thisavrou_log | o3 🔥 after three days of drinkin with larry love

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o3 🔥 after three days of drinkin with larry love

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.

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[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.]

[ 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?

[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.

[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.]

[ 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.

[kavinsky looks somewhat disappointed in the other man's lack of skill or cooperation or whatever is happening here, but it's okay. he hadn't had very high hopes anyway.

also, he has as many harpoons and hand grenades and, you know, refrigerators as he wants. at least for the foreseeable future. (there is a not-too-distant twist to the future that he cannot curently foresee at all.)] I think so, [he answers about skye's murderous sexual orientation, a little distractedly. he takes a big step over the carcass' lax purple leg, going around to the belly of the beast. and then he snaps his fingers, flapping at andyr optimistically.] Hey. Hey, lend me your knife, man.

[he actually has his own knife. but it's second nature to him, to feel around the edges of people. to exert a little pressure here, a little more there. to find give, whenever it happens. in fact, it's so deeply knit into his nature that he doesn't even think of it in those terms. of you asked him, he'd just point out it's stupid to get two knives dirty.]

Check this out.

[with his other hand, he sets the rifle down-- right on the dead elephant thing, naturally. he then extricates a tiny kitchen blowtorch from his leg pocket. if andyr wasn't puzzled enough at the appearance of explosives and high-powered weapons, this is really going to take his mind for a spin.] White boys eat sushi today!

[ kavinsky's getting a squint, for the want to suddenly take his knife (they'd all gotten one from the captains, why would this kid go hunting without a perfectly good knife?), but he flips it to hand the thing over, hilt side facing kavinsky, either way. not because he trusts this stranger at all, but more because andyr has more sharp deadly things on his person currently, and it'll take a lot more than a knife wound to kill him ( he thinks, at least ( exhibit A of Andyr Is Really Bad At Self-Preservation )).

With head tilted, he's watching him scamper around the dead, alien elephant, setting his rifle down, and reaching into a pocket to pull out-- dude. ]

The fuck'd you even pull that from, your ass?

[ even with all the camping supplies they'd been given in the month before ronan showed up, there hadn't been any kind of lighters or fucking mini blowtorches. perhaps, if he'd been bright enough to think of it then, when they were on the mini colony andyr could've gone hunting for one to buy, but he doesn't remember seeing this kid on the crew that long ago. he does, however, have a flashlight, so that's what he pulls up to shine on the half blown out gut of the creature, when he comes to crouch near kavinsky. ]

You hiding rice and that seaweed crap on you somewhere too? [ since we're doing sushi, apparently. ]

Edited 2016-12-11 04:17 (UTC)

[it's a good question. and also: a good knife. kavinsky laughs, doubly pleased. when you can dream anything you want for yourself, you become more discerning about what evaluates as worth having when it's offered by others. jokes, well. those aren't any good coming from yourself, are they?]

Man, I don't fucking eat rice. Or vegetables.

[he wields the knife with a reasonable amount of surety, for a boy who's only had to kill one thing in his life, and used a gun to do it. cocaine helps. makes him stronger. strong enough to dig the knife through the creature's belly, then pull, dragging the slit sideways, dorsally, like he's seen in movies. it's not a clean cut, zigging and zagging with effort. sweat gathers on his forehead.] Hold this shit, man, [he says, offering andyr the blowtorch.] Don't point that shit at your face, [he adds. he can tell, even if he isn't entirely cognizant of it-- some people and their survival instinct deficits. takes one to know one.

two-handed, he drags the cut wider. the animal's pretty fucking huge, and andyr was right about the thickness of its fat. no organs spill out into the open, or at least, not right away. gleaming seams of flesh, though. kavinsky fusses and struggles for a few long minutes, his gaunt face tight with concentration underneath the muck of animal blood. and then he's satisfied, starts to jiggle the blade around, trying to make a piece small enough to eat.]

How the fuck is it. You know seaweed and rice and sushi. But not Richard Gere's experiments with gerbilling?

Then how the fuck were you planning on eating sushi without either rice or fish?

[ son, you don't even understand how sushi works, but okay, it's by far not the most bizarre thing to have come out of this boy's mouth, or typed from his fingers. when handed the blowtorch and issued the warning, kavinsky's flashed a look that scream "oh, really, because i was planning on doing that exactly", but andyr keeps his mouth shut, instead watching all this huffing and puffing and pushing at elephant skin thing going on, a frown on his lips and he answers the other bit of rambling distractedly. ]

I'm from 3451 - ancient people are dead, food isn't. [ well, some food is, and there's definitely been changes, and some people are remembered. for instance, andyr knows Disney, but Richard Gere is just too specific and too unimportant of a person to have lasted through 1,000 plus years of entertainment and pop culture history.

either way, what he's more concerned with now is seeing what this alien elephant meat tastes like, and how much he might try to down another one of these things later. But seeing how much effort it's taking Kavinsky to slice through the hide, and assuming he's just simple, normal human, impatience gets the best of him, and he's reaching out to wave a hand, shooing Kavinsky away from the knife. ] Lemme try it.

