joseph kavinsky
fancast: ash stymest- He was unmistakable: the sort of raven boy who was clearly an import from elsewhere. Everything about his facial structure — the long nose; the hollowed-out, heavy-lidded eyes; the dark arch of his eyebrows — was completely unlike the valley faces she’d grown up with. Like many of the other raven boys, he sported massive sunglasses, spiked hair, a small earring, a chain around his neck, and a white tank top.
- He was always moving. There was something erratic and vulgar about the full line of his lips, like he’d swallow her if he got close enough.
- Kavinsky himself stood near it, bottle in hand, shirtless, the floodlights erasing the ribs from his concave torso. [...] Pressing one hand to his concave chest, he fetched his white sunglasses from his back pocket with the other. He put them on, hiding his eyes. The lenses mirrored the furnace around them.
series: maggie stiefvater's the raven cycle
shipping: - m/m preferred, but i wouldn't mind finding my kitty kowalski
- 15-25 yo preferred, character will be aged up to 18 for 18+ partners
- no non-con, we can talk about everything else
warnings: spoilers, language, violence, misogyny. per the canon, the character generally also carries warnings for substance abuse, child abuse, and a variety of felonious behaviors (including b&e, kidnapping, unsolicited groping, assault) but i will warn beforehand |
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sticks prompt here for that thing we talked about.
cw drug use/aphrodisiacs/etc.
except that kavinsky isn't a snake, he's merely new. and this isn't eden, this is a residential alcohol treatment facility where they've got narrow beds and narrower closets and a surprisingly generous number of windows, to pull sunshine in on their dreary lives.
kavinsky had shut the blinds first thing. slapped their other roommate ("todd") on the ass second. it wasn't til the seventh or eighth thing that the powder came out, and now "todd" is on the floor giggling woozily. in contrast, kavinsky's narrow face is deadpan. he watches lip exhale cigarette smoke through the gap between window shades.]
If you just take a little, you won't even see shit.
yells softly
Todd's harmless but boring. Lip had sized him up and dismissed him in all of a minute. But Kavinsky was something else entirely. When the power came out, Lip had migrated over to the window with his cigarette. He has a finger propped between the blinds and the window frame, allowing a slash of light to cut across his face. He doesn't look back to where Kavinsky is sitting, or where Todd's sprawled. ]
Pretty sure that's going to fuck with the steps.
[ It's not really a protest, just an observation. Todd doesn't seem particularly worried about the steps or anything else at this moment in time. Lip feels a curl of jealous hunger kindling to life in his chest. ]
What's the come down like?
[ Framing this as something Kavinsky needs to sell him on gives Lip a little breathing room. It's enough to allow him to pretend that he doesn't want in on what Kavinsky's offering. Escaping the wreck of his life was what kicked Lip's drinking into high gear in the first place. He's felt lousy since he arrived at the center as his hangover stretched into miserably manageable withdrawal. Kavinsky's offering him a break, and Lip's worried about it spinning him out later and he's worried about what it's going to cost him. He's a Gallagher. They all know to look for price tags, even before they catapult recklessly towards self-destruction. ]
=D
Everybody else takes a fucking nap. [kavinsky shrugs his shoulders and leans back against the bed's leg. his spine curls and his ass slides forward across the floor. very lazy. very relaxed! an enviable state of being, he thinks, for a teenager trapped in a fucking rehab facility. he doesn't mind encountering some challenges in life, but he prefers, for example, skeptical white boys to boredom.] No big deal.
Think of it as a sleep aid. Hey, Todd. You sleepy? [that, delivered to the guy prone beside him. kavinsky reaches over and slaps their third on the ass-- eliciting another burst of stupid boy chortles.]
no subject
Lip exhales a stream of smoke, momentarily fogging the window, before he shoots a glance over at Kavinsky and Todd. Kavinsky's instincts aren't wrong; Lip would take relaxation. Even the comedown doesn't sound all that unappealing. If he's asleep, it's less time considering what a mess he's made of his life. ]
At least someone in here's having a good time.
[ Which is the offer on the table, though Lip still can't pin down exactly what Kavinsky's getting out of it. He stubs out his cigarette on teh windowsill, relishing the smear of ash before he rounds the bed to dig his toes into Todd's ribs and nudge him out of the way. ]
You don't have to worry about my constitution, [ Lip dismisses, crumpling gracelessly down to the tile floor. ] Lay it out.
