tfln open post

[byanyname]

***

either leave a message (or set of muses) for one of my assholes, or request a message from one of them. choose messages from the classic source, from your own skull, or whatever you may please.

Comments

1/2

[onefellswoop]

Oh, I'll find somebody to besmirch. You can rest assured on that count. I take no half-measures on my road to hell.

Just as YOU'VE spared precious little expense with your TMI. We don't all of us need Rin Renault's flawless ankles dancing through our heads, Sen. Not to mention the rest of what you Fuck's sake. Have your enjoyment if you must. Whatever. Christ. Can't say I'm surprised to hear the two of you managed to fuck [ ... ] [ ... ] fuck? [ ... ] do your business in an octet of languages. I find it stranger that either of you managed to reel in the bullshit long enough to take care of said business.

Well. Guess they're into you, after all. Guess you're into them, too.

[ ... ]

Name the date when you know it. Could be I'll make an appearance.

[ ... ]

...Are you over there flat-out ogling them across the room? Creep. And here I thought you were gainfully employed.

Imagine me rolling my eyes here. Because that is in fact MY current employment.

2/2

[onefellswoop]

[ ... ]

Maybe you shouldn't wonder too much.

Maybe keep your nose in your own business

[ ... ]

If. If I'm more 'convivial,' as you say [ ... ] it certainly isn't a product of this heinous excuse for a wedding.

[ ... ]

I'll allow that I've been keeping rather pleasing company

[ ... ]

One may hazard the guess you've given.

One would not, I expect, be mistaken.

Don't FUCKING start with me, Wilkes, I don't want to hear it

1/3

[ultimatenegative]

I am not ogling them from across the room.

Ogling suggests some sort of nefariously sexual intent, and doing so now pursuant to satiation would be indecent. No, Darius. I am gazing. Staring, even. Wondering at them.

I am admiring them.

How the light strikes them like some divine glow. How they possess the room, no matter where they happen to be. How they smile at me.

At me.

My god, at me.

Do you remember the first time I met them? No, it must have been mundane to you, and perhaps has passed from your memory: just another night when 'Renault' was in your flat. But me. Darius, the world heaved beneath me. I was twenty; I had no fucking idea what I wanted - men, women, nothing, neither. I'd never taken interest in anyone for more than a moment or two. I thought I was too clever for that nonsense. Above it.

Hubris.

There was Rin in your doorway, looking like a crime of fashion (and possibly capable of other crimes, spawned of that godforsaken attitude of theirs), and the world stood absolutely still before it quaked. Shuddered me. Took all I knew and did nothing with it, only vanished it, as though Rin was an eclipse across my mind.

Upheaval and a midday nightfall. An apocalypse of the soul.

The ancients who wrote of angelic heralds - beautiful, terrifying, magnificent - must have known Rins of their own. That perfect creature.

I don't dare ogle them.

My Rin.

Christ. Darius. "My Rin".

[...]

And also. I am not technically employed by Rin. 'Gainful' is a misnomer. But were I gainfully employed, it would be included in the terms of said employment that I am to spend no less than ten minutes of every hour giving them my admiration, my appreciation, my attention - and, were I so inclined, my 'ogling'.

It is Rin, after all. :)

My Rin.

2/3

[ultimatenegative]

You know, one can engage in the refined act of fucking and/or lovemaking and/or screwing and/or etc (feel free to apply your own euphemism at will) while still talking to one's partner.

We are all of us capable of multitasking.

[...]

Their wrists are lovely, too, if talk of their ankles so repulses you. (How dare you hint at revulsion about my Rin.)

[...]

(MY Rin!)

3/3

[ultimatenegative]

You seem reluctant to expound on the subject of Enri.

That isn't like you.

[...]

I won't pry, of course. I only mean to suggest you have historically been prone to speaking at length about your conquests.

Well. Perhaps there is not, at present, a conquest about which you might speak.

I am, I confess, terribly curious about your company, and your reticence on the matter isn't helping in the least. Enri [...] ('your' Enri?) is an interesting development.

[...]

'Your' Enri ?

[withoutrhetoric]

[ What is that man doing?

They’re watching, dazed and a little bleary-eyed, as Sen seeks something. They’re smiling, baffled, in awe of every movement because everything within this man’s reach and capacity draws wonder, is worthy of a thousand thousand words of ecstatic discourse and of every speechless thought no word can compass.

Sen, speaking soft and stricken, clutches Rin’s heart.