I don't know Japs, okay. Hey. The fuck happened to 'I dunno how to chop up meat, ask the jungle for help'? [kavinsky asks. annoyed, but in the fleeting kind of way. he gives up the knife easily, then grabs his grubby fingers for the blowtorch again, wresting it into his own grasp.

to his credit (??), he points it away from his own face and also away from andyr's face when he checks that it's working. whooof whoooof, the blowtorch says, issuing a fierce, cone-shaped blue flame into the empty air. kavinsky smiles to himself, and then steps away from andyr and his kill. he doesn't go far, though, because he's just looking around for some good rocks. he finds some good rocks. flat rocks. like plates.

he's going to play tea time with a dude from 3451. picking one up, kavinsky starts to blowtorch it by way of sterilization. he goes about it a bit slowly, pausing to verify the rocks aren't giving off fucked up lime green toxic gas clouds or melting onto his hand. luck is on his side: the toxic clouds, if any, are invisible. he then looks up to see andyr's progress with the sushi.]

[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.]

Thought we gave up on real butchering? All you're doing is slicing anyway, and I can slice better. [ there's no explanation beyond that, just andyr swapping places with him and handing over the blowtorch in favor if taking the knife back, sawing at the elephant's flesh with a more efficient kind of force, maybe shredding the skin a bit more than slicing (he can't help the knife be any sharper, just the strength behind it as it cuts), but getting more done with less time.

while kavinsky's off prepping his tea set plates, andyr manages to get several slices out of the carcass, looking something like little pork chop slabs - thin, and hopefully easier to cook that way. holding several in a stack in one now bloodied hand, he holds them out towards the stranger when he comes wandering back. ]

Here. You ever trying cooking with that before? [ andyr should probably be more concerned about the diseases they might get either from this meat or under preparing food, but he figures he has an iron stomach and immune system, so the trade it is probably alright (exhibit B of Andyr Is Really Bad At Self-Preservation ). ]

[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.

Edited (typo) 2016-12-12 05:43 (UTC)

I never said I didn't want it. I just want it to work like it's supposed to.

[And they've been slowly becoming successful at accomplishing that. Yes, it's a relief to sleep and rest like any other person and to know that he'll wake up unharmed, in one piece, and without putting anyone in danger. But he only wants it temporarily. A short vacation after two months of hell.

Ronan's eyes drop briefly to the gun before returning to Kavinsky's face. That look.]

We've been doing a good job. We've been so close to stabilizing this shit. I sure as fuck didn't want to stop and give up now.

[kavinsky has admittedly never tried cooking with any thing before.

but in order to reassure his companion, he says,] How hard can it be?

[which is all you need, when it comes to pyrotechnics and experimenting with space food.

pocketing the blowtorch again, kavinsky holds up both stone dishes. he proffers them so that andyr can put the slabs on it, speaking up only now and again to nag the man into squishing them slightly further apart. same principle, so that they'll cook faster.

once that's done, they don't exactly have a table. but kavinsky finds a boulder to set the 'dishes' down on, and in a moment, he's hard at work with the 'cooking,' as it were. it actually begins to smell delicious quite soon after he gets started, thanks to andyr's proficiency with his blade.]

Do future people eat tongues and feet and shit? [he asks. the blue flame lights up his narrow face, eerie as anything.] You can have those. If you want.

Edited (screams and never recovers from bad html) 2016-12-13 02:54 (UTC)

[ Andyr lets out a snort, rolling his eyes. Well, if the food's undercooked, he decides it'll be Kavinsky that suffers more for it than him, and his curiosity, once the scent of a hot meal filters up, is too great to pass up on it.

crouching down on the other side of kavinsky's makeshift grill, he's watching intently, as the boy goes about cooking the bits of alien flesh, wondering at what it's likely to taste like, when he speaks up again (it seems like this kid just can't handle quiet). ]

When they're attached to still living people, sure. [ is he joking? maybe.

no, actually he's really not, and nothing on his features suggests he might be, for the moment of still silence he spends staring at this kid, before glancing away, back to the carcass. ]

No thanks. I can find something else if you're that committed to not sharing. [ but he did just carve you up nice little slices and you should at least let him taste it, you butthole. ]

We don't have it anymore.

