𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 | Accepting!
@lichteeth said: ❛ death, dust, party, repeat. ❜ from handsome frickin' jack
It wasn’t too awful far from the truth, Xigbar had to admit. Jack might be an insufferable twat in most instances during their various interactions, certainly---the whole bandit genocide thing was really a few steps too far into the Total Annihilation Zone for Xigbar’s personal tastes---but, when hyped up on enough space dust, and leaning back far enough into the comfort of a plush armchair, even that handsome asshole could spit philosophical jazz just as contemplatively as the next basic human existentialist tool. And Xigbar, in the entirety of his time, had seen plenty of those.
But, then again, he could admit when he himself was elbow-deep---no, most definitely approaching shoulder-deep---under that hazy sort of influence, his internal mechanisms working to expel the toxins from his endoskeletal structure---and so, why not another bump? Hard and longer than necessary---and most definitely a tad clumsily at this point. The back of his gloved hand pressing against the stiff columella of his nose in response to the sharp sensation before his backside settled again backwards, down into his seat, mind rising into the throbbing bass beat, eye absorbing the blacklit coloration of the scenery with a renewed appreciation, along with the beauty of the graceful, scantily-clad dancers not even within arms’ reach, the overall image reverberating and undulating and swaying satisfyingly in time with his quickening pulse.
At last, brain processing its latest smack of stimulation, he leaned close and purred to his companion, “That’s the fuckin’ title of your autobiography there, bro. Believe me, y’get a title catchy enough? That shit sells fast as blood bags on the cannibal carts.”