joseph KAVINSKY (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
100mitsubishis) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
station722017-12-19 09:17 pm
100mitsubishis) wrote in station722017-12-19 09:17 pm
I eat and drink and spend and fuck and never get my fill [OPEN]
CHARACTERS: 100mitsubishis and whomever
WHERE: the red coast, a cliff along the shore, close-ish to where listle diving would take place
WHEN: Day 26
SUMMARY: old habits die hard or not at all; once again, Joseph Kavinsky has no idea what he's doing here and decides to get high up somewhere... well. High. But feel free to post something else--totally open to wild cards!
WARNINGS: drug usage, allusions to sexual situations in main post, unsavory mental practices, casual misogyny, self-hatred thinly disguised as disgust in others, etc. etc. Kavinsky shit
[It's never been difficult for Kavinsky to find a cliff.
Admittedly, it's usually the metaphorical kind, the sort of edge one can sit at from the comfort of their furnished basement while their mother, drugged to the gills, dozes upstairs. But this time it's the physical kind with a sharp drop down to an alien sea.
There's salt in the ocean here--he can smell it carried up to him by whipping, unruly breezes--like there's salt in the ocean off the eastern coast of the US. He lived in Jersey before he moved to Virginia, both of which had access to the ocean, a great abyss that would stretch out forever to the human eye, but it was a lie, another one of reality's funny little tricks. See, the ocean had its limits, like all things in the waking, material world. He'd heard once, during one of the very few Biology classes he didn't sleep through or ditch, that a person could only see two to three miles out tops, thanks to the curvature of the earth. But even if they could see all the way around, until their gaze slid over their own back, appreciated their own ass, it was still limited.
He's been to multiple planets. He's traveled through the stars. He's met wizards and superheroes and women with secrets worth learning (novel shit, that), and it leaves him empty anyway. An infectious feeling, that he spreads among the other hosts who venture too near to him. He is the plague rat, he is patient zero of a hollowness that gapes and yawns and feeds forever.
That was why the symbiote chose him, and not King Dick or Lynch or their little peasant pet with the bad attitude. It chose the one that wouldn't be satisfied by the sci-fi version of a Thomas Kinkade piece. The view's majestic, it's beautiful, but it's a cliff. And cliffs end shortly, like Kavinsky's attention span or his ability to appreciate nature's beauty.
His old hideout wasn't in the middle of the fucking forest because he wanted to commune with the squirrels. He'd wanted privacy, so he'd found it.
There's no such thing anymore. He's part of a Nest. They're all gonna feel the smack of it when he snorts a line off the slightly trembling back of his own hand. Nobody will realize how kind he is, doing it far away from the bulk of them so that it will only be a trace in their system. Oh no, they don't get that despite himself, he's being forced to keep their best interests in mind.
Blame it on the symbiote. Blame it on his Brood. Blame it on the al-al-al-alcohol.
He almost reaches out to Elliot. He nearly calls him over, asks if he needs another hit and what he'd think about sucking dick in the open while the wind jostles their robes, but something about asking for attention feels too much like admitting need.
Kavinsky has no needs he can't satisfy. Only cravings. Like cliffs, they end.]
100mitsubishis and whomeverWHERE: the red coast, a cliff along the shore, close-ish to where listle diving would take place
WHEN: Day 26
SUMMARY: old habits die hard or not at all; once again, Joseph Kavinsky has no idea what he's doing here and decides to get high up somewhere... well. High. But feel free to post something else--totally open to wild cards!
WARNINGS: drug usage, allusions to sexual situations in main post, unsavory mental practices, casual misogyny, self-hatred thinly disguised as disgust in others, etc. etc. Kavinsky shit
[It's never been difficult for Kavinsky to find a cliff.
Admittedly, it's usually the metaphorical kind, the sort of edge one can sit at from the comfort of their furnished basement while their mother, drugged to the gills, dozes upstairs. But this time it's the physical kind with a sharp drop down to an alien sea.
There's salt in the ocean here--he can smell it carried up to him by whipping, unruly breezes--like there's salt in the ocean off the eastern coast of the US. He lived in Jersey before he moved to Virginia, both of which had access to the ocean, a great abyss that would stretch out forever to the human eye, but it was a lie, another one of reality's funny little tricks. See, the ocean had its limits, like all things in the waking, material world. He'd heard once, during one of the very few Biology classes he didn't sleep through or ditch, that a person could only see two to three miles out tops, thanks to the curvature of the earth. But even if they could see all the way around, until their gaze slid over their own back, appreciated their own ass, it was still limited.
He's been to multiple planets. He's traveled through the stars. He's met wizards and superheroes and women with secrets worth learning (novel shit, that), and it leaves him empty anyway. An infectious feeling, that he spreads among the other hosts who venture too near to him. He is the plague rat, he is patient zero of a hollowness that gapes and yawns and feeds forever.
