That makes Kavinsky smile. Jack makes it sound like a challenge, which is obviously the opposite of what Jack is trying to do, in absence of an actual, visible challenge. Maybe that should've been the proposed title of Kavinsky's reality TV show. Kavinsky's Big Gay Challenge. Subtitle, emitting from a tiny cutout head of cartoon Jack: Not That Big After All.
"I want your cunt on my face and your tits in my hands, sweetheart. I want everything."
But he just swallows his pill dry and closes his eyes. Maybe he should be more worried about leaving his naked, albeit invincible body hanging around a self-reportedly hungry cannibal demon-angel old man of a monster and his magic hands, but as a general rule, Kavinsky doesn't worry about shit. The chemical takes action almost immediately, sucking the light out of his eyes, the thought out of his head. His eyes close. His pulse twitches damply in his tattooed neck. Once, twice. Stops.
And then surges again, in an instant. Kavinsky's eyelids flutter like a drunk, but that's less surprising, probably, than the bloody heart sitting on the table. Its final beats dying out within it, the convulsion and collapse of muscles. Where the tubey veins and arteries end, blood spurts sluggishly, slowly flooding over the traces of cocaine, creeping toward the edges of the table.
cw sexual vulgarity ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (also lmk if this is too many actions in one tag)
"I want your cunt on my face and your tits in my hands, sweetheart. I want everything."
But he just swallows his pill dry and closes his eyes. Maybe he should be more worried about leaving his naked, albeit invincible body hanging around a self-reportedly hungry cannibal demon-angel old man of a monster and his magic hands, but as a general rule, Kavinsky doesn't worry about shit. The chemical takes action almost immediately, sucking the light out of his eyes, the thought out of his head. His eyes close. His pulse twitches damply in his tattooed neck. Once, twice. Stops.
And then surges again, in an instant. Kavinsky's eyelids flutter like a drunk, but that's less surprising, probably, than the bloody heart sitting on the table. Its final beats dying out within it, the convulsion and collapse of muscles. Where the tubey veins and arteries end, blood spurts sluggishly, slowly flooding over the traces of cocaine, creeping toward the edges of the table.