maskormenacelogs | FANPORT OVERFLOW LOG

[from some of the artistic products he's seen, a certain degree of shit is inescapable. like how did ronan get such large hands? and kavinsky is also dimly, dully offended by the number of times he's been depicted without gel in his hair, if not the number of sparkles that the strands seem to net in absence of product.

there were a couple decent ones, mind you. kavinsky just has a difficult time focusing on the positives in life. it's one of his special gifts.]

Babe, [he says, flicking the lighter on with his thumb.] These bitches are fucking losers. Every other loser with shit for self-esteem-- [he holds up the lighter high enough for her to draw the heat in through the slender cylinder.] --is trying to overcompensate. If you're gonna be a loser, be loser queen. Be-fucking-hold. [he lights his own cigarette, which constitutes a melodramatic pause, because he is also a loser, just don't tell anybody. and then he gestures around, sending tendrils of smoke everywhere.]

One girl's shit is another girl's-- you know the rest. What's wrong with your vagina? [his mind jumps around like he subsists on air and uppers. he construes, perhaps incorrectly, that it is that region of her that demands fear.]

It's attached to me.

[She says it so simply; it's not self deprecating. And she looks him over again. Focusing on the positives has never been Saya's problem. In fact she's pretty damn good at it.]

And I'm terrifying.

[And that's said with an innocent sort of smile, just a lift of the corner of her mouth. She takes a drag of cigarette.]

Besides, the probability of one of these virgins successfully getting me to orgasm is low, and I don't feel like training any of them. Not today, anyway. I'm not a loser queen, Kavinsky. Queens are for bees, and I'm a bit of a more dangerous kind of bitch, as it were.

[Coming from someone else, that might come off as a bit desperate. But with her she just says it like it's a fact and leaves it there.]

That right? [kavinsky can recognize someone who believes what they're saying, when he's looking at them. ronan had been like that, a little. as certain of his honesty as he was certain of his secrets, hilariously ignorant of the point-- points-- at which those two truths violated each other and turned into hypocrisy.

he'd thought of himself as dangerous, too. so much posturing. kavinsky had been a little bit enamored of that, but that was awhile ago.]

Loser what. King? Gender nonspecific ruler on a tranny throne. Prince! Don't answer. [his eyes glitter, but he's moving to cover them up in a minute, pulling the sunglasses off his shirt collar. predictably, he latches onto the notion that she's talking about powers. latches onto that, with the herky jerky suddenness endemic to cokeheads. to be fair, he could be further from correct, this time. (he doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about arthropods, is part of the problem.)

(also one does not generally consider the possibility they're conversing with an abnormally large spider, where he comes from.)]

What you got. Laser eyes? Toxic pubes?

Edited (fix) 2016-05-05 03:39 (UTC)

[She considers what she'll tell him.]

If you drink my blood you'll get high.

[That's true. And another pause.]

I can't get messy.

[That's also true. She knocks out a bit of ash.]

Why, what's yours, other than making girls cry?

Fuck. Really? [unmistakable interest flickers through his eyes, even if the next instant, he grimaces. yes, despite everything, he draws the line at drinking a chick's blood. it's a dashed line, but still. line. ish.] More like a pot high or a meth high? Asking for a friend.

[he laughs, gusting a little skein of grey smoke out of his mouth. he doesn't even finish his cigarette before dropping it, grinding it out with the ball of his foot.]

I'm the mother of dragons.

[it's not a deliberate reference i think probably, i don't want to accidentally break the fourth wall on any game of thrones people we have around. but he is referring to the network post he first made, coming in. he studies her, his face pleasantly blank. he knows she's interested in him, for some testicle-curdling reason or other; he imagines she remembers that.] It's a good gig, if you like fire.

Like LSD and molly, I'm told.

[She finishes her cigarette with a shrug.]

It's a useless power, probably.

[But then he says that and she pauses. She knows dragons. She's met dragons. The dragons back home are not things to be fucked with.]

Do they dream themselves into shape?

[That's how the dragons at home work. They dream themselves into shape.]

[kavinsky's hollow eyes grow slightly less hollow, widening for an instant. he is approximately as grossed out as he is entertained.] Bullshit. [he reserves enthusiasm for the most choice topics.] That could make you rich. [drugs, profit. choice topics; the choices that he makes.]

But I guess you're doing all right.

[he glances down at her shoes, leadingly, but he doesn't care very much about shoes. he's merely playing off the focus of his attention while he thinks about what to say. do dragons dream themselves? no. not without getting awfully metaphorical, anyway. he toys with the lie for just a moment. deceit is generally more attractive than the alternative.

but eh.] Nah, man. I got my own. [kavinsky shrugs his shoulders.] How the fuck does something dream before it's fucking there? [his eyes are half-mast again. he actually likes dreaming even more than drugs, but he's a little less open with his interest.]

[She shrugs at that first bit. If he believes it or not, that's not her problem. She doesn't mention that it burns like battery acid, that it can kill, too. But that's a side effect some people will endure for blood like that.]

If I cared all that much about money, I'm sure it would matter, but I don't.

[Despite the shoes. It's not a life of luxury she leads - she lives above a garage, she doesn't eat solid food. Her expense are her clothes.]

You would have to ask a dragon the particulars. But that's what I was told. That dragons dream themselves.

[It's hard to tell if she means that literally.]

[kavinsky toys with this concept for another moment. but magic must be literal for him to be able to use it, weather for work or for fun. he isn't wont to pursue such intellectual games without something more tangible being on the line.

(maybe he entertains, for an instant, the possibility he dreamt himself here.) (but the thought is too disturbing. he should be dead, but at least he can say that living wasn't his idea.)

(he plans for it to stick, next time.)]

