He gotta be that way because what other way is he gonna be? Jack's tried virtually every other personality and reaction he can garner in his lifetime, now depression and unending boredom sound pretty great. Kavinsky is, however, doing a fairly impressive job of never being boring, and that along is enough reason to continue spending time around him.
The question gets a predictable shrug as a reply, attention finally lifting back to his face while Jack meets the casual lean with the vaguest relaxing of his own shoulders, still just... standing right there on the balcony. "I dunno. You said you were getting meat... I wasn't expecting this kind."
Kavinsky's eyes crinkle. He wants a cigarette right now but he doesn't have them on him. He probably should have thought of that before he took his pants off. Oh well, oh well. We all must suffer for our craft, which is fostering baby dinosaurs. Which I just requested. Because I'm super on the ball, everything is fine, January isn't over, we're good we're good.
"I'll get you the other kind, if you let me jerk off your lap."
This means we're negotiating, right? Kavinsky wiggles his toes in his socks. He's starting to feel the cold, but it isn't showing in his penis yet, and that's all that matters. "You can pick. Forty pounds of pork? Twenty pounds of beef." A smile flashes across his face. There is still something unmistakably suggestive about the tilt of his skinny body. It's hard to know how Kavinsky ever gets laid, except that, well. He can't be the only person in the multiverse with shit for standards. "No faggot metaphors, even."
The sigh he makes is half growl, half groan, resisting an eye roll despite the strong temptation. Every fine detail of this makes him want to throw himself off the balcony, or maybe throw Kavinsky off the balcony, but both options are merely a short term solution to a vaguely endearing dumb ass with his dick out.
"Get inside," he grumbles, taking half a step forward to suggest he'll be following.
The look on Jack's face isn't one of enthusiasm but then again it never is. He's here for a reason, one that hadn't initially involved dicks or mentions of jerking off, and yet here they are anyway. Yes, he'll follow Kavinsky inside if he goes, may even give a bare, scrawny shoulder a shove on the way in, but he won't be doing much beyond the same awkward standing he was doing out on that balcony. Just because he's here, doesn't mean he's agreeing to anything.
"You know me," which probably isn't factually true, but there's a casual langour to Kavinsky's voice that is persuasive to some. "I just hate to be alone." He definitely doesn't lack for confidence, stalking back into the warmth of his apartment. His bare feet go slap, slap slap! and his penis waves around cheerfully as he goes.
But he's not a terrible host, if you forgive the utter lack of boundaries and florid vulgarity. He makes it all the way across the floor to the kitchenette, drags the refrigerator door open. In a moment, there's a bottle of vodka sailing toward Jack's head. He's on his way back the next. The television is showing some stupid movie featuring women objectified in two-piece swimsuits and cars going sidways around corners while fireballs envelope skyscrapers, that kind of shit. There's also a sound system playing some totally unrelated music with subwoofers on, and a half-eaten steak on the table, a space heater going, a hilariously tacky lava lamp oozing patterns up in the corner.
The blackout doesn't seem to have affected Kavinsky much.
"Sit," he says, gesturing at the couch. This occurs regardless of whether Jack caught the bottle or if there's glass and spilled liquor all over the floor now. "Be done inside six minutes. Not bragging. Just stating the facts."
He follows inside a short distance behind, drawing closed the balcony door behind him and lingering near it even as Kavinsky walks further in. Making himself at home would merely suggests he wants to spend time in the apartment, which is certainly not Jacks intention despite any plans his company may have.
There's electricity here, he notes as his attention drifts amongst the display of lights and music, though he never asks about it after swiftly realising he doesn't care when or how it was obtained. His eyes settle on the TV out of habit, a hand extending blindly in front of him to catch the vodka bottle hurtling towards his head without ever actually offering the alcohol his full attention. Quick reflexes and the use of his peripherals are all it takes not to have it hit him or crash to the floor.
"No," is his reply to the request (or was it an order? cute), eyes tracking slowly towards Kavinsky without any sort of interest. This is not the face of a turned on individual. "Not a good idea. I haven't eaten."
Perhaps an odd excuse to make but a legitimate one never the less. It's never a great idea to let himself go when all that's standing between Jack and a murder spree is a tiny level of control.
"Might want to work on your seduction techniques, by the way." He's just sayin'...
Kavinsky gave the guy a fucking dinosaur, and he's still being like this about putting out. Jesus. What does a handsome and personable handsome young gay man have to do to get laid.
