I eat and drink and spend and fuck and never get my fill [OPEN]

[100mitsubishis]

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.]

Comments

[whereabout]

[ The ocean's the wrong color.

But when Joshua doesn't want to think about - everything, that's the least of what's wrong here. Less wrong than being psychically hooked up to a bunch of strangers, definitely. Less wrong than the people, the buildings, and everything else being absolutely nothing like what he knows, sure.

The ocean just looks like blood, and blood's the one thing he's never going to get away from.

As such, he's been spending most of his time on the beach, since they landed. His own complexes are poor company, but the least he can do is not inflict them on anybody else. And realizing that somebody else is already up there almost turns him back around, but even if he was hoping for no company, one person is still better than a town full of them, he supposes.

So he doesn't turn around. There's not a ton of space on the cliff, but there's enough for him to keep a small distance as he stakes out a spot to sit, just enough to say I'm cool with ignoring each other if you are. This is fine. ]

creeps in on this

[incinerates]

[ The distances that some of them kept were deliberate, fastidious things. Lines in the sand, polite requests to not be intruded upon any more than they had already been made into unwitting intruders. Among brood, he treads water like a drowning man. Among the nest, he's in the shallows, fighting a strong tide - but there, at least, his feet are on solid ground. It's the best a newbie host can do, as he unpacks the extents and limitations of being part of a hivemind -- with the fixation and focus of a neurosurgeon and the precision of a bulldozer.

He's coming back, from the docks and the sea weavers and the fisherfolk, smelling of salt and damp as the heavy, wet edge of his green-and-copper robes drag through the dust and the dirt. A basket, full of once-lively eel-like bodies, clutched in both hands, resting across his belly as he spots ( another of them -- ) someone on the bluff. Doing -- shit, what the hell is he doing off the back of his hand? There's a pang of familiarity, like deja vu, all mingled up in that tangle of brood-shared thoughts and sensations, but he doesn't know the shape or the sound of this damn fool.

All he knows, is that, on instinct, he wants to plant his boot between his shoulderblades and shove him headlong off the cliff. It's a rising, painful urge. Just strike out, just shove. A wave of curling animosity, and deep disorientation brought on by the sudden feeling, which rolls up, over, cresting above Kavinsky's head as Bakugo pauses with his basket of alien food, a shiver along his spine, teeth clenched in restraint. ]

That's DISGUSTING.

[ He's never touched drugs before. They'd ruin his career before it even got off the ground; even the scent of cigarettes was unbearable. But, he's read up on what they do to people, how people describe "the hit", and the collision of whatever Kavinsky's just done unto himself causes a wave of nausea and loathing to grip his stomach. ( Is this really what his life is going to be like now? Distant, mental brushes with drug addicts and murderers? ) ]

mental linking this up

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ Kavinsky's been avoiding him.

Which is a thing that's hard not to notice, seeing as they're all mentally connected, and especially seeing as Sam's definitely aware that Kavinsky is... one of his stronger connections. Some days he wonders if Kavinsky knows that, too, knows the bond between them'd never settled after they tripped too far into each other's minds back when Sam knew even less about what he could do than now. Or at least, if it did settle, it was into something a hell of a lot deeper than it'd been before.

Not the point, or not completely the point. The point is that Sam's noticed, and kind of guesses that it has something to do with their fluctuating connection strength.

Or, shit, it could have something to do with Kavinsky being Kavinsky, or with Sam getting incredibly drunk the night of the funeral out of grief and anger, or the hollow, aching, fragmented mess that his mind's been the last four days since his broodmate went into a coma.

Sam reaches out anyway. Normally he'd wait, give Kavinsky some space, do - something that isn't press up against Kavinsky's mind, slipping in easily past the holes in his shields that Sam's used before and then pulling back out, skimming around the surface. ]

[isorropia]

[It's not easy to sneak up on another host, so it's a good thing she isn't really trying. Still-- he's preoccupied, right? Maybe Rhan wanders up to him in the fading light of the day without really being noticed until she's right there: hiking down through the tangle of shale and stone and scrub brush toward where he's camped out.]

Having fun? Hell of a view.

[She's awfully chipper - the shape of her mind as a fingerprint on glass. It's unapologetic and terribly personable. As Rhan comes down off the stone shelves toward the craggy cliff's edge, she tosses the heavy cloak section of her robes back over her shoulder and unclips a pair of bincoulars from her belt. It shouldn't be possible to look so jaunty in the Carbauschian's swaddling attire, but she's sure doing her damnedest.]