Hey.

[so it's back to the concrete, the next moment. the tangible. work and fun. a smile slits the width of kavinsky's pale face. he has half an idea. the beginning of an idea. or he's merely trying at her temper, which could be the idea in and of itself.] Gimme some of your blood, [he says. momma never taught him to say please. he cocks his head, tilting her reflection on the lenses of his sunglasses. nobody would be surprised if she told him no, but it probably wouldn't shock anybody if she humored him, either.]

[She looks him up, and then down, and then up again, like she's taking the measure of him. Give me your blood is never a good thing; she knows too many people who can fuck her over with just a few drops of her blood.

But feeding him her blood is another matter.

She considers this another moment.]

Tongue out.

You sound like my uncle Mikey, [says kavinsky, because of course he would say that. he grins an awful grin and studies her and thinks about his options, but it doesn't take him very long. for one thing, there aren't too many options.

and for another, he loves himself some mysterious mind-altering substances.]

If this is gonna gimme cancer, can you aim for not my prostate, [he requests. and then he opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue.]

What I have for you is better than anything he put in your mouth.

[Since we're being disgusting.

She cuts her finger with a barb from one of her silver rings, and presses her finger on his tongue. Blue blood smears against his tongue - too much would burn, caustic, but a little feels more like eating too much pineapple, leaving behind soreness.

She pulls her finger back and it's hard to see her hand, but he might catch sight of the darkness of her blood, utterly the wrong color. Hemocyanin is her blessing.

Of course, it doesn't take long. It's a supernatural gift, the properties of her blood, that make his heart speed up a little, that make the hallucinations pound against his senses - all of them. It's not an easy high, but it shouldn't run him roughshod, either. It's the strange sense of time, the euphoria of Molly, and the psychedelic effects of LSD crashing against him.

And Saya is there, beautiful, serene, more like a spider than usual, and she's watching.]

[who needs happiness when you can have drugs. kavinsky closes his eyes, and then without having to look, he finds his sunglasses with his fingers and puts them back on his face. after that, he looks very blank for a long time. well, a long time in terms of conversational lull and kavinsky's crazy-eyed cokehead energy.

the air is full of spinning paisleys and there are rainbows sketching out between the icicles blooming around satya's face. that's kind of different. interesting. you don't get a lot of poetic blizzard halos where he comes from. the feeling of wellbeing is a little different from the safety of being invincible in his normal, superpowered-but-default capacity. it's harder to hold onto the slimy-cold paranoia that the russians are coming, that he must remain vigilant, that he must be prepared, which his six, and imagine the worst case scenarios before they arrive in tangible technicolor. it's hard to remember all that. which is probably good.

that would make for a pretty fucking bad trip.]

Uncle Mikey, I think I'm getting used to the taste.

[a smile drags itself out slowly over his face. the lenses of his shades hide his eyes, reduces them to sinkholes of fringy shadow through the translucent glass. and the next moment, he's leaning over, his nose angled around her nose so that he can lay a haphazard kiss on her mouth.]

[Well.

That catches the attention of the people around them. Two imPorts kissing on the floor, because he kisses her and she kisses him back, of course she does. It's never romantic with Saya, it's pure physical sensation; her kisses are filthy, open mouthed and suggestive, dirty things.

And she does it with no hesitation at all.

It's not very long, though, and her hands are on the small of his back.]

You should go and find the loudest music you can. Do you want me to go with you?

[She will. For the experimental factor. To see how he responds.]

[it would be inaccurate to say that kavinsky is never romantic. well— that he's never had a romantic feeling for a person. the shittiness of his execution and expression only serves to contrast and highlight how intensely he had felt at the time. he had courted death for years, and the flirtation would've gone on some time had it not been for that whole shit with falling in love.

or whatever passes for love, in kavinsky's solipsistic universe.]

You can come if you want. Plus minus clitoral stimulation? Shhhyygh—

[the disgusted, oh-no-cooties noise at the end is strangely at odds with the arm that winds up slung around saya's shoulders. he either doesn't mind or doesn't know that he has lipstick smeared translucently across his mouth. he doesn't mind and doesn't entirely know that there are people staring at him. they, too, are more swirls than bodies, shapes in the color of sunlight. indifferent in his bliss, he leans over her shoulder and steers her haphazardly back out toward the parking lot.]

FREE TP BITCHES, [he yells, and hikes a thumb over his shoulder at the drawing that he only distantly remembers behind.] FROM YOUR SLOPPY ANUS.

[Saya doesn't wave, but well.

This is a pleasant distraction to the day. She thought she might go hunting here, but this is better; well, no. Hunting would have been best. But this is good enough.]

We'll find you someone willing to suck you off, if you like. I hear sex on this is amazing.

[She says it casually, but she's not invested. She's watching his eyes and his face and she's taking in his responses - heartbeat and breath - as she leads him away.]

I dunno, man. [but kavinsky's uncertainty doesn't sound particularly intense. he lacks investment, himself. he lacks investment in himself. their rambling pace takes them past a stand decorated heavily with pro-import memorabilia and anti-russia stuff, and he sticks out a hand, accidentally ('accidentally') clears a small forest of brightly-colored flags.]

Could start seeing shark teeth. Or my cock turning crystal. Shattered dick icicle in a fangy fish vortex. [under the best of circumstances, kavinsky's speech is kind of disorganized, and sometimes it really seems like he's just yelling random words. potent mind-altering substances aren't about to help such matters at all, but that only matters if you care what he's talking about.] Nightmare fuel.

[but that phrase has special significance to him. kavinsky laughs, only to stop a little sharply once they reach the doors. the sun is painfully bright to his over-dilated eyes.]

FANPORT OVERFLOW LOG

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