Jesse Pinkman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heisenbitch) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2016-11-28 02:21 am
heisenbitch) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-11-28 02:21 am
closed
Who: Jesse Pinkman & Ronan Lynch; Jesse Pinkman & Joseph Kavinsky; Jesse Pinkman & Noah Czerny; Jesse Pinkman & Andyr Prince. (Will set up more starters if anyone wants one!)
When: Post-Moira crash into the Midway Hub
Where: Around the camp set up
What: #justpostwhatthefuckthings
Note: Warnings for swearing and other stuff I'll edit in if necessary. If anyone wants to do post-crash things with Jesse, shoot me a PM and I'll toss up a starter for you!
When: Post-Moira crash into the Midway Hub
Where: Around the camp set up
What: #justpostwhatthefuckthings
Note: Warnings for swearing and other stuff I'll edit in if necessary. If anyone wants to do post-crash things with Jesse, shoot me a PM and I'll toss up a starter for you!
☲ closed to ronan
[ One of the things Jesse managed to salvage of his own belongings from the Moira was the tent he'd received upon being promoted to Tiruncula rank a month or so ago. It's pitched shoddily among other crew members' tents pitched nearby, a slipshod effort on Jesse's part with how little he really knows about camping. Not that it matters, not that Jesse even cares. Hours have blurred on by since the ship went down, and Jesse has steadily descended from blind adrenalised terror into a state of shock-induced apathy; all the horrific things he's seen has anesthesised him into an eerily indifferent calmness.
Sitting crosslegged just outside his tent, there's a cigarette dangling between his lips, smoke drifting up from the lit end, while he's washing his hands in a dented camping saucepan of water that he'd managed to acquire. Barefoot and dressed in just his filthy jeans, his equally filthy blood-caked t-shirt is lying in a heap beside him. The water is cold, shocking against his skin; goosebumps rise across his arms and chest as he scrubs water up along his forearm, washing away dirt and dried blood as best he can with what little water he has available to him. He focuses on the task like he hasn't got a care in the world, like nothing horrific or traumatising has taken place.
Realising someone is approaching him, slowing down in front of him, Jesse glances up with a puff on his cigarette. It's Ronan. Smoke billows from around the cigarette pursed between his lips as Jesse peers up at Ronan with a look that's full of acknowledgement, yet unreactive; that same eerily indifferent calmness. Turning his attention back down to what he's doing, he remarks around his cigarette with a curt casualness that's entirely out of place with the whole situation: ]
'Sup?
Sitting crosslegged just outside his tent, there's a cigarette dangling between his lips, smoke drifting up from the lit end, while he's washing his hands in a dented camping saucepan of water that he'd managed to acquire. Barefoot and dressed in just his filthy jeans, his equally filthy blood-caked t-shirt is lying in a heap beside him. The water is cold, shocking against his skin; goosebumps rise across his arms and chest as he scrubs water up along his forearm, washing away dirt and dried blood as best he can with what little water he has available to him. He focuses on the task like he hasn't got a care in the world, like nothing horrific or traumatising has taken place.
Realising someone is approaching him, slowing down in front of him, Jesse glances up with a puff on his cigarette. It's Ronan. Smoke billows from around the cigarette pursed between his lips as Jesse peers up at Ronan with a look that's full of acknowledgement, yet unreactive; that same eerily indifferent calmness. Turning his attention back down to what he's doing, he remarks around his cigarette with a curt casualness that's entirely out of place with the whole situation: ]
'Sup?
☲ closed to kavinsky
[ On the very outskirts of the makeshift camp set up by all the crew, away from the bustle of crew members and the grim reminders of everything that led up to the ship crashing, Jesse loiters in near darkness, smoking one of his last cigarettes. The only light thrown on him comes from the camp itself, dim and indistinct; the tip of his cigarette glows red and bright in the murky shadows with each drag.
