o3 🔥 after three days of drinkin with larry love

[pillz]

Who: Joseph Kavinsky & some existing CR
When: This miserable trek toward the Midway Hub! Various parts thereof.
Where: Various stops on the 'planetoid.'
What: Some closed starters in which Kavinsky does the real life, in person version of shitposing people who know him. There's no text in the entry behind the cut, everything will be in the comments. ~\o/~
Warnings: Animal gore/death (hunting), suicidal gestures, offensive language, dickish dicking.

Comments

closed to andyr; (week 1)

[pillz]

[the air is filled with the sound of groaning, desperate and animal, awful from pain.

also: laughter.

one joseph "peta would murder him right back" kavinsky is congratulating himself on his successful kill. it hadn't been much of a challenge at all, mind you; the purple 'elephant'-like beast hadn't put up much of a fight. it had been surprised when he put a bullet in its middle and then even moreso when he chucked a grenade at its face, and now it can't breathe in the space that remains in its lungs or the mess that remains of its muzzle.

kavinsky isn't paying its death throes any attention. he's covered in alien blood, greased into his hair and slapped up on his cheeks, and waving his enormous rifle around like a moron-- it's unclear, at that point, whether or not he's even got the safety on.]

I'M THE MOTHERFUCKING MAN.

[he is not the man. but he is a man taking a selfie with his squirming victim, so. maybe somebody can chip in here.]

[deconstruct]

[ some jackass is screaming into the night. right after some jackass was setting off explosives in the night.

andyr hadn't actually expected the sex obsessed, shitty hunter on the network to actually get his hands on a grenade, let alone a harpoon, and when he first hears the deafening bang of it, the network guy is far from the first thing on his mind. what has him running towards it is more fear of more of the monsters from the ship having cropping up. what he finds is this tool.

standing over some mutilated creature, waving a rifle around, taking a fucking gross looking picture. dude. the gore doesn't particularly bother him, but andyr isn't one to condone needless suffering on the part of any living thing. he's far from a peta supporter, but he does march straight past psycho mcsnapchat-whore towards the half blown apart elephant thing, pulling one of the knives they'd been supplied with free, and spikes it into what's left of the thing's skull. what he has extra in enhanced strength makes piercing hide and bone fairly easy, and there's only a few spasms and twitches left before it goes still.

now that he's here, looking over the wounds, the explosion, the elephant victim, and the eccentric hunter start to make sense, all put together. ]

Didn't find a harpoon?

[pillz]

[kavinsky's selfie turns into a series of selfies. and then it turns into a slow-motion series of snapshots of him turning, eyebrow raised, slightly incredulous at this dude who just showed up and started cutting up his food? followed by an interval where he finally flips the camera function around and takes a proper mugshot of andyr, just in case this dick really thinks he's gonna get away wi

oh.]

Hey, [he says, less mad now. less suspicious. not entirely willing to give andyr the benefit of the doubt, but you know, happy enough to see somebody who seems to know a thing or two about butchering animals.] Nah, man. Figured I'd stick with what I know. A Chinese lesbian been teaching me how to shoot better, too. [he steps closer, his boots squelching into brand new arterial flow.] I'll give you some, if you can get the gross shit off.

[skin. he means skin. extraneous parts. organs, probably.]

[deconstruct]

[ andyr's slowly arching a brow, first at the picture that's snapped of him, then of the Chinese lesbian bit, and finally, of the exchange offer. what andyr knows a thing or two about is quickly making living things into dead things. all the skinning and cleaning of animal carcasses is far beyond him, so kavinsky might be disappointed here in a minute. but firstly: ]

Does the lesbian part make her a better shot? [ still not entirely sure how that's relevant, and his head's cocked to the side trying to figure it. maybe it's the chinese part? because he's pretty sure fucking girls doesn't increase accuracy, nor does nationality, but whatever, homie, whatever.

right, about that deal he wants to make. nah. ]

I'm not a butcher. [ andyr's clarifying, as he pushes to stand, looking over the slain animal in assessment. really, it doesn't seem like it was a bad idea to try for one of these, even with wasting a grenade on it. it'll still make a lot of food, that ought to last for a good amount of time if kavinsky can find the means to preserve it or dry it out. ] Talk to someone like Snake or Miller for that shit.

closed to ronan; (week 2)

[pillz]