Sen, reaching half-wild and sightless, trills Rin’s joy in watching, their eyebrows raised, head cocked, smiling beyond pleasure.

They could watch this man forever.

Just now, they watch him grab the phone, and eye the phone; watch laughter brush him, and—

And they know. A compulsory piece sliding into place, or the revelation of a connective piece that’s been here all along. A piece verified when they managed to turn their eyes from Sen to the screen, back to Sen again with renewed awe (isn’t it always, with Sen, renewal and awe and everything turned vivid, verdant, lovely? this man is the very font and center of everything beautiful; this man is the locus of fondness and ardor and, yes, and always, time itself).

7:34. Of course.

Of course, of course it is.

Because the only form of fate is Sen, and every point (infinite, eternally renewing) where Sen and Rin intersect and overlay. Because time is bound between the two of them and cycles on their axis, so of course there would be one recurrent, perfect time. So of course all of time would echo with its count, would ripple outward from its central pulse. Shared heartbeat. So of course all myriad potentialities of sequence would fall away beyond this single explicit moment: 7:34.

7:34. Then, and now, and always.

It is perfect, and perfectly logical, and they know they’re smiling. Know they must be smiling, dizzy and fuzzed to blooming, suffuse with heart-struck wonder as they reach gentle to brush the edge of lipstick smeared delicate at Sen’s cheek. Shifting to brush the purple trace at Sen’s lip, then letting their thumb trail the edge of that incomparable mouth. Reeling, feeling the world reel away.

They, driven dizzy. Feeling if they look away from Sen they’ll be lost, overcome by all the wild longing and so-long-knowing around them, by words so long held and lived by and finally, oh finally spoken. It’s Sen who keeps them anchored here. It’s Sen who keeps them, always.

Sen and Rin, within their perfect, their eternal moment. ]

All of time and all the world.

It’s always been ours, hasn’t it?

[ Shifting from French to English— ]

What do you think, my Sen? 7:34 spells a beautiful eternity.

[ Which necessitates - which absolutely necessitates - a soft leaning in and another dire, loving kiss. ]

[ultimatenegative]

[ His head burns with fever, and his eyes track Rin's, where, for Senan Wilkes, all the world and all of time converge. 7:34 means nothing at all, save that it was the page number where the passage could be found: Rin kissed me back.

And now, Rin said they love me.

It doesn't mean anything.

It means everything.

It indexes where the memory can be summoned again. It holds the symbology of a crucifix: the item itself is not what matters. What matters is that it represents a turning point in the history of Senan's own humanity. Here, at 7:34, is a crux of existence. Here is an axis. Here is a lynchpin. A watershed moment. And what occurred?

Rin loves him.

Rin fucking loves him, and he feels the boundaries of his skin perilously insubstantial. He feels his heart thrumming itself to death in joyful pulse.

7:34 does spell a beautiful eternity, but it's only a handful of letters. It doesn't compose the entirety of the sentence, because thousands of 7:34s have lived and died without rising remarkable.

Rin said.

And Sen hasn't waited to hear those words, but he's longed for them in dark and lonely hours. He hasn't watched Rin with yearning, wishing for them to be anything but what they granted the world, but in dreams - oh, in dreams, Rin looked at him just as they do now. (Is he dreaming?) (Is he dead? Did he fucking die?) Rin smiles like the first time, and love follows, and it could be 7:34 or lunchtime or 5:52 in the morning, what the fuck does time matter if they love him?

It's a moment burned in memory.

7:34 is the torch he carries for Rin Renault.

At 7:34, Rin said they love him - and damn it all if he didn't say it back. But he can't speak. (Novel, to be incapable of speech. To find himself awed to silence.) He doesn't have to - he doesn't have to speak, or cohere, or wonder anymore. Rin is kissing him because it's 7:34 and Rin loves him, and if he doesn't kiss back, he might sob.

So he does: he gathers them close and gives all he has to them. Sen, with nothing to prove and no one to impress, offers only what he's held reserved from anyone but them. If Rin wants him, then they deserve the rawness of himself, the undoctored glimpses of soul, the slow and shuddering passage of his lips over theirs. They deserve the honesty of himself, and how much he loves-

Oh. Oh, he didn't -

Fuck.

He cups their cheeks in both hands and draws back with a sharp breath, a swimmer surfacing for air (a dead man resurrected.) He has to say - he needs them to hear.