But Kavinsky isn't exactly surprised, either. Having shit for impulse control isn't the same as honestly believing that following all of one's shitty impulses is going to lead to better health and final happiness. Carpe diem. And follow your heart. And it's better to try and fail than to never have tried at all! Such sentiments seem a little less romantic and inspiring when the objective is to try and fuck some Biblically ancient dude, but whatever.
Kavinsky flings himself down on his leather couch. Then he leans over and grabs a pill bottle from the lower shelf of the coffee table. The surface of said table is already speckled thoroughly with Very Telling White Powder, but what Kavinsky shakes out into his hand isn't cocaine, in the end. Instead, it's a lurid red pill.
"How much you need to eat to be good?" he asks, lazily popping the lid of the bottle.
"Not enough to make this remarkable." Deadpan. Look at him giving the naked teen all the sass, although it's all harmless roasting. This is a guy who's done and seen more shit than anyone could ever be proud of, one tattooed little fucker with his dick out is hardly going to be offending Jack's sensibilities or scaring him away. Either Kavinsky is bored enough to want this, or he's desperate, either way doesn't really say much good about either of them, because Jack's clearly as much to blame for this situation as the the scrawny thing on the couch.
With an exhale dragging out of him that's enough to bring a shudder to his shoulders, Jack finally drags himself further into the room, feet scuffing en route to the couch and dropping into it heavily, leaving a definitive gap between him and his company. His head faces forward, his eyes being the only culprit displaying his vague interest in the pill and the man beside him.
"I can do it quicker than six, if that's all you're after." Skilled hands of an immortal who's done some shit.
cw sexual vulgarity ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (also lmk if this is too many actions in one tag)
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.
Vulgarity from Kavinsky is nothing surprising, neither is drug use. Jack's not in the slightest bit concerned by the pill eating or how fast it takes control, but he does watch as the light dims from his companies eyes and his breath slows. For the briefest of moments he's not entirely sure whether the kid is killing himself off, although it doesn't strike him as entirely tragic if he's left with a dead body on his hands. Jack's very good with dealing with the dead.
But as Jack witnesses him flutter back into consciousness, something on the table catches his attention, darting sharply to see the last few beats of a dying pulse. That's a heart. A human heart sitting there, fresh and bloody and not there seconds ago.
"Where...?" Did it come from? Excuse him for being somewhat cautious of a magically appearing heart.
Kavinsky rubs his eye with his fingertips, skewing the lid around funnily on his face. He doesn't seem all that groggy, despite everything, but then-- Jack has technically seen him take a pill before. Sure, he'd done it under a bed while a raptor on a choke chain had rampaged around a hotel bedroom. Jack just hadn't seen the process itself, which doesn't tend to be all that interesting until Kavinsky reenters the world with a new tranquilizer dart or a human heart.
As one does.
"Me, fuckwad," he says, as if that's the most obvious thing in the world. He wiggles his toes, then gestures generously at the organ on the table. Folds his arms behind his head. His dick is still just hanging out there. "Can you hurry the fuck up?" he requests romantically.
Look, Jack knows by the powers of deduction that it was Kavinsky, it's really not that difficult to figure out, but excuse you if he has some hesitation over an object appearing from nothing. Shit like that just didn't happen back where he was from, not unless the Big Guy was involved in some way, and even then it was more burning bushes and shit like that rather than magically teleporting human hearts.
Hesitation or not, it doesn't take long for that smell of raw meat to really seep into his senses, wrenching a curious little growl from him that suggests he's far more interested than he'd like to let on. But it's not him that wants it, not really, it's just that snarling voice inside his mind that's forever pressuring to kill, to maim, to consume. Better this heart than some poor soul walking down the street near him, he thinks as his eyes settle on it hungrily.
"Nngh, fine," he finally concedes to both his own insistent voice and Kavinsky's, one hand reaching out to snatch the organ (heart, not dick) and quickly pulling it back close to him like he's afraid someone else might take it if he's not careful. The look he offers his company is part shifty and part hesitant, with just a dash of awkward thrown in, his reluctance to devour in the presence of others still existing, even if this shame has only developed as his conscience has crept up on him over the years.
"This doesn't mean I owe you..."
Another shifty side glance and then he's hunkering forward, the shoulder closest to Kavinsky rolling forward to try and block some of the view as he tears into the tough muscle easily, chunk by chunk.
Sometimes, Kavinsky thinks about maybe he should fuck less totally weird, jacked up people. But then he remembers that he does do that. Like all the fucking time. And it's boring. Life in general is boring, because he's a mentally ill child who just wants to die, crawing in my skin, these wounds.