[their journey through the center of ronan's dreamworld had been deeply dramatic. perhaps even traumatic. in the days that followed, kavinsky had alternated between being impressed by the magnitude of ronan's imagination, and completely shitty about the other boy's continual struggles to control it. it'd mostly been snide remarks here and there, as they walked, shared food, ventured across the strange planet with the other moirans.

but, as ever, kavinsky can only spend so much time out of the drama spotlight before he finds some way to drag it back to himself.

ronan probably knew it was just a matter of time. especially after they passed the sector gates, and the voices of the other previously-powered travelers rose around them in dismay. no more superstrength! no more nightvision. whatever. kavinsky had bristled visibly, but remained uncharacteristically silent. it wasn't until they made camp for the first night that reality truly set in, though for ronan, reality mainly meant getting a halfway decent night's sleep, between the pills and the assurance his power wouldn't waken and kill them all. kavinsky had abandoned him shortly after, in the morning, as soon as he'd taken all of his ludicrous dream things back into his pacdisc.

but by the tent and campfire the next night, purple elephant stew cooking in a pot, kavinsky is there again. his rifle on one foot, a beer in the other. there's a look in his eye that's empty in a familiar way. ronan's imagined it a hundred times-- how kavinsky's face looked behind his shades, on july 4th.

empty and bright as dead space.] Hey, [kavinsky says.] I'm two for ten with this fucking gun working.

[nightmarist]

[That look on Kavinsky's face... That alone has Ronan's stomach twisting itself up in knots of dread. That's a look that means death is looming, though at first Ronan isn't sure whether Kavinsky means to draw it inward or push it outward. Kavinsky is the sort of lunatic who will take his frustration out on anyone, in any way he can.]

Don't be a fucking idiot.

[He's said that to Kavinsky at least a thousand times. He doesn't expect this to be the one time it sticks. Ronan eases subtly closer, but he makes it out like he's just stretching his legs.]

[pillz]

[kavinsky picks up his rifle, boosting it up until it lays over both his hands. one finger by the trigger, the muzzle pointed at nowhere particularly dangerous, but that's likely to change at any given moment.

it's a glorious weapon. heavy and black. built to kill elephants, probably, which makes sense given the size of the purple beast kavinsky had brought down just days before they crossed the power-eating gates. kavinsky curls his lip, then spits into the fire.]

You enjoy this shit. Don't you? Because you fuck up your dreaming, you don't want it anymore.

closed to j; (week 2)

[pillz]

( → here! )

[the camp looks the way the camp always looks. tents in different shapes and sizes, ragtag shelters makeshift from odd ends, an uneven cluster of temporary homes huddled against the alien horizon. every time the group stops, the geography of the 'village' changes, thanks to the nature of being a nomadic pack of intergalactic voyagers.

but tonight, something's different: there's a teddy bear.

he's parked outside the big tent out on the edge of camp. about knee height, brown, a red tartan bowtie secured neatly under his round jowls. he's a handsome absurdity, against the sight of purple beasts wandering around beyond the edge of camp. push the flap open, and the tent is what j had seen and more: the bed takes up nearly the entire 'floor,' king-sized, pillowtop; huge tv pinned somehow weightlessly against the wall, another tent flap off to the side, the sheets riddled with random objects. a lighter, a bottle of vodka, an arbitrary tambourine.

there's a familiar young man propped up on the pillows, his jumpsuit uniform still covered from the dust of the day.]

[gentlemenpreferblondes]

[Staying true to her word, J doesn't take too much time getting there. She does, however, take a quick moment to check her hair and make up before heading out. There's a certain kind of standard that she wants to keep up when socializing -- even if it's just a fuckboy. She's even wearing a long deep purple dress and heels, a combination that she had reluctantly had to set aside thanks to the rough ground of the planet.

Luckily, she doesn't have to look for the tent for long. After about a ten minutes or so she spots the teddy bear seated on the edge of tent. The sight of it makes huff out a laughter because, really? He got one for her? Once she's by the tent she stops to pick the stuffed toy up and observes it. It's... actually pretty cute now that she looks at it. With the bowtie and tiny button eyes.

She holds the teddy bear on her arms a she pushes through the opening. Even though she had seen it all in a video she still can't help but be impressed by his setup. Of course the question of how raises right up but at this point she can barely be bothered to actually ask. She can definitely roll with this.]