The first time, with their beautiful face framed by his just all right hands. Their lipstick miraculously unsmudged, their eyes depthless and familiar. He looks hungrily. He looks like a man who has discovered the Holy Grail, the Fountain of Youth - all the lost treasures together in a single form.

His Rin.

And softly, slowly, ensuring every word holds its own traction and sinks its weight into Rin's awareness, he speaks. ]

I love you. I have loved you all my life, at times so much I could hardly breathe. Always so much that my heart beats unsteady in your presence. I love you purely, and without demand. I haven't longed for more than you ever gave, but my god, I loved you utterly from the moment I first saw you. Not from the first kiss, and not from this moment. My comprehension of 'forever' has been spun from the night when Rin Renault walked into a flat and brought me to my knees.

I love you - not some moment, indifferent and fleeting. I like the coincidence of it, the unlikelihood, the seeming predestination. It suits my more fanciful moods.

But I love you. Inevitable, wonderful, undefinable Rin - a mystery and an answer to chase for all my days.

You, Rin, are my beautiful eternity.

[ He lowers his chin and raises his brows as his thumb sweeps a slow arc, as if to ask, Okay? and Do you understand? Sen watches them, searching their eyes - and for all that, looks like a man close to sundered, and well beyond undone. A man who can't bring himself to disbelieve the paradise laid before him. ]

I meant it, when I said I have been happy. Do you know lucky I've been, to have been welcomed so near, and always, to the deepest pleasure of my soul? Twenty-three years, I've been at the gates of my own heaven, and I have been happy.

[withoutrhetoric]

[ What are they to do, when this man - the anchoring and recurrence of existence, Rin’s constant and all the world’s extravagant joy - takes them in his hands and speaks of, oh, everything. Eternity and joy. Constancy and love.

What can they do save remember to breathe, to swallow, and fall into Sen’s eyes, the adoration that spells a perfect correlation to their own. What would they care to do just now, save to meet his ardence with the wholeness of their rapt, their overflowing tenderness?

Those eyes, softly lustrous, infinitely expressive. That lip that cheek that jaw smeared soft with purple, with the brush of Rin’s affection (and oh, oh, they are going to kiss that man so many times, infinite kisses before even this day’s run through; they’d kiss him now if they weren’t thralled attentive to his speech). And the touch of rough hands - esteemed and dearest hands, exquisite hands, articulate of worlds, a match and complement for Sen’s cavorting speech; with these hands, with those words, what couldn’t this man say? - at their cheeks.

The only touch they’ve cared for. The only touch that’s ever been welcome, or felt congruous, offered restoration and connection with their self. The only touch they want to hold.

From the start, Sen’s hands held Rin’s fascination. Gesticulating at turns graceful and cleverly crude, perfectly underlining and explicating each soliliquous word and absolute cloudburst of phrases. Rin had never met anyone so adept in expression, tuning symphonic words from a single sentiment or chance idea. That man, they’d thought held - and still, and always holds - the keys to everything that can be spoken or expressed.

The stranger - soon to turn familiar face; soon to turn friend - had introduced himself: Senan Wilkes. They’d worked the name over in their head, prodding its potentials for sonorance and malleability, then speaking it aloud twice, thrice. Head cocked curious, eyes chasing some half-formed thought along the wall.

Listening to Senan Wilkes, voice thick with an accent Rin had, at the time, been unable to place. The voice pleasing enough that they’d tried it on, mimicking the rhythms, a few phrases (a habit they’ve since learned to indulge only with care, or with intentional abandon) before deciding they liked the rhythms better in the not-so-stranger’s voice. Decided they’d like to hear more of that voice and all the words it cared to share.

Listening to Senan, who asked once about the recurrent question - ’hard to tell these days,’ wasn’t that it? - then let them exist without further query. Who never begged for or demanded explanation, explication. Who was an oddity in an unkind world. Senan Wilkes, rough at the edges and utterly gracious in manner.

It’d struck Rin that very night that this was a gentleman. Strange thing to find in a den of shitheads and dealers and thieves. Strange thing to find anywhere, in their experience, and if ‘gentleman’ wasn’t a term traditionally consonant with Sen’s mien, Sen’s voice, Sen’s likely history, still it rang throughout his being. Still the word settled upon him like certitude. And Rin had known they didn’t feel unsafe or even quite so guarded around Sen.