That was why the symbiote chose him, and not King Dick or Lynch or their little peasant pet with the bad attitude. It chose the one that wouldn't be satisfied by the sci-fi version of a Thomas Kinkade piece. The view's majestic, it's beautiful, but it's a cliff. And cliffs end shortly, like Kavinsky's attention span or his ability to appreciate nature's beauty.
His old hideout wasn't in the middle of the fucking forest because he wanted to commune with the squirrels. He'd wanted privacy, so he'd found it.
There's no such thing anymore. He's part of a Nest. They're all gonna feel the smack of it when he snorts a line off the slightly trembling back of his own hand. Nobody will realize how kind he is, doing it far away from the bulk of them so that it will only be a trace in their system. Oh no, they don't get that despite himself, he's being forced to keep their best interests in mind.
Blame it on the symbiote. Blame it on his Brood. Blame it on the al-al-al-alcohol.
He almost reaches out to Elliot. He nearly calls him over, asks if he needs another hit and what he'd think about sucking dick in the open while the wind jostles their robes, but something about asking for attention feels too much like admitting need.
Kavinsky has no needs he can't satisfy. Only cravings. Like cliffs, they end.]
no subject
Sam's attentions never felt like a junkie crawling on his belly to earn another hit.]
( What's up with you? )
[He asks but he already knows.
Sam's infection taught Kavinsky kindness; he doesn't mean to let it spread.]
no subject
He likes Kavinsky. The kid's a messed up little shit, maybe, but he's Sam's messed up little shit. Sam kind of hopes there might be a day where he's a little less messed up.
He figures Kavinsky will always be a little shit, of course, but Sam likes that about him.
His mind slips a little more against Kavinsky's, like fingers playing through fire too quick to get burned, sparks flickering and tugged by the wind. ]
( My broodmate's in a coma. Means things are a little more unstable right now. )
no subject
Join the fucking club, Kavinsky ought to say. Everyone else has moved on past Sirius Black, there and gone in the span of a wink, but K hasn't forgotten waking up someone that instantly knew him without swathes of bullshit pockmarking the landscape between them.
Sam's broodmate is gone. Poor baby.
But Kavinsky halts his thoughts before they do more than pluck at the threads that tie them together. More of that Sam's Club influence; he doesn't want to make Wingman feel worse.
What a concept.]
( I know how to fix that. )
[They kissed. In the dream. They kissed. Does Sam know? Kavinsky locks that thought under iron plating no matter how many times it bangs against the door, sneering out the ugly truth of it.]
no subject
It'd been like that with Giorno and Sam Alexander - even with Parker, though he resents it. But none of them had threatened to pull Sam with him, none of them had him teetering on this strange balance and barely able to hold on.
But he knows that K still feels Black's loss, feels the faint tinge of a bitter understanding before K holds it back.
Sam's - appreciative, and his wings curl warm around K, though he doesn't draw attention to it by saying anything. ]
( Yeah? How's that? )
[ He doesn't know. Or he does - vague snippets of memory the way he usually remembers a dream that isn't a nightmare, hazy and more feeling than anything else. It's not the first time he's had a dream like that here, and if it lingers a little more, feels a little more real - he doesn't know what to make of it.
It's not something he's going to mention. How the hell do you even say hey I dreamed we were kissing, anyway? It'd only make things awkward. ]
no subject
[That downy embrace of Sam's has become too much work to shrug off. Instead of growing more resilient against it, Kavinsky's been worn down, smooth, like a river rock once craggy, now glass. He relaxes his shoulders, although they want nothing more than to brush the lobes of his ears.
Not all touch has to hurt or get his dick wet. Besides, it isn't even real.]
( I'll get you there. It helps. )
no subject
Sam doesn't try to qualify whatever connection he and Kavinsky have, it just is. He loves the jackass, but he'd never say it, never think it, never give what he feels that kind of weight. He's not sure Kavinsky even knows what love is, sometimes, he's not gonna shove it in his face.
Affection has been hard enough, it seems, but he still can't hold back the slow curl of warmth when Kavinsky doesn't try to push him away for the moment - not quite sunlight, closer to skin-warmth, like the beat of a heart.
He doesn't protest the smoking thing. Yeah, he has. With Kavinsky, as a matter of fact, that's not what his hesitation had been about. ]
( Yeah, it helps. Also helps me lose focus; you gonna help keep me here if I slip 'cause I can't hold on as tight anymore? )
no subject
Cocaine fulfills every promise it makes.]
( You get such a boner off of pushing responsibility onto me. Ever noticed, man? But sure. I'll be your DD. )
[This is kindness. This is empathy. This is letting Sam have something that Kavinsky would rather not.]