Hello. I believe we had a date? Hope you didn't have to wait for too long.

cw implied transphobia

[pillz]

[kavinsky appreciate it when people roll with him. don't ask questions. sure, sometimes it leads to hair-raising legal problems, overdoses, ambulances, burn injuries, that sort of a thing-- but that only happens so often, in the grand scheme of things. (nothing j asked for is wont to lead to that. maybe if she pokes around the tent, though, especially under the bed.)

he looks up, his eyes sharpening quick despite the fatigue implied by his messy sprawl on the bed. he grins and sits up pretty much immediately. whacks a hand on the bed beside him. the fitted sheet, everything else are densely-threaded black fabric, supple. the kind of thing that would be expensive in a world where money matters anymore.] That what we're calling it, sweetheart? [still smarmy. more cordial than before, although a rudely-gendered insult is still implied in the way he looks her up and down.

just the one time, though. he doesn't stare as hard as before, and his eyes finish on the teddy bear. smug.] Waited long enough for my boner to die on me. Sad ending. I'll do a line while you check out the movie. See if it's your thing, or your ovaries don't like it.

closed to j, eventually steve, adrien, whomever else; (tw suicide attempt)

[pillz]

[on week three, they come across the glowing streams that evoke again their powers. kavinsky takes some into a bottle, but he doesn't drink it for a night, then two nights. then three nights. he finally drinks some on the fourth, and he begins to dream. his power is limited, but it makes him happy again, fleeting, inconsequential, but happy nonetheless.

by the time ronan and j turn up seep, there's no evidence of his magic left. ronan skirts questions about his whereabouts, and j doesn't have to deal with having pillows or fleeces stolen; there's enough alcohol left for both of them. kavinsky's fast asleep on the left edge of the bed, his bruised and battered face tucked down into the coverlet, knocked out by the side-effects of the reviving liquid.

the next night, after a long day's walk through the alien ghost town, he decides to do it. after all, he'd told ronan how it would go. he knows thán's death means it'll stick. he knows it'll hurt like a motherfucker.

but if you can't keep a promise to yourself, what are you good for, really?

and that's what j walks in on, when she flips up the tent flap early. kavinsky with his pupils as big as quarters, stoned off his ass on pain meds. left arm in a bucket of water, already drenched a deep, lurid red, cuts winding up both his inner wrists like creeping vines. a razor in his right hand, slipping out of his fingers, weak from pain and blood loss. his head turns slowly to look at her coming in. he blinks stupidly.] Sup?

tw suicidal ideation, suicide attempt

[gentlemenpreferblondes]

[It certainly had been a week. One of the kind even. She'd like to say that the arrangements hadn't really met her expectations but that would imply that she had any when she agreed to come over Kavinsky's tent. She didn't quite buy the explanation that he had given her for wanting her presence but the huge, ugly bruise covering his face really did raise some questions, which she wouldn't ask. She refused to let any of the awkwardness and tension in the tent bother her and just focused on taking the most out of the situation. Which was nice and comfortable bed (that she unfortunately had to share), delicious snacks and seemingly unlimited amount of alcohol.

And while it's not like she couldn't get the same things in her previous residence she still somehow found herself liking this setting better. Mostly because unlike Tony, neither of the boys were aware of what all happened before the crash. Apparently they had missed the post that went up to network right after her second death, displaying her cut up corpse for everyone to see. Or then they just didn't care enough to say anything. Whatever it was it definitely worked for her. And as strange it was, she even could get sleep better in the more cramped bed.

Sure, she still woke few times during the night from her nightmares with a merciless sound gunshot ringing in her ears, which really was nothing new to her -- except this time she was the one behind the trigger. During those nights she would only try to hog the blanket and kick either of the guys off the bed. The affection or comfort didn't really belong anywhere between them so she might as well try to get more space for herself.

Like said, it was an awkward and weird setting but it was something. Something new, a break from the people she had hurt and from the darker thoughts that kept her awake, reminding her from the fact that she shouldn't be there. That captains did a mistake for bringing her back.

Or so she thought.

When she first enters the tent and sees Kavinsky sitting on the bed, his eyes huge and distant, she doesn't think anything's wrong. She's seen him high on drugs plenty of times and even joined him once or twice. But then she takes the second look and the paleness of his skin hits her, freezing her breath inside her lungs as she slowly lowers her gaze from his eyes to his shoulder, then moving down to his arm and wrists. The sight of red oozing out from the wounds is like a punch to stomach, twisting and turning her insides into nauseating knot.

There's a moment when J only stares at him with eyes wide and lips parted as the reality of the events catches up with her.

Oh no. Fuck no. This can't be happening.

Then after a quick beat, one that feels like an eternity, she remembers how to breathe and use words again.]