That shock-induced apathy hasn't really lifted. As he stands on the edge of the camp, he watches the camp from this safe distance with an impassive casualness. Disconnected from it all, like a spectator to a situation that he's watching on a screen rather than a part of. That's not to say there isn't an endless hum of trembling anxiety trapped beneath the surface, waiting to tear through his bubble of indifference; that's not to say that his hands aren't constantly sweaty, or that his heart isn't constantly racing. But he seems disconnected even from that.
He stands slouched on the spot, hand shoved in his pocket, other hand bringing his cigarette up for a drag and then dropping away to his side with a flick of ash. It's like he's standing on a street corner and not on the edge of a camp that's stranded on a planet on the edge of the universe. However, a noise nearby has Jesse snapping his head towards it, eyes suddenly alert and sharp. He exhales a plume of smoke, shoulders tensing up while he peers into the darkness. Another noise, like a twig snapping under someone's shoe. ]
...Hey, who the fuck's there, yo?
That shock-induced apathy hasn't really lifted. As he stands on the edge of the camp, he watches the camp from this safe distance with an impassive casualness. Disconnected from it all, like a spectator to a situation that he's watching on a screen rather than a part of. That's not to say there isn't an endless hum of trembling anxiety trapped beneath the surface, waiting to tear through his bubble of indifference; that's not to say that his hands aren't constantly sweaty, or that his heart isn't constantly racing. But he seems disconnected even from that.
He stands slouched on the spot, hand shoved in his pocket, other hand bringing his cigarette up for a drag and then dropping away to his side with a flick of ash. It's like he's standing on a street corner and not on the edge of a camp that's stranded on a planet on the edge of the universe. However, a noise nearby has Jesse snapping his head towards it, eyes suddenly alert and sharp. He exhales a plume of smoke, shoulders tensing up while he peers into the darkness. Another noise, like a twig snapping under someone's shoe. ]
...Hey, who the fuck's there, yo?
☲ closed to andyr
[ A few days have passed since the crash, in whatever way that "days" can be defined on this alien planet. Where Jesse, during the first couple of days, had been eerily apathetic in the face of so much trauma and terror, that shock has been slowly subsiding, giving way to a benumbed yet anxious helplessness rotting away inside of him. The only thing for it has been to keep busy, and god knows there's plenty to do. Not that Jesse is skilled in any of the areas needed most, but if Mr. White taught him anything outside of manufacturing meth and applying himself, it's taking inventory.
So, that's what he's been doing: throwing himself into the task when and where he's needed. Taking stock of the supplies salvaged by noting each item down on a clipboard, and moving said supplies to designated inventory areas. He's an exhausted wreck, having barely slept, barely eaten, but keeping busy keeps the churning storm of helpless panic all knotted up inside him contained.
It's when the stocktaking hits a lull in productivity, while those in charge work out how to inventory new supplies recovered from the Moira, that Jesse, bitten with a desperate nicotine craving, heads through the makeshift camp to find a secluded spot. He hovers near the edge of a cluster of tents, cigarette pursed between his lips and lighter igniting the tip, and it's when he draws in a deep, grateful hit of cigarette smoke that his eyes land on a familiar face. Andyr, sitting alone. A face Jesse hasn't been able to forget. Unspeakable horrors he hasn't been able to forget. Jesse hangs back, loitering in the dim shadows, wondering if he ought to approach the guy at all. And then, eventually, he hesitantly starts towards Andyr. ]
Hey, man.
[ An equally hesitant greeting as he comes to a stop at a respectful distance from Andyr. ]
So, that's what he's been doing: throwing himself into the task when and where he's needed. Taking stock of the supplies salvaged by noting each item down on a clipboard, and moving said supplies to designated inventory areas. He's an exhausted wreck, having barely slept, barely eaten, but keeping busy keeps the churning storm of helpless panic all knotted up inside him contained.