Which is how he ends up in situations like these. Marooned in a luxury penthouse apartment amid a multi-city blackout, probably a terrorist threat, having everything he could possibly want except for human companionship. And in lieu of 'human' companionship, he's watching a grizzled old man chow down on a dream heart while snapping at him that he doesn't owe him shit. The one good thing that's come from being forced to stay alive since Henrietta, is that he learned to suck it up when perceived debts aren't paid. After all, his usual Plan B isn't a permanent fix here.
Kavinsky folds his tattooed hands over his tummy and listens to the pop and squelch of bloody meat. Unsurprisingly, he's pretty sure he could still get hard if he wanted to.
Moral growth and spiritual learning.
"All you gotta do is sit there and think of England. I'm a cheap date."
Lasting companionship is hard to come by for their kind, Jack gets that, but he's also learned to live with it a long ago. Kavinsky, on the other hand, has plenty of time to learn the whole 'everyone sucks and then they die' life lesson that will inevitably come, until then he's just here doing dumb shit like feeding a cannibal while trying to get on his dick.
There's better life choices to be made here.
Jack doesn't take long to finish his meal, sucking the last of it down noisily as he listens to his companies advice on how to take it. It's cute that Kavinsky thinks Jack doesn't know how this works, and it's even cuter that he thinks the gift of a heart will be all it takes for a little hands on action. His gaze stays downcast for a moment while his brain slowly comes back into its own (it tends to be wise not to think too much when eating people and just let that little demonic voice have it's way), and then, just like that, he snaps into movement.
There's not much in it, but a twist on the couch is enough to have Jack right by Kavinsky, a hand scooping down to cup those naked balls and squeeze just a little too tightly as bares blood soaked teeth inches from his face.
"I'm not here for your entertainment," snarled words, just to add to the whole effect, his grip twisting juuuust slightly in warning.
[It occurs to Kavinsky finally to be scared. Not all the way scared-- after all, it would take more than superstrength and cannibalistic characteristics and terrible intentions to be able to actually forcibly separate him from his junk. Invincibility, you know.
But it hurts. And pain is kinda scary.
And like a kid bracing for a shot at the doctor's office, Kavinsky ends up holding his breath. His dark eyes big on Jack's face, looking between the smeary gory mess of his teeth and the unreadable shadows under his eyebrows. It would take more than Jack has to forcibly separate Kavinsky from his penis, but he finds himself thinking about it anyway. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't stop said penis from jumping slightly, a pulse of blood and utterly misaligned ideas going through big arteries. well, 'big' unless you're some six thousand-year-old jackass making fun.
he doesn't lick his lips or bite down on them or touch himself anywhere else or anything that obvious, though. just stays there on the couch, sweat gathering in the small of his back where he's weighted down on the shiny leather, looking up at the cannibal. distantly hoping that jack doesn't end up dripping heart juice on him by accident, but honestly, not all that bothered either way.]
[Being scared is an appropriate response. Bollock removal may not be a possibility for Kavinsky but you can bet Jack would give it a damn good try were he provoked, and for a man who's lived an eternity, trying to pull another guy's balls off could keep him entertained for quite some time if there's enough of a challenge involved.
It's why the silence is wise, and why the animalistic snarls gradually drift to little more than steady breathing while keeping an uncomfortably steady level of eye contact. It's only once he's sure Kavinsky's done with the cocky little quips for the moment that he withdraws, grip softening and slithering away as his tongue flicks to gather up the last remnants of gore left on his teeth and lips.]
Where's the meat?
[Standing without prompting, gaze lowered to the teen on the couch, focusing lazily on that half-hard, anticipating dick. Cute.]
hello I'm back!! if this is too old feel free to let it go
[the shitty child stares back, jaw slightly jutted, something creepiy considering, measuring about the expression on his gaunt face. he's scared, but he should be more scared, probably. virtue of being an import with imported powers.
no virtue at all.]
Bedroom, [he says.] Big box with the freezer bags in it. [it's a small apartment; it won't be hard to find. sitting on the floor, beside the bed with the black sheets and very gay pinups nailed to the walls, nondescript men, their faces hidden abbreviated by the edges of the artwork or otherwise turned away, hidden from view. it's a nice room. the bed doesn't look slept in recently, if it ever was.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pfft who even needs brackets??