What.. What have you done? [She says, eyes locked in the redness inside of the bucket. The words come out slow and quiet like a whisper.]

[pillz]

[have done? kavinsky's head sags fractionally on its stem, his eyes dropping into the bucket of gross. he'd definitely thought about what would happen when he eventually lost consciousness and sent red water in every direction, ruining the bed, the fleeces, the delicious pillows. you know. the 'dream thief luxury tent' version of taking all your toys home.]

Am doing, baby, [he says.] But you wanna step out for another ten, I'm nearly done.

[his words are starting to slur a little. it sounds more like, mdoingba-by. it's getting uncomfortably cold in the tent, and j's beautiful face makes slightly less sense than usual, despite the fact that she still has the right amount of eyes and that pretty (and otherwise memorable) mouth. if he were more coherent, kavinsky would like the idea of his last words being some form of hatespeech, but he honestly can't think of anything clever at the moment. ('clever.')

he wonders if j could get her favorite fleece out of the way before he and the blood bucket tip over. it's only right over there.

and with that, he sticks the shiny edge of the razor into his wrist, and starts dragging a cut parallel to the one already oozing liberally there.]

stalkathon

[deconstruct]

[ it should probably be strange that this is a normal, everyday hobby for andyr. most people that know him well (all four of them) have likely come to accept that this is just something he does, either out of paranoia, boredom, or a desire to just be creepy. it's more difficult now, without the network of ventilation shafts for him to crawl through, over everyone's head, going unnoticed, but the rocks of the planet work well enough. besides, climbing is fun.

observing joseph kavinsky going about his day to day activities, however, is less fun. the more he hears him talk, the more he sort of just wants to hop down and throttle him.

but, given that gross murder is off the menu for the indefinite future (for as long as Ronan is here), he'll just have to keep his hands to himself. thus, here he is, crouching at the top of a rock, somewhere over head of kavinsky, in whatever he's busying himself with at the moment, mostly staying out of sight, with a peek over the edge now and again to make sure if isn't stabbing himself or others in the throat. it's gotten actually fairly boring at this point, and he's almost wishing kavinsky would start something, just for the sake of andyr having something to do.

even if that something is probably tying him to a tree for his own/Ronan's safety. ]

cw c-word

[pillz]

[most of kavinsky's day-to-day pursuits involve being drunk and throwing hand grenades. usually at booby-trapped houses. sure, sometimes that means the goods get damaged, but there's nearly no trap at all that's going to sit numb through a projectile explosive.

even if his throwing arm has been worse off lately.

it's been two days since he was out of the medbay. adrien's machines have restored him to near pristine state; there are no chunky bandages on his wrists, his gait is steady. but he did do some damage to the muscles in his forearms, and that, with the soreness of new protein strands grown in, mean his ability to blow shit up is mildly impaired. sad, really. fortunately, breaking shit reduces the sad, and you don't have to have all that powerful an arm. the grenade does most of the heavy lifting.

under andyr's supervision, the explosion is brilliant and loud. wood slats and window glass burst apart in a flash of light. there's a brief hummm, of the home security system spinning up for an instant, and then subsiding. below andyr's tree, kavinsky peers at his prize. he takes out a second grenade.

and then he looks up at his stalker's perch.] Hey, cunt, [he says.] You think they'd buy the plausible deniability if I hit you with this shit? It's not like I can see you.

[deconstruct]

[ ah, so he was not as sneaky as he'd tried to be, but that's not terribly surprising to be honest. In a moment of pause, andyr decides it doesn't matter whether or not he knows. There'd been some incident Andyr'd missed, that'd landed Kavinsky in medical for a while. He'd peered in to snoop around and figure out what had happened - bandages on his wrists and strapped down to the bed with a blood bag feeding into him. It makes a pretty definitive suggestion of what had happened, or moreso, what K had done to himself.

Andyr doesn't know why, and he finds difficulty in caring, aside from what effect it might have in Ronan. He doesn't know if he'd gotten the news, or been given a lie, but Andyr'd decided to leave it. Just track a bit closer. Which, is apparently what this is. Watching Kavinsky blow up old, abandoned houses like some kind of brat who just can't handle being with havoc to cause. ]

Nope. [ Andyr's commenting lazily, eyes on the blank sky above them. He ought to be more worried about the psycho with the grenades down below, but such is Andyr's typical disposition. One day that'll actually become a problem, maybe today, considering he doesn't have the genetics active to make surviving easy. Either way, even if he does kick it, that leaves a handful of people likely to be pissed about it. ]