[and that's when kavinsky sounds sad, almost. kavinsky's version of sadness is a bell in an open field empty of everything of fog. a swipe of blue paint on a rotting canvas. a concept that seems familiar but lack sincerity of execution. it's a strange and empty thing, compared to what ronan has seen chase gansey out of his buzzing nightmares, or dog adam through the corridors of school.

doesn't make it any less dangerous, though. kavinsky kicks off his shoe, peels off his sock. his toes emerge, pretty and pale and perfect, even when he puts them up on the trigger of the rifle, and tugs the muzzle toward himself. his eyes blink overbright in the firelight.]

Two for eight. If it blows, I win. Magic wins, baby.

[Ronan's heart leaps into his throat and he nearly chokes when he pleads:]

Stop.

[It's a more honest syllable than he ever wanted Kavinsky to hear, wrought with panic and the need to see Kavinsky fucking survive for once. If Kavinsky can even remember it, it's more desperate than when he was begging Andyr for Kavinsky's life. This, because there was at least a chance that Andyr would listen, and almost no chance that Kavinsky will.]

We'll get it back, asshole. Quit fucking around and just... Fuck.

[joseph 'butthole' kavinsky laughs, even as he moves the handheld flame carefully over the meat. the blowtorch doesn't lose power. the meat continues to turn from pink to brown pretty quickly, juice welling up in a sheen. he's pretty good at cooking them even, possibly because he's practiced on all kinds of things, including himself, hahahahaha.

he isn't sure he believes about the tongue-foot cannibalism, but he isn't sure he doesn't believe it either. give him a few weeks, he'll be even less sure he doesn't believe it.]

Not that hungry, [he admits. not tonight, not any night.] I'll barf if I try to eat all this shit myself. You're up. [and with that, he hits the button on his blowtorch. almost puts it back in his pants, but he makes a face when he realizes it's wayyy to hot for that right now, and sets it back on top of the carcass again. sorry, dead animal, you're officially furniture now.

either generous or interested in not shitting himself with food poisoning first, he proffers the plate to andyr, gallantly.]

( → 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.]

[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.

[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.

[kavinsky peers at the other boy. he could have guessed this would happen, sort of. he'd dug a kernel of truth out of the other dream thief, kicking and screaming, back when

but his battered face is pounding with sore heat and his heart is coursing with the wild energy of cocaine and his head is still singing with suicide songs and ronan's voice is just part of the noise. how pointless it is, to harbor love for your fellow mankind. kavinsky's never so sure as when he's looking at the insufferable handsomeness of ronan's face, that love is painful and self-immolating, and man-pain will age ronan into years of handsomeness if he manages to survive long enough to accumulate greys and crows' feet and heavy enough jowls to support a beard. kavinsky can kind of imagine it, sometimes, when he bothers to try: an older ronan, not happier but wiser to the ways of his own misery, still popping giddily back and forth between life isn't just sex and drugs and cars and fucking some random space midget he met two months ago.]

Try to keep up, Lynch.

[he's quoting himself!

and then he pulls the trigger with his toe.

click. the weapon doesn't fire. kavinsky blinks-- and laughs.]

That's what we're calling this. [She repeats firmly. That's what she's always called the meetings with similar nature. It's one way to keep the fine line between her doings and prostitution. Because that's not what she is.

She sets the toy down on the floor to lean against the bed and sits on the mattress right next to him, crossing her leg over another eloquently. Let him stare, she thinks with a confidence as she decides to take it more as a compliment than an insult.]

Ah, you poor thing. [Isn't it curious how her voice is dripping of sweetness when the texts she send were nothing but rude and crass.] I'm going to have to let you decide the movie. Can't say I'm familiar with any of the ones you got.

[Ronan screams when Kavinsky pulls the trigger, an animal thing like a wildcat who's just ensnared his paw in a trap. Some fear, but mostly outrage. At Kavinsky, for pulling the trigger. At himself, for not stopping him.

So when the rifle doesn't fire, Ronan immediately dives for it. With his left hand, he grabs at the nozzle to point it toward the sky. And with the right, he seizes Kavinsky by the throat. Roughly, but not to kill. Not the way Andyr did it.]

You idiot. You fucking asshole.

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Page 1 of 7

o3 🔥 after three days of drinkin with larry love

closed to andyr; (week 1)

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closed to ronan; (week 2)

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cw more weird racism!

jfkdlsa kavinsky why

cw richard gere's alleged gerbilling

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closed to j; (week 2)

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cw implied transphobia

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