Toward the night’s end, Rin - historically reluctant to touch or be touched; historically fixed on keeping to themself - had gestured for Sen’s hand. Had held it briefly, head cocked, the back of that hand in their palm and their thumb brushing along the unfamiliar fingers. Searching without quite formulating questions. Wondering without precisely knowing what or why. Then releasing Sen’s hand and offering a cigarette from their swift-dwindling store.

The next time they saw Sen Wilkes - another night, another den of thieves, another gathering arranged by Darius Scarlett - they’d drifted to him, and they’d lingered near until the evening’s end.

Funny the way roads add up. The way signals link into signposts turn into meaning that, in retrospect, shone clearly all along.

Funny how intuition strikes true.

There is no one on earth so brilliant as Sen, and no one who has been so good, so generous, so utterly and always necessary. And Rin has never ceased to revel in Sen’s winding words, or in their luminescent truths. In the ways Sen lights brilliance out of mundanity. In the ways Sen’s words reveal truths that have always been present.

As Sen’s words do now, speaking of love and inevitability. As Sen’s words do now, humming decades of vibratory strands to life, turning unspoken knowings into clear-writ truths that brook no doubt and erase ven the scantest cause for question.

Rin’s hand moves to cover one of Sen’s. To drift lightly, to press, to know Sen’s nearness better still.

And, reeling still, dizzied and hazy and feeling that the world is spun from love, from knowing, from this man’s absolute belief and from Rin’s own enduring, boundless adoration, they speak, hearing their voice as if from a distance, stricken and soft and stirred to the core. ]

Then I am fortunate… Oh, beyond all talk of luck.

My Sen. My Senan. My beautiful aegis, my poet.

And I am pleased, I am gratified. My life glows, to know and hear at any turn you have been happy, and that I have made you so.

As you have turned me to a bliss unending. As you ever ever tuned me radiant and - ah! - rendered your Rin riant.

I, who began a null of thorns and bruises, turned by and with my Sen into this null of boundless hope. Of contentment, struck by wonder.

I could live and die on your words, my love.

[ There’s a quirk to their smile, a moment as they linger in the feeling of those words, that phrase - ’my love,’ yes, yes, indeed - and settle in its rightness. And their thumb brushes Sen’s hand at their cheek. And their hand finds Sen’s jaw, drifts back to brush and linger at Sen’s neck. ]

My love.

My brilliant, brazen fool, and all of my fondness.

[ultimatenegative]

[ Ask anyone at all to name the most defining characteristic of Senan Wilkes, and they will immediately respond with varying levels of vitriol, amusement, or aggrievement, that he talks..

He is a talker.

Not such that the conversations turn monotonous: his patter, his engagement with the listener, his accent and inflection all lend themselves to his ability to hold his audience. He isn't (as the kids say) a mansplainer, either; there is little authority of subject in his speech. Sen is eternally a philosophizer, leaning in deeply to the acknowledgement that there is much he doesn't know. (And indeed, he often will ask for clarity from anyone in his vicinity.)

He, gentlemanly and still disreputable, gentle but still relegated to the ranks of thieves, dealers, and lowlife sinners, is a conman with a gift. He belongs in the company of evangelists, of black market dealers, barkers and carnies, beat poets, hype men, street magicians, and radio personalities (or Podcast hosts. Take your pick.)

Years ago, he felt trapped, uncomfortable when there was nothing to say. He felt uninteresting, dull of any sheen, and presenting to others only a decent face, only cheap clothes: another wasted boy in a seedy underworld. But if he could talk. If he could wrap words around each and every listener like ropes and leash them, if he could make himself invaluable through speech, why, he was a king in a court of rogues.

So he commanded a room and laid waste to debates. He ran verbal laps around academics and meth addicts alike. He charmed them. (Or agitated them to fighting. Or confused them to silence. Facets of a useful skill.)

None of them could keep pace if they wanted to.

No one but Rin.

And no one but Rin could render him speechless. Only Rin could make Senan love his own silence, because in the silence, there is either the breathtaking flow of Rin's words, or a shared quietude. Blessed, his own silence in Rin's company.

He is silent now, permitting every word to glint like diamonds across his own stillness, in which he does not feel lusterless at all. He has never felt anything close to cheap, or uninteresting, or crude in his silence before them, and he doesn't feel so now.

He feels -

Oh, he feels everything. Warm and satisfied from his chest outward, as though from a shot of good whiskey. He feels charmed by Rin (he has always been charmed by Rin, by their whims and odd notions, by their languages and mimicry, the singing and narrations of others' actions, the way they carry themselves unaffected when they are, in fact, deeply so.)