[ It's a bad decision. But Lip was due another. ]
no subject
rich kids. even has a grinder built for grinding, cylindrical and metal, some dubious powdery reside still clinging around inside. he drops in the capsule and goes to town, his sharp-knuckled hands expedient and practiced with the implement, something almost hypnotic about the repetitive sound. it'd fit right into one of those youtube videos hipsters make, that asmr shit, if you took out the illegal drug references.
todd rolls onto his side, giving them his back. and starts to unzip his pants, rather audibly.]
What're you in for, sweetheart?
[kavinsky smiles cheshire, and taps the powder out onto the ipad. he's using the rehab center's own business card to cut it up into lines, slouching down so low his spine folds up like a nightmare of scoliosis.] Mom on your case?
no subject
But he's got no mobility. He tucks his hands into his lap, inhales hard through his nose. Todd's making an attempt at privacy, but there's no real way to ignore what the sound of the zipper has given way to. Lip isn't phased. He's shared a room for most of his life. And the incidental query about his mother provokes a sharp, bitter flare of angry. Lip smiles crookedly. ]
Nah. I fucked up at school.
[ The word expulsion lurks, unspoken, in the back of Lip's throat. ]
I figured I needed to get a handle on some kind of moderation after my professor dragged me out of the drunk tank.
[ And this wasn't part of working the program, but Lip's decided to give himself a minor reprieve. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded, to watch Kavinsky work. ]
What about you? Your parents toss you in here?
you can/should ignore this and me the rest of your life [yeti]
tak tak tak. that's him tapping just a little bit more snowy powder residue down on the dark glass. it's only a second before the new addition is cut up into the existing lines too, as even as the knife of a butcher, scarcely a stray granule.]
What happen? You shoot up a school? [this is clearly the antisocial teenager concept of door-in-face technique. overshoot, risk offending, then cut it back to a safe medium. persuasion techniques out of many a managerial program textbook. kavinsky offers the other boy a slender red stirrer that he had summoned out of some hygienic place. up close, he smells like a nightmare of cigarettes and axe body spray.] Run over a kid in your car. [this is where they mock the squeamishness of the administration together.]
tw abuse and everything that comes with credence lbr
Usually, it's because of how fancy he dresses or his nice cars. Not fancy in a ball gown way, no, but sharp, not too loud while all the while screaming to the world that he's there and not moving. Credence is jealous of him, he thinks. The mysterious stranger that sometimes races by Chatnam and Rose street, near their little church. Jealousy, or envy, or maybe even both when he stays up at night despite the fresh marks on the palms of his hands from a minor infraction earlier. He wants to join them. Credence wants more than anything to have one night of freedom, to pretend he, too, can join the glamourous rap-rock menagerie gathering for the beginning of yet another race.
Do it, a small voice urges him, comforting like a warm blanket despite its' words. You're going to be punished anyway. Credence takes a deep breath, smooths down his hair, and gets dressed. He feels like his heart is going to explode, the nervousness of disobeying Ma--of potentially seeing him--nearly overwhelming. He tip-toes, only in his socks until he gets to the door itself, and when he opens it it's just enough to squeeze through so it doesn't creak and wake anyone up. Today he's going to do it. Today he's going to see a race--a real race--not just from his bedroom window. All he has to do is be back before 4 in the morning, and that's plenty easy. And maybe, just maybe, he can gather up enough courage to talk to the mysterious stranger he can't stop staring at.
Maybe.
He gets to the small crowd, the thick of things, and skirts on the outside because he knows he doesn't belong. If he keeps his body small and doesn't look anyone in the eye, he'll be fine, and he can enjoy and pretend just for a few hours that he's like one of them, too. But maybe he can get just a little closer? He hesitates, gaze fixed on the fancy cars, music from someone's stereo loud, and takes a few steps forward. A few more, and--
--And he winds up crashing into someone. ]
I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't mean to--
[ Credence makes the mistake of looking him in the eye, and words die in his throat. It's him. Him, him. ]
tw suicide, drugs
some things remain the same.
his arteries sing with cocaine, and the crowd sings for him. or at least-- well, you know. that's how it feels. in reality, probably more than half these people give zero fucks about him— he doesn't win every time. far from it. the other half is only here because they want pills. maybe there's a third phantom half because they want to fuck him, divided up between the rest. he doesn't mind, though. the lights, the savage energy seizing through the crowd, the possibility of death wrapped around a lamp post, music pulsing against his skin, his eardrums. he's happy.
