken a shower miles away and came into his hands, distinctly aware Sam was with another member of their clan at that very moment. He's even grasped that the older man's pull toward him has transformed over time. But Kavinsky has an idea of pride; hardly his cardinal sin, but there all the same. Sam said no, thought no, a broken record on repeat. And while no has not always been an easy concept for K to grasp, it was an easy directive to follow coming from a much stronger military man.

So he gave up. Sam's pings of occasional desire became the same as idle flattery. Nice shirt. Nice ass.

Kavinsky has a torn ligament in his left leg and shrapnel lodged in the meat of his thigh on the same side. He favored the right all the way up to the balcony. Seven flights of wondrous agony.

Sam's hands are warm. Kavinsky's circulation is less than phenomenal, leaving him with icy fingers and a cold tip to his nose. He wants to curl up on Sam like a kitten, but they really aren't in the space or position for it. He turns his hands upside-down beneath Sam's, kissing cold palms to heated.

People are screaming. Cheering.]

( Wanna be my getaway jet? )

[ Some part of Sam knows what Kavinsky does, some times, when he's with another member of his brood. They're all so close, bound by more than brood bonds, and somehow Sam's found his place among them. He knows what they all share, can feel the echo of it in his own mind. Sam told Kavinsky no so many times - and eventually Kavinsky listened. Maybe that's what triggered the start of the change in the way Sam regarded him, proof that Kavinsky could follow orders.

These days there's other directives that Sam would be more than happy to get Kavinsky to follow.

His left hand lets go of Kavinsky's to rest on his hip, just for a moment, hitching up his shirt just enough that his thumb can stroke over bare skin. ]

( Yeah, I'll take you flying. )

[ He's in no hurry, though. Now he lets his fingers dip below Kavinsky's waistband, slides his hand around so he can thumb at the button on his pants. ]

( You wearing underwear? Gonna have to get your pants off to take that shrapnel out either way, but figured I should know what I'm in for. )

[Kavinsky laughs, tight and tense in the back of his throat. Sam's hands take liberties, resting on his hip before slipping their fingertips beneath the beltline of his jeans. Nearly any other man, and Kavinsky would take the hint--run all the way to the bank with it, if they were his type. But the line in the sand that Sam drew has withstood the flow and ebb of time. There are long hours K forgets who he is and borrows Sam's memories, yet he can't trust he's reading him right now.]

( You know I can't get in the guerrilla warfare mood if I'm not going commando. )

[Not the truth in the strictest sense; things started off hectic that morning and Kavinsky also neglected to put on socks.]

( You're not going to let it wait, are you?)

[He loses the uncertainty quickly; it never fits him well. Sam's in the way, but Kavinsky wriggles his fingers between the older man's and his fly. He'd rather be the one to take any chances with the zipper opening against his bare flesh.]

[ Sam should have figured that out months ago, honestly. That if anyone was going to be the one to step over that line - to erase it completely - it was going to have to be him. But it isn't until now that it really hits him, and it makes him smile with slow, pleased affection.

Tonight's as good a time as any. ]

( You know me better than that. )

[ Of course Sam isn't going to let it wait. He hooks his thumbs back under the waistband of Kavinsky's jeans as he waits for him to unzip them, and then tugs them down, careful over his injury. He leaves them just above Kavinsky's knees, running his hands back up Kavinsky's thighs.

The calluses on his hands from dozens of different kinds of guns are rough, he knows, but his palms are warm and his touch is gentle. He brackets Kavinsky's body from the cold wind on the balcony, until there's barely a handful of inches between them, until he's close enough that he can press his lips to Kavinsky's temple. There's a brief pulse of warmth from his symbiote ability, soothing away some of the pain without quite healing yet. ]

( Relax. It's gonna hurt worse if you tense up, man, trust me. You know I'll take care of you. )

[ Sam doesn't need to see where the shrapnel in Kavinsky's thigh is - he can feel it. So he doesn't pull back as his fingers close around the metal, gently working it free. ]

( Sounds familiar. )

[Kavinsky opts not to elaborate, though he knows exactly where he's heard that before. Namely the first time he let loose and slept with another man. As early as the second, he scoffed at gentle words and made his less savory preferences clear. The sting of bitten nails and the blunt press of teeth did so much more for his arousal than condescending kindness. But Sam is fucking with him, not into; if he wants to pepper Kavinsky with sweet words, he's earned the right a long time ago.

No matter how conscious Sam is about easing down his pants, Kavinsky hisses as the material peels off of his skin. Blood had matter the denim down, fusing over time to the torn flesh. He grits his teeth and his lips pull back to show them. He grins through the pain.

As always, the hum of Sam's power is both welcome and not--soothing to a fault. Kavinsky relies on his ability to bear things. Comfort comes with a price.

He leans into the taller man, pressing his face into his shoulder. The shrapnel wriggles to the surface, then clinks against the balcony floor as K's body rejects it.]

( Prettiest fucking nurse I know, man. )

[ It's not that he doesn't know any other way - it's just that it's his favorite, murmuring kindnesses and appreciations and promises on what he's gonna do, mixed in with taking someone apart piece by piece. He wonders if Kavinsky will squirm when he holds him down and mouths affection across his skin, bets he'll look so damn gorgeous if he does.