He feels not-so-madly in love, where the madness has been perhaps a symptom of the not-having. The madness abates, and allows for, ha, stark raving sanity.

He feels - overwhelmingly tender. And gentle. Protective of this seemingly fragile miracle. (It isn't fragile. It's had two decades and change to take root, to grow, to become dauntless and fortified.)

His thumb brushes another slow arc as his smile softens - to think. To think Rin speaks these words. (He can't argue that Rin was indeed what they say, a null of thorns and bruises: he recognized that from the first, and informed every word and action upon this foundation. They had been wounded, and were prone to wounding, and he - talkative, rough, crude, cheap, but aware and capable of his capacities to be a gentleman - always offered them sanctuary.)

(They needed an ally. They needed a friend.

Truth be told, he had needed one, as well.)

(He's gratified. Struck by wonder, himself, to think he had some hand in brushing away the thorns and easing the bruises.)

This moment is prodigious. Miraculous, yes, he thinks the word again and again with every clench of his heart and every robbed breath, his eyes slipping closed and his head bowing a little - they called him 'my love'.

Not even the mention of dying catches at him. It seems impossible to him just now that anyone at all, much less Rin, much less himself, can die. Death feels so distant from the vibrant joy of those two words. He echoes them wonderingly.

Love and a caress. (Rin has touched him many times, but this is new, tingling and almost possessive - a claim he's happy to feel staked along his neck. At his jaw. Against his hand. What he has been, what he became, what he will be, he'd like to have lovingly held by, devoted in word and deed to, Rin.)

There's a false start at words, but he finds he doesn't want to speak. He doesn't want even one syllable to follow their love, their fondness, until the echo dies from his mind.

He's smiling again, bright and hopeful, looking far more himself than he has in months, years, and, with an unspoken question in his nearing, in the pause before connection and inquiring raise of his brows (Can I -? (Kiss you.)(Know you.)(Keep you.)), he offers another soft brush of his lips across theirs. ]

1/?

[onefellswoop]

Gross.

2/4

[onefellswoop]

Keep 'your Rin' all you like. Ogled or unogled, ankles and wrists and fuck knows what else you've set poetic-erotic sights on. (Don't explicate on that point; I don't want to know.

I'll hurl my fucking phone into the Atlantic. Again. Don't try me.)

Never cared for free-wheeling conversation while fucking, myself. Then again, I find most conversation tedious, and rather beside the goddamn point.

Christ. The two of you are intolerable when you get at it, aren't you? Not that you were ever anything other. Can't imagine this revelation you've shared'll make things any less nauseating.

[ ... ]

Lucky thing you have each other. I guess.

Not that I'd be caught dead suggesting as much.

3/4

[onefellswoop]

'The refined act of fucking,' I swear to shit.

I'm rolling my eyes all over again. Christ.

4/5

[onefellswoop]

Careful, Sen. Ask too many questions, you might lose a fucking finger.

5/6 i'm such a fucking liar holy shit

[onefellswoop]

[ ... ]

[ ... ]

For the week. 'Mine.' Yes. Sure. Yes.

Don't read into it.

Like that's going to fucking stop you.

6/6

[onefellswoop]

You don't know a thing about him, as it happens.

Enri is in fact perfectly sane. And lacks the exasperating qualities his kin show in spades.

He is not disagreeable company.

1/2

[ultimatenegative]

[ He's typing, so much about Rin. Their hair, their eyes, their shoulders, an entire series of paragraphs in bloom, a daft smile on his face.

Which fades. Which -

Wait. What.

He scrolls back to read again (and yes, read into it.)

He deletes everything he was typing. (It's all right. He remembers it all. Open season on speaking Rin's qualities from the bottom of Sen's heart. He can come back to that.)

This is worrying.

Darius is talking this way about a boy he's...what, only engaging with for the duration of his trip? ]

For the week.

2/3 i lied

[ultimatenegative]

[ He doesn't need to ask. He knows Darius. He knows what fucking happened, or is happening here.

Darius found a toy to entertain him for a week.

And wasn't careful.

And got attached. ]

Darius. Read your texts back to yourself and tell me if this is the speech of a man who'll give his doggy back to the pound in a week.

[...]

High praise.

[...]

[...]

[ultimatenegative]

[ Hold the fucking phone. ]

Oh for fuck's sake, you're going about it right now, aren't you?