It's when the stocktaking hits a lull in productivity, while those in charge work out how to inventory new supplies recovered from the Moira, that Jesse, bitten with a desperate nicotine craving, heads through the makeshift camp to find a secluded spot. He hovers near the edge of a cluster of tents, cigarette pursed between his lips and lighter igniting the tip, and it's when he draws in a deep, grateful hit of cigarette smoke that his eyes land on a familiar face. Andyr, sitting alone. A face Jesse hasn't been able to forget. Unspeakable horrors he hasn't been able to forget. Jesse hangs back, loitering in the dim shadows, wondering if he ought to approach the guy at all. And then, eventually, he hesitantly starts towards Andyr. ]
Hey, man.
[ An equally hesitant greeting as he comes to a stop at a respectful distance from Andyr. ]
☲ closed to j
[ It's late, dark. Half the camp is asleep, or at least trying to sleep, in their cramped little tents and makeshift shelter fashioned out of salvageable materials from the Moira. Jesse isn't asleep, though. Sitting outside his tent, he's chewing on his fingernails anxiously in between taking drags of his cigarette, looking this way and that. Seeming to be looking out for someone. That someone being Daisy. He hasn't seen her and he doesn't know where she is, and he can't seem to contact her over the MID. He's worried. She knows where his tent is, though, having camped with him in it the first night of the crash. It's why he's sitting here waiting for her, looking out for her: maybe she'll show up.
As he takes another edgy drag of his almost-finished smoke, everything about him seeming restless and fidgety even though he's sitting still, he throws a glance the other way and spots J up ahead. Heading towards him, it would seem. ]
As he takes another edgy drag of his almost-finished smoke, everything about him seeming restless and fidgety even though he's sitting still, he throws a glance the other way and spots J up ahead. Heading towards him, it would seem. ]
cw rape joke
— laughter, inevitably. and by now, maybe the sound of kavinsky's laughter is even familiar, low and raspy and racking, an oily sound despite how dry it is. like it badly needs moisturizer. his face emerges out of the harsh light a moment later, when he drops the flashlight a few inches, throws jesse a wave. he looks better than he had the last time they spoke, once upon a puke, not far from a ship's crashing.]
You could stick to well-lit areas, [he says.] Or carry a rape whistle.
no subject
Even through Jesse's benumbed, shock-induced apathy, a stab of apprehension clutches at him. Scary, creepy ass fucking kid. Who also saved his ass. In the most insane, over-the-top way that Jesse still can't wrap his head around. In effort to play off his unease at this kid suddenly be around him, he retorts to that rape whistle remark: ]
Way you creeped up on me like that just then, probably whipping one of them out would just make you think I was being optimistic. [ He lifts his hand to his face, fingers and thumb pressing into his eyes in futile effort to staunch the strobing afterimage of the flashlight burned temporarily into his vision. ] Jesus. You little shit.
no subject
That's totally fucking true. [kavinsky sounds delighted. his hollow, heavy-lidded eyes crinkle up, appreciative of this fine comedic offering. he swings his flashlight around again, briefly checking the terrain, before he angles the beam squarely at jesse's chest. just near enough jesse's face that he can make out the older man's funny grimace and track the changes. he doesn't know what ronan sees in him. no offense.
ronan just tends to seem to prefer them either golden or angry in the driver's seat. and kavinsky can think that without even knowing about adam parrish (he will never know about adam parrish. ever.) (it's a dubious curse.).] You look like shit. What's wrong with you?
[besides crash-landing on an alien planet after x months in deep space. or that's apparently an inadequate excuse.]
no subject
There's such an uncomfortable cognitive dissonance going on here for Jesse: knowing this kid, according to what Ronan has told him, is a psycho, yet begrudgingly grateful that the kid saved his ass. So, he's looking Kavinsky like he's sizing him up, trying to work him out. That is, until the kid obnoxiously asks him that question: what's wrong with him? What's it matter to you, jerkwad? is the immediate thing that springs to Jesse's mind. But.