The question gets a predictable shrug as a reply, attention finally lifting back to his face while Jack meets the casual lean with the vaguest relaxing of his own shoulders, still just... standing right there on the balcony. "I dunno. You said you were getting meat... I wasn't expecting this kind."
cw homophobic language
"I'll get you the other kind, if you let me jerk off your lap."
This means we're negotiating, right? Kavinsky wiggles his toes in his socks. He's starting to feel the cold, but it isn't showing in his penis yet, and that's all that matters. "You can pick. Forty pounds of pork? Twenty pounds of beef." A smile flashes across his face. There is still something unmistakably suggestive about the tilt of his skinny body. It's hard to know how Kavinsky ever gets laid, except that, well. He can't be the only person in the multiverse with shit for standards. "No faggot metaphors, even."
no subject
"Get inside," he grumbles, taking half a step forward to suggest he'll be following.
The look on Jack's face isn't one of enthusiasm but then again it never is. He's here for a reason, one that hadn't initially involved dicks or mentions of jerking off, and yet here they are anyway. Yes, he'll follow Kavinsky inside if he goes, may even give a bare, scrawny shoulder a shove on the way in, but he won't be doing much beyond the same awkward standing he was doing out on that balcony. Just because he's here, doesn't mean he's agreeing to anything.
"Why?" Are you like this?!
tw ongoing sexual harassment ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
But he's not a terrible host, if you forgive the utter lack of boundaries and florid vulgarity. He makes it all the way across the floor to the kitchenette, drags the refrigerator door open. In a moment, there's a bottle of vodka sailing toward Jack's head. He's on his way back the next. The television is showing some stupid movie featuring women objectified in two-piece swimsuits and cars going sidways around corners while fireballs envelope skyscrapers, that kind of shit. There's also a sound system playing some totally unrelated music with subwoofers on, and a half-eaten steak on the table, a space heater going, a hilariously tacky lava lamp oozing patterns up in the corner.
The blackout doesn't seem to have affected Kavinsky much.
"Sit," he says, gesturing at the couch. This occurs regardless of whether Jack caught the bottle or if there's glass and spilled liquor all over the floor now. "Be done inside six minutes. Not bragging. Just stating the facts."
no subject
There's electricity here, he notes as his attention drifts amongst the display of lights and music, though he never asks about it after swiftly realising he doesn't care when or how it was obtained. His eyes settle on the TV out of habit, a hand extending blindly in front of him to catch the vodka bottle hurtling towards his head without ever actually offering the alcohol his full attention. Quick reflexes and the use of his peripherals are all it takes not to have it hit him or crash to the floor.
"No," is his reply to the request (or was it an order? cute), eyes tracking slowly towards Kavinsky without any sort of interest. This is not the face of a turned on individual. "Not a good idea. I haven't eaten."
Perhaps an odd excuse to make but a legitimate one never the less. It's never a great idea to let himself go when all that's standing between Jack and a murder spree is a tiny level of control.
"Might want to work on your seduction techniques, by the way." He's just sayin'...
no subject
and personablehandsome young gay man have to do to get laid.But Kavinsky isn't exactly surprised, either. Having shit for impulse control isn't the same as honestly believing that following all of one's shitty impulses is going to lead to better health and final happiness. Carpe diem. And follow your heart. And it's better to try and fail than to never have tried at all! Such sentiments seem a little less romantic and inspiring when the objective is to try and fuck some Biblically ancient dude, but whatever.
Kavinsky flings himself down on his leather couch. Then he leans over and grabs a pill bottle from the lower shelf of the coffee table. The surface of said table is already speckled thoroughly with Very Telling White Powder, but what Kavinsky shakes out into his hand isn't cocaine, in the end. Instead, it's a lurid red pill.
"How much you need to eat to be good?" he asks, lazily popping the lid of the bottle.
no subject
With an exhale dragging out of him that's enough to bring a shudder to his shoulders, Jack finally drags himself further into the room, feet scuffing en route to the couch and dropping into it heavily, leaving a definitive gap between him and his company. His head faces forward, his eyes being the only culprit displaying his vague interest in the pill and the man beside him.
"I can do it quicker than six, if that's all you're after." Skilled hands of an immortal who's done some shit.
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.
no subject
But as Jack witnesses him flutter back into consciousness, something on the table catches his attention, darting sharply to see the last few beats of a dying pulse. That's a heart. A human heart sitting there, fresh and bloody and not there seconds ago.
"Where...?" Did it come from? Excuse him for being somewhat cautious of a magically appearing heart.
no subject
As one does.