and then he body checks himself against this weedy nerd lord. he half recognizes credence, if only because the ricebowl cut of his hair has warranted a cruel, off-handed joke once or twice before, at a distance, as he laid on a hood sprawled over a flunkie's lap or fed beers to one of the interchangeable girls who liked to buy his product at discount rates.
kavinsky's eyes instantly light up with laughter. but he doesn't reach for the low-hanging fruit. not immediately. his blood is hot, a different mood to the cold, serpentine strikes he favors in his downtime.] Hey sweetheart, [he says. his voice is half oil.] You looking for me?
no subject
But if he had a cup of water earlier, why is his throat suddenly so dry he can't speak? His tongue feels useless, and his ears are bright red because surely, surely he just heard the word 'sweetheart' in relation to himself from him him. The butt of the joke or not, his heart beats furiously in his chest, and he finally tears his gaze downwards, shaking his head so quickly and sharply it looks almost militaristic. ]
No, I... [ don't lie, his mind whispers, he'll know. ] I mean, yes.
[ Credence wonders if it's possible to get even smaller. He already feels like a mouse in the other's presence. ]
I like to watch. Your racing, it's amazing.
no subject
I like it when skinny queer boys like to watch, [he says. and he shows teeth. even though the fangs are strictly metaphorical, there's something sharp about his grin. he leans forward, near enough that the witch boy can smell the cigarettes off his breath and see his pupils blown out huge and hazy from the drugs.] You know, they like it when there's a little bit of fucking spontaneity. I'm thinking-- [he takes another half a step forward. the toe of his shoe drifts in between the toes of credence's shoes.
he's barely blinking. it's his superpower.]
You wanna be in the passenger seat with me? They got a lot of girls with no titties can do the other kid's car.
no subject
It's instinctive to flinch and lean back. Not to step away, because that would mean more punishment than he'd already get, but to keep his distance with a slight twist of his back. The other smells like cigarettes and something else, something he can't quite place, but that doesn't matter. Not after the suggestion, and Credence hopes he can some how scrape himself off from the metaphorical pavement. He clenching his fists as tightly as he can, balling them up tightly to ground himself, he tries to keep his voice even. It almost works. ]
I don't mean to be rude, but I--I don't want to be made fun of.
[ That has to be what this is. Either that or this whole thing isn't real, and--
--wait, did he call him queer, earlier? Does he know? He knows. Somehow, somehow he knows. ]
no subject
Not just 'cause it ain't what a real man would do. [somehow, kavinsky seeps into the space that credence made between them. it's hard to say how he does it. he doesn't step forward; after all, credence hadn't even stepped back. he doesn't exactly lean forward, either. his skinny shoulders drift back, his hipbones emerging under the thin fabric of his wifebeater as sharp as ceramic knives. maybe the lewd jut of his pelvis is it. his thumbs in his pockets, forefingers pointed down on his dong like a neon sign.
he always needs the attention.
whatever it is, he erodes into credence's as surely as spilled oil takes over a lake. around them, everyone's watching, and no one's watching. they're all drunk, yelling. credence is terribly out-of-place, but in a morass of lost children looking for some new high— at the same time, he blends in perfect.] But because it's what you wanna. Isn't it, baby?
no subject
Even if he wanted to, he doesn't think he could. Because Kavinsky - and that's his name, that's what he's heard looking out his window like he's trapped in a tower - Kavinsky is right.
He doesn't want to. That's why he's here. That's why he went out. It's not quite blacking out like he does sometimes when things get real bad, but there's still that voice and that soft feeling if he closes his eyes. Which he does, the moment Kavinsky says baby.
This isn't real. This isn't real, but here's Kavinsky, beautiful, stunning, wonderful, dangerous Kavinsky is insisting he comes along. He's calling him baby. This is the second time, and Credence wonders if he can keep track. Maybe the words will keep him warm on bad nights. ]
I... [ Slow, now. Don't take your time, but choose your words. None come to him after a small beat, so he just nods. It's exactly what he wants, and he even tries his best to smile. ]
I'm Credence.
[ Let's go. ]
taking liberties w how creed is dressed just lmk if not ok (cw misogynistic language, drugs, etc.)
