
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13250742.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Raven_Cycle_-_Maggie_Stiefvater
  Relationship:
      Joseph_Kavinsky/Ronan_Lynch, Implied_Unrequited_Ronan/Gansey
  Character:
      Ronan_Lynch, Joseph_Kavinsky, Richard_Gansey_III
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Canon-Typical_Violence, Canon-Typical_Drug_Use, Hand
      Jobs, Semi-Public_Sex, Blow_Jobs, Dirty_Talk, Gentle_Sex, Rough_Sex,
      Sexist_Language, Joseph_Kavinsky_is_his_own_warning
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-03 Words: 1740
****** witness me ******
by brophigenia
Summary
     I’m not anybody’s fucking bitch, he snarled back, and got to his feet
     before Kavinsky got any more ideas.
      
     Yeah, Kavinsky snorted, looking him up and down, bruised and battered
     and obviously hard in his jeans, you sure about that, sweetheart?
Notes
     Hey, so, this is pure straight filth. I’m mildly apologetic for it.
See the end of the work for more notes
if I thought it would help
I would drive this car into the sea.

***
Lynch, goddamn, Kavinsky growled the third dozenth time or so they fucked,
knowing that Ronan hated the sound of both of those words out of his filthy
fucking mouth. Godfuckingdamn, he panted, and punctuated the softer sound by
pressing his fingers more harshly to the back of Ronan’s skull, dragging him
closer.
If you were my bitch, I’d make you grow that shit out, he commented after,
meaning Ronan’s buzzed-short hair. Ronan had been kneeling in the dirt still,
spitting out semen and blood from his punch-split lip, pretending like he
wasn’t hard.
That made it better, pretending like Kavinsky didn’t have that effect on him.
Made it easier to snarl afterwards and pretend like he was above shit like
that, like he didn’t jerk off in the shower when he got back to Monmouth with
his free hand curled viciously around his own throat.
I’m not anybody’s fucking bitch, he snarled back, and got to his feet before
Kavinsky got any more ideas.
Yeah, Kavinsky snorted, looking him up and down, bruised and battered and
obviously hard in his jeans, you sure about that, sweetheart?
***

you left, you left me on a Monday
so now I’ll bury you on Sunday
you are the devil in me
 
***
The first time they fucked, there were no drugs involved.
He’d gone out looking for a street race, hands shaking, and circled around
Henrietta three times looking for fucking Kavinsky.
Kavinsky was parked in the lot of the closed-for-the-night Big Rico’s Pizza; he
was draped across the hood of his own car, arms spread and head tipped back,
staring up at the 3 a.m. stars. From a distance, he looked like a hit and run
victim, like a crucified piece of roadkill.
Ronan was furious at the sight of him, doing fucking nothing, looking so at
fucking peace, and he’d slammed on his breaks, made them scream, turned the
steering wheel with one-handed violence while his other hand was already
working on the door handle. He was out of the car almost before it stopped
moving, and threw his fist into Kavinsky’s stomach.
Kavinsky had choked, heaved, eyes going suddenly wide behind his fucking
sunglasses, and Ronan wanted to kill him. He wanted to kill him, fucking piece
of Russian mobster shit drug dealing pill popping criminal. Kavinsky’s knees
had come up, his chest had risen, and then he’d landed a kick squarely on
Ronan’s solar plexus that knocked the breath out of him in a great, dizzying
rush.
Fuck, Lynch! Kavinsky had snarled, sunglasses falling from their perch on his
beaklike nose, and then somehow they’d been grappling with each other, hands
around each other’s throats, and Kavinsky was on some angry shit and it felt so
good to see his face blackened with fury and his eyes dark in anger and not lit
up with amusement.
He couldn’t remember who had realized the other was hard, first, as they fought
against Kavinsky’s ugly fucking car.
All he remembered was the aftermath of that realization, remembered how they’d
been out in the fucking open and both of their faces were bleeding and Kavinsky
had spat blood into his hand for lube to jerk them both off with, cocks pressed
hotly together. His hands were so skinny and bony and rough that it barely even
felt good, but it was also the best thing that Ronan had ever fucking felt,
made his eyes roll back in his head. Made him feel possessed and like he was
fucking flying. No fucking drugs could compare to that shit.
Shoulda known you were fuckin easy for it, huh, Lynch, like a goddamn cat in
fuckin heat, Kavinsky had slurred, mouth pressed up against his cheek, and all
Ronan could smell was the iron tinge of blood and the thickly acrid scent of
gasoline. Kavinsky sniffled, coked out, swaying, but his grip was still firm
and his words were still razor-sharp, savage. Why does Three Dicks let you
fuckin get this bad, huh? He like it when his bitch gets some strange, comes
back fuckin dripping with it?
Shut the fuck up, Ronan had growled, thrashing, hating him but coming at that
filthy fucking shit Kavinsky had come up with. Did he practice that shit, was
he making some fucking study of it? Was it just what his fucked-up brain came
up with on the fly? Fuck.
Kavinsky was number, high and not-so-easy for it, and he shoved Ronan more
firmly up against the side of the Mitsu, kneed his legs open so they were
closer, dropped Ronan’s dick and snatched up his arm, licking over the still-
healing scars from his ‘suicide attempt.’
Lynch, he said, teeth flashing white next to Ronan’s wrist, eyes dark and
taking in Ronan, bloodied and half-naked and cum-splattered and pressed up
against his car. Lynch, he said again, and came with a punched-out breath, like
Ronan had hit him again.
It striped across Ronan’s shirt, obvious against the black cotton, and Ronan
took advantage of his sudden bonelessness to duck his hold, get back to the
BMW.
Back at Monmouth, Gansey was slumped over asleep at his desk, cheek pressed to
his Glendower journal and lamp still on. He looked younger in the yellowish
light, unbearably gorgeous with his Cupid’s bow mouth and bronzed skin and
rumpled hair, one hand curled up next to his face, like a sleeping child.
Ronan’s guts ached to look at him.
He fell into bed fully dressed except for his semen-stained shirt. His phone
buzzed.
gonna have a lot of fun together lynch.
***