Instead, he's throwing a sarcastic glance around him, at where they are. ]
Jeez, I dunno. I mean… it's just a night like any other night, right? [ A mock nonchalant show of hands as he motions to their surroundings, to the camp, the destroyed ship. Pointedly very, "like I gotta point the obvious out to you, asswipe". ] Just, y'know. Hangin' out in E.T.'s creepy ass crib, a gazillion light-years from our home planet's asshole. [ Swinging that sarcastic look back on Kavinsky. ] I mean, no big, right?
[ Followed by a drag of his cigarette. ]
powerpose & intuition/infomoddyness, lmk if not ok i can adjust easily
and maybe it's still hard to put your finger on it when he steps nearer, his skinny fingers nipping out to take the cigarette out of jesse's mouth, momentarily exploiting the older man's blindness. he sets it to his own lips, taking a long drag. when he exhales, it's right into jesse's face, a smarting cloud of smoke and a familiar shade of warmth.]
You're pretty straight, [he observes. he turns the cigarette in his fingers, smiles beatifically, and ducks his head slightly to try and aim the cancer stick back into jesse's mouth. his fingers promise to be coarse and faintly salty against jesse's lips.] How fucking straight, is the question.
cw homophobic slur
He wants to reach out and grab the smoke right back from the kid. He's too leery to at the same time, though. A confused squint crosses his face at the remark Kavinsky then makes. Then, before he realises it's about to happen, that cigarette is being directed back at his mouth, and he feels the brush of Kavinsky's fingers on his lips. Jesse's own hand dashes up and snatches the cigarette from Kavinsky's fingers, other hand coming up to slap Kavinsky's hand brusquely away from him. ]
Keep your hands to yourself, faggot.
cw suicide
there's no one around. for better or worse.]
Okay. You picked the right faggot to kick it with. He'll take you out to dinner.
[then he spits on the ground between jesse's shoes, to punctuate the statement. he doesn't recoil from the way his hand was struck off. instead, he reels it in kind of slowly, like it's an afterthought, and switches his flashlight over.] It'll get worse before it gets better. Lynch's advice: kill yourself.
ok now i know how the log with jesse & ronan went I CAN RESPOND TO THIS FINALLY
A deep, lung-filled inhale from the cancer stick, then he's throwing a glance out towards the rocky, alien terrain stretching out before them into the pitch black darkness. In the beat of silence, a facade of nonchalance manages to fit over that bulk of unease. Nonchalance secured in place, Jesse finally turns his blue, slightly purple-tinted eyes back on Kavinksky.
Deciding to pay it forward: another drag of his smoke, and he exhales the smoke in Kavinsky's face with aloof attitude. Just not right in Kavinsky's face the way Kavinsky had done to him just moments ago. ]
Word of advice, kid: might wanna work on your pickup lines before jumping to dinner dates. Askin' a guy how straight he is just makes you sound pretty fucking desperate.
woohoo :3 cw implied non/dubious/indifference to consent
it's been a long, boring fucking day, with nothing to kill or fuck. lots to snort, but not even much in the way of time to do that. they'll start walking soon, making their way toward the hub, and that sounds like bullshit too.]
Spoken like a man who hasn't tasted dick yet. [he shrugs his skinny shoulders, the flashlight bobbing its beam up and down jesse's chest.] You want me to be honest, most of the time, I don't ask. [his eyes crinkle. there's nothing mild or innocent or kind about his saying so.] Friend of a friend's benefit. You get me?