Sam heals him just enough that they both have identical wounds on their thighs, as though the shrapnel had grazed them both instead of buried itself in Kavinsky's leg. He could heal it all, yeah, and part of him is tempted to - but he doesn't like pain the way Kavinsky does, and Sam'd rather not be in danger of ripping open a healing wound on his own leg with the kind of thing he's looking to get up to.

He also knows just how to mix the sting of teeth and the press of palms, rough and gentle, never enough of either one and too much of both. He thinks - he's pretty sure - it was something he knew before the Station, but he's only gotten better since.

So his fingers drag over the newly healing gash on Kavinsky's leg, feather light across the skin of his inner thigh, skipping up to push under his shirt, resting warm on his rib cage. ]

( Damn right. ) [ You like what you see?, he doesn't say, because he's known the answer to that for years, but it drifts through their bond anyway. He feels up Kavinsky's ribs, pressing in a little as if he's checking for the slide of bone against bone, making sure nothing's broken. ] ( That the only place you got hit? )

[Less selfish members of the Nest would refuse Sam's help, knowing the symbiote would wound Sam in turn. But Kavinsky has had his protests fall on deaf ears before. Besides, his chances of escaping the planet without an assist--especially while injured--are slim. Misato's pragmatism wraps around him like an old and tattered cloak; he doesn't say or think a word as Sam does his work.

Before he was chosen by the Hive, Kavinsky lived a life of distraction. Loneliness gift-wrapped in constant motion, a raging storm of a crowd, and all physical vices consumed at once. Elements of that old life remain, persistant as cockroaches. They scuttle about, fearing the days when someone like Sam steps in and treats K to something better.

They are connected.

Kavinsky sucks in a breath so fast his chest aches. It's count to his nature to continue leaning in and worrying his nose into Sam's shoulder. Soft, physical solace feels like a brother to weakness. This must be Sam's influence.

He shudders; the fingers climbing over his body eke out a chuckle. Was he always ticklish, or is that a broodmate ruining his reputation?

Another swift inhale, followed by what they both expected. He shoves back, setting his weight on the railing.]

Don't get me all excited.

[The distance of spoken language tastes unnatural travelling over his tongue. Thick and waxy. The cocaine isn't enough to calm his nerves when Sam has him half disrobed.

Beneath them, hundreds of feet below the balcony, other people know exactly what they want. Mostly, it's not to die.]

[ In this case, Sam's grateful for Kavinsky's sense of selfishness, for the echo of Misato's pragmatism. It makes it easier for him to just do his job, to take care of Kavinsky the way he wants to take care of him.

Well. One of the ways he wants to take care of him.

There are so many things that Sam wants to show him, that Sam's always wanted to show him. How many better distractions there were, how much less lonely he had to be. It's gotten easier, the closer they've all gotten to each other, the stronger their connections grow, but even now it's rare that Kavinsky lets himself have comfort like the way he leans in to Sam's shoulder. His eyes slide shut, just for that moment, and he presses a kiss to Kavinsky's temple.

He presses forward when Kavinsky shoves back, not chasing after him so much as moving with him, because yes, they both expected it. Sam's always been free with his physical affection, albeit never quite like this, but it's not the first time that Kavinsky has shoved back away from it.

It could be an accident that his uniform-clad leg settles between Kavinsky's - and honestly, it kind of is, though that doesn't mean Sam isn't going to take advantage of it, shifting his leg so the fabric catches over Kavinsky's bared cock. His hands splay across Kavinsky's chest, thumbing over a nipple before he lets the blunt edge of his thumbnail press against it. ]

Why not?

[It isn't a one-sided street. Despite being the king and judge of his own kingdom, Kavinsky has found himself wanting to do something for Sam. His affection comes in waves--this time a gift he made in his sleep, the next time invaded space and vicious compliments. Sam's status is continually checked during missions he helps supervise while Kavinsky waits for the outcome after placing his bombs. They don't normally end up together like this when Sam is prime offense and Kavinsky is dynamite--you know, literally--support.

But Kavinsky wants to see Sam flushed and breathing at the end of things.

He often forgets the boy he told it's "just us" in a dream in Virginia. He'll never forget each place Sam heals him. He becomes frustrated when his broodmates borrow the memories.]

Fucker--!

[Half-declaration, half-groan. Sam's thigh rubs at his dick and tells a story of power squats and ten mile runs. Kavinsky's grown, but he's his mother's son; slim and heavy-eyed. He can't be sure Sam will even feel it when instinct clamps his legs around the one making nice with his cock.]

I'm serious. Keep it up and I'm gonna...

[As far as threats go, it doesn't have much steam to it. K wraps his hands around Sam's wrists with all the force of a one-winged butterfly. This is a test he will inevitably fail.]

I'm high, man. I'm so high.

[He means that this isn't funny. He means Sam is going to make him hard.]

50 years later meme

Joseph Kavinsky // 5-10 YL

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

5 years

let's just put up warnings now--sex, drug use, K is a monster

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)