[the coarse pad of his finger flicks past credence's throat. an instant of friction. he grips the collar of credence's shirt and takes him down a button, then two. the cold air kisses credence's clavicle, and then kavinsky turns, jerking his head.]
What's up, fuck buckets?
[that, that latter cry, is apparently more for the crowd than for credence. kavinsky raises his arms like a victor presiding over the finish line, rather than someone who's yet to finish his race, but kavinsky doesn't care. and he is in fact, spectacularly good at not caring. a shout goes up. some of it in adulation, some in jeers. a few people are just asking for more pills. kavinsky cuts a swathe through the red sea of skinny teenage human bodies, and finds his way to the white mitsubishi parked curbside. the black knife spraypainted up its side.]
You know how to open the door, Credence? [he asks, yanking open the driver's side. no gentleman here. then he turns his head the other way, shouts.] Skov! Len! Fuckers! Pick a bitch!
perf
The night air is cool but welcoming with how hot and flushed he feels like he is, and he swears Kavinsky almost touches him, enough for him to feel how warm the other is despite looking like a statue, jaggedly cut and pristine.
Sure, Kavinsky is called a gutter rat by everyone else, but to Credence, walking just a few steps behind him like a shadow and murmuring apologies as he makes his way through the crowd that seems to swallow him up after Kavinsky parts it. Like a God. No--like a wizard. So full of magic, he's put a spell on all of them.
Credence finds himself smiling, his daydreams cut off only as he's jarred by the other's voice. Right. Right--door. He opens it and slides in, feeling unworthy of the leather beneath him. He's trying to take it all in. ]
Mr. Kavinsky, sir, this is absolutely thrilling. [ And, before he can stop his mouth: ] It's like when I dream about it but it's real.
[ They haven't even gone anywhere. That's the most exciting part. ]
tw suicidal ideation
little does he know. little does he know!
clunk. he shuts the door, and suddenly the noise of outside muffles out to near-nothing. strapping in, he puts key to the ignition, and the car starts with a deep-throated rumble that shivers through every bone in credence's body, fucks with the cadence of his heart. kavinsky pulls the car out of park, and rolls her gently through the other kids as they move aside to let him get to the starting line. a couple other cars are there already. in here, the melody of the music is loud.] 'Mr. Kavinsky,' [he says,] is my fucking dad.
[there's so much disdain in his voice. there has to be a story there. one that he isn't going to tell. they roll up to a stop beside the other two cars. there's a girl strutting up in front of the headlights, all exposed leg and tawny tummy.] Put your seatbelt on unless you wanna die, [kavinsky says.] No difference to me, sweetheart. Last good advice I ever give you.
no subject
He can feel it, though, and he can see why the other races so much. The car comes to life, and not just the music, but Credence feels like the whole world suddenly does, his ribcage rattling like his heart may just tumble out from the sheer noise alone.
His pulse is racing. It's the same feeling he gets when he looks at Kavinsky through the windows, the same nervous energy he gets when he's not sure what tomorrow will bring. It's thrilling. Thrilling, and terrifying, and once he clips that seatbelt on he doesn't realize he's trying not to smile. ]
I hope you win!
[ He has to shout it through the music, and he's not even sure he's been this loud his entire life. This is Kavinsky's world, though, isn't it? Boys and girls and sweetheart just thrown around casually like that. ]
no subject
the car smells densely of fresh leather, kavinsky's cologne. the space feels even closer with the reverberations roaring through it. through the windshield, credence can see a girl in a tiny skirt starting to walk up to the starting line, a pair of panties in one hand, a beer in the other. but kavinsky's looking at him. his pupils are as big as full moons, and there seems like an incipient movement in the hand he has over the gearshift, like he's this close to reaching across for the boy next to him. but he doesn't.
his hand, the veins braided over his bent knuckles, all of him is as still as a corpse when he remarks,] What'll you give me if I do?
no subject
[ He says it without meaning to, the words tumbling from his lips in a delightful tizzy. The engine is practically rocking him, soothing in a way that's almost dangerous, and Credence isn't sure how it's possible to be so exhilarated and terrified and soothed at the exact same time.
His Friend, the one beneath the surface, the one that whispers to him--it's gone.It's gone, replaced by adrenaline and fear and euphoria, and they haven't even properly started. He can't even wipe that smile off of his face, sitting on the edge of the seat in anticipation. ]