CW for homophobia and rape joke implied
The light bouncing peripherally from the flashlight's beam casts a dim glow on Kavinsky's pale face, all shrewd and eerie angles, like a devil smirking from the shadows. Jesse watches him while pinned in the flashlight's exposing glare, quiet tension simmering under his unflinching expression. Most of the time, I don't ask. Yeah, no surprise there, you fucking creep, thinks Jesse. There might be something uncomfortably nervous simmering along with that quiet tension. Maybe something contemplative, calculating, scheming. Perhaps a little something coloured guilty as sin. Might also just be downright difficult to read Jesse altogether, with all the things racing through his head at this moment. ]
Right, yeah. [ Drawled, a dry bite to his words, determined to still appear nonchalant. ] Can't stick your dick in what you want, right? Might as well threaten to stick it into the straight guy instead. [ A quick drag of his smoke. ] Lemme guess: I say no, and you tell me 'that's the spirit'. Is that how this game works?
no subject
he looks jesse over slowly.]
Not metrosexual, [he offers, his eyebrows lifting humorously. jesse somehow still manages to look raggedy and uncouth, even in space clothes. (I'M ASSUMING HE'S WEARING SPACE CLOTHES. Alex pls forgive me if he's not wearing spaceclothes. but he'd still have that look, wouldn't he?) (kind of like kavinsky always looks like an asshole.)] It's okay. So many fucking people get emotional about it, here. Even the other faggots. [he raises his shoulders again, the very image of naive confusion!1]
Fact is, I'm just a warm body. You get me? Mouth that don't quit. Asshole that could strip the paint off the Maypole. Springtime for your cock, babe. I'll fuck like you want your girlfriend to fuck. [he breaks into laughter-- one sharp jackal bark in the dark. he likes the low dose of fear jesse is putting out into the alien atmosphere. it smells nice.] It's the game where everybody wins.
Think about it.
no subject
Just a warm body. Mouth that won't quit. Disgusting. Yet that's exactly what he'd used Ronan for, hadn't he?
Thing is... there is something Jesse wants from Kavinsky. It's why he's standing here, taking the vulgarity, the sliminess of Kavinsky's eyes feasting all over him, managing by sheer force of will to keep his face schooled into apathy.
A final drag of his cigarette. He drops it to the ground, exhaling as he crushes it under his foot. ]
So, what you're really sayin' is: you're a two-dollar hooker with absolutely nothing to offer to even remotely sweeten the deal. I mean, if I was gonna stick my dick into a mouth that don't quit, I'd need a little something to take my mind off the fact that it's your cheap ass mouth. A little Tina. A little Molly. A little Snow White, perhaps. But I'm all outta the good stuff, so guess you're gonna have to look for your straight guy fetish elsewhere.
lmk if this is too infomod!! (cw homophobic language)
[kavinsky is definitely everything anybody could possibly hate about a white guy in an actual white guy. the fact he's gay doesn't make him any more reluctant to be hateful or awful than anyone else. and he regards jesse now with the reptilian interest of a sated crocodile nonetheless checking out for the meekest stumble in the herd slogging past.
maybe he'd been too quick to judge. he knows that junkies will do anything for their fix-- it's a fact he's exploited before. but it's one thing to be willing and exploitable to your dealer, and it's another to guess one joseph "but a mere child" kavinsky is one. the only connection is, of course, ronan. who he well knows, has been in his stash. coincidence it's not a question that only gangsey asks themselves.
the crocodile blinks.]
How many times you done this before? [he asks pleasantly.] Fucked a fairy for some blow?
no subject
Thing is, even if Ronan had never given Jesse a token of appreciation in the form of a class-A 8-ball, Jesse would have picked up quick smart this kid deals. Or used to deal, at the very least. It takes a fuckboy junkie degenerate to know one, and Jesse can spot the kinds that are just like him a mile off.
Jesse pushes his hands into his pockets and tilts his head, watching Kavinsky with carefully schooled indifference. Inwardly, he's fighting back the urge to swallow uneasily. ]
You're goin' on at me about having a mouth that don't quit, boasting about renting your ass out for free, and you're asking me questions like that? What, you gotta pay people to sleep with you? "I'll give you some blow if you let me blow you"? Is that where this is going?
no subject
there's that weird feeling you get, when you save somebody's life a couple of times, and then encounter the possibility that they're still willing to fuck literally anybody in the entire multiverse than you.
ah well. he doesn't even bother with the question actually posed.]