I hear the birds on the summer breeze
I drive fast, I am alone at midnight
been trying hard not to get into trouble
but I got a war in my mind.
 
***
The worst time had not been the time with the knife. The worst time had not
been the time when he’d just come back from the Barns and had ended up crying
in the middle of Kavinsky fucking him over the hood of the Mitsu. The worst
time wasn’t any of the violently fucked up shit they’d done to each other and
to themselves.
The worst time had been early one morning, in a field on the side of some
abandoned strip of road far out of the city limits they’d been using to race
on. The grass was high and overgrown around them, like a cradle. It reminded
him of the Barns. He was fucking exhausted, crashing hard at what must’ve been
5 a.m. after a few days of no sleep.
Kavinsky was buzzing, wired, pupils blown. His last line of coke had been a
hour before. His hands trembled finely. He shivered in the dewy early-morning
chill.
And he’d been so fucking gentle, had traced his shaking hands over Ronan’s
half-asleep face, took advantage of the fact that Ronan was dozing to press
himself close, closer. His sunglasses were discarded somewhere in the grass and
his blinks were too slow and too far apart. He was fucked up, and he just
wanted to fucking kiss, wet and lush like they were actual people who actually
liked each other or some shit, and Ronan hated himself for going along with it,
loathed Kavinsky for doing this shit to him.
That was the worst time, because they didn’t fucking get off or hit each other
or even use teeth. It wasn’t terrible. It was soft, and simple, and Ronan could
get fucking used to it.
He hated that he didn’t hate it, and the next time they were alone he punched
Kavinsky in his fucking grinning-skull face for it.
***

sleeping,
like dying,
delivers you from one world to the next—
to rest in crypts
and wake in gardens.
 
***
Goddamn it, Kavinsky, he snarls, scrubbing a hand over the prickly back of his
head, feeling the ghost of a skeletal hand digging in there, dragging him
closer. Always fucking closer.
Ronan had always been the one pulling back, and for good fucking reason, but—
could shit have been different?
Fucking Kavinsky, that piece of shit, couldn’t leave him in peace even in
death.
He’d been crazy and self-destructive and so fucked up, but so was Ronan. So had
Ronan been, and so he still was, and if Gansey hadn’t intervened when he did,
Ronan could have gone as off his fucking rocker as Kavinsky did.
If his dad had tried to kill him, if he’d been that kind of person, would Ronan
have laid down and died, or would he have done something about it?
If his mom had been constantly checked out, would he have resented her for it?
Been poisoned to her by it?
If he hadn’t of had his brothers to keep him company, would he have been as
obviously-intensely-lonely as Kavinsky?
He imagined a kid growing up in fear and in violence and in fucking drugs. He
imagined that kid being all alone. He imagined that kid realizing he had the
power to drag shit out of his own dreams. He imagined that kid becoming
Kavinsky.
He tried to shake off the pity, or whatever it was, thought to himself it
wasn’t my job to fucking fix you, savage. Undone.
I don’t fucking forgive you, he spat to the headstone, just to make it clear. I
don’t. Fuck.
And then he threw the bottle of vodka he’d brought, the only Bulgarian brand
that Henrietta’s surprisingly-widely-stocked liquor store offered, straight at
the thing. It shattered with a clash, too fucking sentimental by half, and
Ronan didn’t even care that the shards flew onto his feet, stuck to the knotted
laces of his boots. He tugged at the leather bands around his wrist reflexively
and suddenly realized he couldn’t tell if they were the ones Kavinsky had given
him or the ones he’d modeled the forgery after.
He tore them off, and dropped them onto the fresh dirt in front of the stone.
Left them there in a puddle of cheap but exotic liquor, on a bed of broken
glass.
It felt poetic, but Ronan knew it was all fucking empty. Kavinsky was gone, and
shit was over and done with, and Ronan could feel his ghost in every dream,
lurking unseen in the trees.
His wrist felt bare without the bracelets. His body felt oddly light without
the bruises.

***
“never” means “forever.”

***
 
End Notes
     Quotes from
     title-mad max: fury road
     dark places - the gaslight anthem
     devil in me - gin wigmore
     ride - lana del rey
     shitty horoscopes - amrit brar
     alpha dog - fall out boy
     Comment and let me know how you feel about this pile of actual filth.
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