You think it's bad having me on your ass? Wait 'til it's Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.

closed to jesse pinkman; (cw suicide attempt)

[pillz]

[waking comes sluggishly, in a confusion of neon swirls and spot aches. he blinks. the fabric ceiling doesn't seem like it's coming into focus, before he realize that's because there's jack shit to see there. when he moves his head, he finds a machine leaning over him, steadily pinching some gauze over the stitches down his left arm. preventing scabs, reducing scars.

kavinsky blinks. he realizes he's not dead.

also, that there's somebody moving around on the far end of the tent. medstaff maybe. somebody else? he tries to move, then realizes that the bed has him strapped down. not tightly; just enough to suggest they don't like it when their patients fuck with surgical procedures, or their ivs. he glances dizzily at the tube of synthetic blood running down on the right, and then cranes just his head up.

hey. hey.

he recognizes that dirty blond peachfuzz.]

Hey, [kavinsky croaks.] Hey.

[heisenbitch]

[ Jesse waits near the medical tent, watching. Smoking. Sitting nearby on a rock jutting out of the ground like he's just broodily sitting on his own and not interested in talking to anybody. He's been watching the tent, though, subtly watching the comings and goings of the medbay staff. Waiting for an opportunity.

That opportunity comes when he sees the only medbay crew he knows is in there step outside to go and talk to someone. When their back is to him, Jesse casually stands, takes a final drag of the cigarette, and drops it to the ground to crush it under his foot as he exhales. Then he's pushing his hands into his pockets and calmly heading for the tent while throwing subtle glances here and there.

He slips into the tent, unseen. He heads straight for the medicine cabinet.

Drawers open, boxes of pills and vials of drugs are rummaged around through. There. Painkillers. He throws another watchful glance towards the tent entrance while he begins stuffing a few pill strip packages into his pocket.

--That croaky voice has Jesse quickly darting a look over his shoulder. He cranes his neck, and...

...Kavinsky?

Stuffing one last strip of pills into his pocket, he nudges the drawer shut and edges curiously around the medical equipment and the other beds to peer at the kid. He takes in the sight of him. Jesus. Wth one more glance thrown back at the tent entrance, he edges closer, then sets his attention on Kavinsky once he's almost by the end of the kid's bed. ]

...Jesus. Who'd you piss off?

[pillz]

[is that jesse pinkman therrrre. is he stealin' pills? oh mah starrrrs. that's downraaaght...

fuck. kavinsky's head thumps back onto his pillow groggily, but the next moment, he's trying again. the machine beeps at him testily when he shuffles his arms up in their cuffs, to try and prop himself up on his elbows. he wonders why this fucking blood transfusion isn't going any faster.]

Fuck you, [he mumbles.] I did this to myself.

[yes, conventional masculinity has it that one does not boast of suicidality or self-immolating nihilism. but kavinsky's subscriptions tend to lean toward less conventional masculinity. like, there's some car and driver and men's health in there, sure, but then there's definitely a random centerfold of a fire dragon borne of raw hatred, some plaintive epithets about how his life is no more than sex, cars, and drugs, etc., etc. kavinsky's only cool until you get close enough to tell how weird he is.] Yo. [he closes his eyes, squeezes. reopens.] Do me a favor and I'll hook you up.

closed to adam; (cw classism, overdose, etc.; week 4)

[pillz]

[watching him from the distance, kavinsky supposes he looks okay, for poor white trash. even he has to admit, he can't talk; he's fucked all kinds of people before. people who came from nothing, who would die as nothing. some of whom had died nothing, according to the latest information on the him-induced overdoses.

but that's neither here nor there. or at least, it's not here. here, kavinsky's watching adam slowly walk along back from his short stop at the designated latrine building. a few hundred yards behind him, the camp has almost entirely packed up in preparation for the day's travel. the line of houses blocks his view of the other moirans, which is good, because that means that they can't see him.

or adam parrish, all zipped up and hands freshly washed, like a good boy.

kavinsky steps out into the middle of the deserted street. it's some western showdown shit right here. except the horizon is blazing sunrise, instead of sunset. and, instead of waiting for proper ceremony, he promptly pulls out the pistol in his hand. points it squarely at adam, and pulls the trigger. for better or worse, there's no kick, no explosion, no discharge of cordite. instead, the dart sleeks silently through the air toward the boy.]