"Me, fuckwad," he says, as if that's the most obvious thing in the world. He wiggles his toes, then gestures generously at the organ on the table. Folds his arms behind his head. His dick is still just hanging out there. "Can you hurry the fuck up?" he requests romantically.
no subject
Hesitation or not, it doesn't take long for that smell of raw meat to really seep into his senses, wrenching a curious little growl from him that suggests he's far more interested than he'd like to let on. But it's not him that wants it, not really, it's just that snarling voice inside his mind that's forever pressuring to kill, to maim, to consume. Better this heart than some poor soul walking down the street near him, he thinks as his eyes settle on it hungrily.
"Nngh, fine," he finally concedes to both his own insistent voice and Kavinsky's, one hand reaching out to snatch the organ (heart, not dick) and quickly pulling it back close to him like he's afraid someone else might take it if he's not careful. The look he offers his company is part shifty and part hesitant, with just a dash of awkward thrown in, his reluctance to devour in the presence of others still existing, even if this shame has only developed as his conscience has crept up on him over the years.
"This doesn't mean I owe you..."
Another shifty side glance and then he's hunkering forward, the shoulder closest to Kavinsky rolling forward to try and block some of the view as he tears into the tough muscle easily, chunk by chunk.
no subject
Which is how he ends up in situations like these. Marooned in a luxury penthouse apartment amid a multi-city blackout, probably a terrorist threat, having everything he could possibly want except for human companionship. And in lieu of 'human' companionship, he's watching a grizzled old man chow down on a dream heart while snapping at him that he doesn't owe him shit. The one good thing that's come from being forced to stay alive since Henrietta, is that he learned to suck it up when perceived debts aren't paid. After all, his usual Plan B isn't a permanent fix here.
Kavinsky folds his tattooed hands over his tummy and listens to the pop and squelch of bloody meat. Unsurprisingly, he's pretty sure he could still get hard if he wanted to.
Moral growth and spiritual learning.
"All you gotta do is sit there and think of England. I'm a cheap date."
no subject
There's better life choices to be made here.
Jack doesn't take long to finish his meal, sucking the last of it down noisily as he listens to his companies advice on how to take it. It's cute that Kavinsky thinks Jack doesn't know how this works, and it's even cuter that he thinks the gift of a heart will be all it takes for a little hands on action. His gaze stays downcast for a moment while his brain slowly comes back into its own (it tends to be wise not to think too much when eating people and just let that little demonic voice have it's way), and then, just like that, he snaps into movement.
There's not much in it, but a twist on the couch is enough to have Jack right by Kavinsky, a hand scooping down to cup those naked balls and squeeze just a little too tightly as bares blood soaked teeth inches from his face.
"I'm not here for your entertainment," snarled words, just to add to the whole effect, his grip twisting juuuust slightly in warning.
no subject
But it hurts. And pain is kinda scary.
And like a kid bracing for a shot at the doctor's office, Kavinsky ends up holding his breath. His dark eyes big on Jack's face, looking between the smeary gory mess of his teeth and the unreadable shadows under his eyebrows. It would take more than Jack has to forcibly separate Kavinsky from his penis, but he finds himself thinking about it anyway. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't stop said penis from jumping slightly, a pulse of blood and utterly misaligned ideas going through big arteries. well, 'big' unless you're some six thousand-year-old jackass making fun.
he doesn't lick his lips or bite down on them or touch himself anywhere else or anything that obvious, though. just stays there on the couch, sweat gathering in the small of his back where he's weighted down on the shiny leather, looking up at the cannibal. distantly hoping that jack doesn't end up dripping heart juice on him by accident, but honestly, not all that bothered either way.]
no subject
It's why the silence is wise, and why the animalistic snarls gradually drift to little more than steady breathing while keeping an uncomfortably steady level of eye contact. It's only once he's sure Kavinsky's done with the cocky little quips for the moment that he withdraws, grip softening and slithering away as his tongue flicks to gather up the last remnants of gore left on his teeth and lips.]
Where's the meat?
[Standing without prompting, gaze lowered to the teen on the couch, focusing lazily on that half-hard, anticipating dick. Cute.]
hello I'm back!! if this is too old feel free to let it go
no virtue at all.]
Bedroom, [he says.] Big box with the freezer bags in it. [it's a small apartment; it won't be hard to find. sitting on the floor, beside the bed with the black sheets and very gay pinups nailed to the walls, nondescript men, their faces hidden abbreviated by the edges of the artwork or otherwise turned away, hidden from view. it's a nice room. the bed doesn't look slept in recently, if it ever was.]