Come into my parlor, said the, [he shrugs, and waves his flashlight, temporarily blinding jesse again.] You know the rest. [he then turns, infinitely unconcerned, and starts to lope back into camp, one of the larger tents posted there.]
no subject
Maybe. Possibly. Only one way to find out.
Slowly, he starts after Kavinsky, guarded and careful to keep a few paces behind. He doesn't want to get too close, doesn't want to seem to eager. He wonders, with a sick little twist of guilt, what Ronan would say right now if he knew he was doing this. Ronan had, after all, warned him about staying away from Kavinsky.
Without a word, he follows Kavinsky back to camp. ]
no subject
[it's a casual question. kavinsky doesn't even turn around or look back to ask it, still tromping ahead over the terrain, his flashlight beam weaving over the ground and the walls of other tents as he goes. as it least it leaves jesse's vision an opportunity to heal over the crazy neon lime green spots that had happened after being initially nearly half-blinded.]
Capitalistic minds wanna know.
[they come up on a big rectangular tent. or the rectangular tent, if jesse's seen ronan sneaking out before.]
no subject
I didn't suck anyone's dick, if that's what you're thinking. [ But then, after a beat: ] Mail drop. Ingress pulled in a decent haul a couple months back, left a care package outside my dorm door. Made it last best I could, but... y'know how it is.
[ The lie slips out so easily. It's not that he'd already had that lie ready to deliver; it just flashes into his mind right then and there. It's not technically a lie, either. On both counts. He most definitely received a batch of meth in the mail drop, and he most certainly didn't suck Ronan's dick for coke. The truth behind his lie is what makes it sound so convincing.
He eyes the big tent as they near it. It's a big, impressive thing next to the cramped one-man tent Jesse has pitched up further away. He hasn't seen Ronan sneaking in or out, but he knows Ronan has been lifting coke from Kavinsky. From this very tent, no doubt. ]
Kingpin palace, huh?
no subject
the wrong addict, by kavinsky's estimation, but still.
he flips the tent flap open. there's a bed inside, a monstrosity of dense padding, firm springs. it's nothing you would find at a six-star hotel in dubai, but out here, the luxury is disproportionate and ridiculous. there's even a sprawling forty-something-inch flatscreen tv somehow hitched to the fabric wall, without caving it in. perhaps better: a bottle of vodka, half-empty, sitting on the sheets.]
Lie down on the bed, [the kid says, casual about his bossiness.] Lift up your shirt. You want just coke?
no subject
What the actual fuck.
Jesse has stopped a few paces inside the entrance. He's sweeping an incredulous look at his surroundings. The luxurious mattress. The TV, which works... how? Magic dream powers or whatever? Holy shit. Hardly the Ritz, no, but still entirely over-the-top; shamelessly and obnoxiously extravagant, without any thought or regard to anyone else having to rough it in the camp. Exactly the kind of thing Jesse would have done in his Cap'n Cook days, if he'd had the power to conjure whatever his dreams desired.
He turns a quick look over at Kavinsky's command. ]
...What?
[ What's really implied in that response is, What the fuck, asshole? Why? ]
no subject
[he doesn't spell it out. he doesn't think he has to. television in his time, in jesse's time, is rife with images of people doing lines of the stomachs of hot girls. if you watch the right kind of television, anyway. and why not jesse, who's passably good-looking, has a belly that's flat enough to suffice, obviously (!!!) did some shit with ronan, and appears motivated in the interest of acquiring drugs.]
Or not blow you. I mean whatever.
[but then kavinsky pulls an eight-ball out from behind the television, where it had fit snugly in the unlikely space. safekeeping, in case ronan got too many funny ideas. safe, at least, until j decides to clean him out in a couple weeks time. beautifully white inside the plastic.]