[unaffluent]

[The morning was going like most mornings had. The general pattern of waking up, going to the bathroom and then planning on finding something or other to eat -- maybe. His appetite was questionable at best since he'd gotten there, mostly stress perhaps or just the food available was rather difficult to get hungry for, or hungry enough that he couldn't just deal with the hunger pains since he was used to those anyway.

He isn't expecting an attack from Kavinsky so his guard isn't really up and he wouldn't have noticed him, honestly, if not for the fact that he gets hit with... he feels pain his shoulder and looks at the source... A dart? He doesn't have time to really react before whatever it's supposed to be doing starts to take affect and suddenly he feels himself losing control of his body which makes him panic.

The panic seems to paralyze him or is that the dart? Either way, he's not long for standing upright.]

Fucking... [He can't hardly think of anything to finish that off with, with the panic seizing his brain. He hadn't even yet identified the fact that it is Kavinsky that did this.]

[pillz]

[it takes a few minutes, but then kavinsky's space shoes walk into adam's view. the uniform boots. the ground is warm under adam's cheek, the moment before a hand descends and cups his head to turn his face up, his thin fingers rough and warmer than the dirt. kavinsky looks at him. the bulgarian boy's eyes are very dark, his full-lipped mouth oddly empty of visible sentiment.]

You're gonna be fine, [he says.] The gun wouldn't fuckin' fire when I tried to load it with anything that was gonna hurt you. [then he lets go of adam's head, allowing it to fall gently back to the earth. there's a shuffling of something-- presumably kavinsky freeing up his hands, and then he stoops down to grasp adam by the pant leg. the next moment, he's being turned over to look at the sky. and then the earth starts to scrape by below him, a long, slow dragging.]

closed to j; (cw misogynistic language! week 4)

[pillz]

[there are a lot of slasher movies that start this way. a beautiful woman in a large and shadowy house, the cold air of the night prickling her fair skin, her pupils swollen from the anticipation of unknown possibilities.

it's so quiet.

she's not alone. she doesn't notice the silhouette matching her stride down the hallway, misses the quick step that places him around the corner. she turns back too soon. she thinks she's alone. the audience behind the fourth wall clutches their faces, fearful for their heroine, and screams. turn around, j! they shriek. they love j. everybody loves j. turn around! it's—

just kavinsky, it turns out. with a sudden whack of his thumb on the flashlight button, flooding the narrow hallway with a powerful beam of light. he has no compunction about swinging it up at her face, despite that it's painfully bright. and suddenly we realize this isn't your usual slasher flick at all. most slasher flicks don't feature the crew in ranked jumpsuits. and the predator doesn't usually say, wryly,]

Bitch, you stole from me.

[gentlemenpreferblondes]

[The bright spotlight from the flashlight comes out of nowhere, causing her to actually jump and yelp from the surprise.] ---Jesus, fuck! [She swears out loud and turns to face him properly, once hand on top of the table and another on her heart.

Well, to be honest, she was kind of expecting to have Kavinsky to come after her. She figured out that it wouldn't take him from too long to realize just what was missing from his tent. After all, she had gotten to know him a bit too well during that week so seeing him standing behind her, looking like a sneaky snake in his Moira Uniform.

-- And speaking of uniform, J's also wearing her own. It's a rather rare sight as she usually prefers the dresses she's gathered from their previous planet stops. For once her chest is flat, curly hair not styled nor does she wear any makeup on her face. But that still doesn't make her look any less feminine than what he's used to.]

You almost gave me a heart attack there! The hell is wrong with you?!

cw drugs

[pillz]

[to his credit, if 'credit' is the right word, whiCH IT MOST definitely isn't!! but he doesn't shine his light at her chest. or otherwise comment as to the change in her figure. instead, he remains reasonably well focused on the topic at hand.]

Well for starters, [kavinsky smiles despite himself. leans on the wall. the flashlight beam swings away and up toward the ceiling, tracing the bright circle of light over the paint. in the semi-darkness, the bruises that ronan's fists had left on his face are somewhat less apparent.] I was bleeding out in a fucking tent, on some cunty alien moon. This blonde shows up. Starts slapping the shit out of me. 'Cause that's gonna help jack.

Robs my ass blind while I'm in hospital. [his smile twists his lips, lopsided. there's a vague, vibrating quality to his knee jittering there. tweaker's edge. he's been clean for a few days, thanks to the woman in question, but the crazed, drug-fuelled edge of him hasn't worn soft yet. it'd be scary, if she hadn't lived through so much worse in the past year. maybe it's still a little bit scary anyway.]

Where'd you put it, J?