You've got some fucking nerve, Darius, telling me I'm "gross" for lauding my Rin, and you're texting while playing with your doggy.

Obscene.

Shame on you.

Don't you dare say I'm gross, you sanctimonious pervert. As a matter of fact, as penance, I believe I'm owed one more overtly saccharine sentiment, which you will receive with grace and approval:

Darius. I have my own pillow on Rin's bed. Which is also my bed, now, too.

And it smells like them.

[...]

Yes, why not. I'm owed, for whatever you're doing to that poor, perfectly sane boy while talking to me:

It smells like them because their head was on it all through French and German.

It is, decidedly, my favorite pillow. My prized pillow. Slept like a fucking innocent, me.

[onefellswoop]

[ Those first two texts are suspiciously concise. Vexingly brief, from a man who so much as breathes and two or three dozen words fall out.

There's something Sen isn't saying.

(Something Darius could guess at.

Something Darius isn't going to touch.

...It means something, doesn't it, that Sen kept mum. Something that isn't, likely, an attempt at prodding Darius toward speech. Something that isn't only Wilkes being a snarky goddamn shit.)

Thank fuck for that shit-eating final text. (Thank fuck for the diversion.) (...Sen knows what the fuck he's doing. He always goddamn does. (...Fuck.)) ]

As I understand, I'm entitled to my interpretation of what is and isn't 'gross.'

Pillows, Sen?

I hate to think where it was [ ... ] I hate to think where they might possibly have been over the course of the six remaining languages, and what manner of sniffing that led to.

Yes, yes, of course, you have ALWAYS been the most innocen [ ... ] ...fucking damnit, Wilkes [ ... ] you are Sen Wilkes, eternally and completely free of any infamy of gross. Of course.

Don't be dull, Senan.

I don't recall suggesting I've ever been anything but obscene. Are you surprised, truly? Be glad, Sen - be grateful! (give thanks to me? but you never would) - that I've spared you the details, and you've no idea what my Puppy and I are 'getting up to' just now.

Suggesting that yes, we are indeed getting up to something. There you have it: There's no fooling you, is there? No use even attempting.

[ ... ]

Would you like me to pass your well-wishes along to Enri?

1/2

[ultimatenegative]

I'd wager myself and Null Set, too, that you, Darius Scarlett, are up to your eyeballs in thanks, gratitude, and all manner of seemingly-innocent perversion right at this very moment.

If I'm not mistaken, someone bearing your phone number stated only moments ago that they saw no point in the tedium of conversation while fucking.

You want to converse with Enri on my behalf, do you.

2/3

[ultimatenegative]

Enri, I'm delighted to know you are sane, and are enjoying committing yourself to the capable hands of the most obscene creature on the planet.

Please bear in mind that he bites, and has the filthiest fucking mouth (does he swear in front of you? I'll bet he does), so wash those wounds well lest you find yourself infected with something.

Rabies. Hepatitis A through C. Tetanus. Affection.

We wouldn't want that, now, would we?

Darius is allergic to humanity, impoverishment, and shellfish.

(I'm serious about the shellfish. Don't let him. You're in the fucking Bahamas, and he'll try, because he is an absolute dickhead who thinks himself invincible, and can't keep his grubby paws off a good lobster.)

Beyond that, I wish you a most lovely time doing whatever it is you do, and hope that you, too, have a prized pillow. For your knees, you know.

[ultimatenegative]

One more thing, Darius:

"Me". That's the answer. Where they might possibly have been over the course of six languages, eight languages, silence, shouts, ease and delightful tension. Through rapture and sleep.

My shirt smells like them. I smell like them.

And with that, I believe I will adjourn from this conversation. You're mid-something, and I'm mid-not touching that with a ten foot pole.

And the love of my life is looking this way again.

Enjoy your gettings and up tos and your perfectly sane Pendleton.

for Sen (shortly after his return)

[withoutrhetoric]

Sen, where are you?

Where have you gotten yourself off to

Sen I can't seem to find you

[ ... ]

Tsk, I can't find Sen anywhere. Have you seen him? If so, or if you chance to come across him, could you let him know that he is sought after, in quite high demand?

throwback texts!

[withoutrhetoric]

1) No, but I have to go back for my earrings. If he asks for sex while I'm there, I mean, one more round can't hurt.

2) Do you remember waking up from your blackout, kissing me ever so softly on the stomach, and saying "I love you champ. So much," then passing back out?

3) Think I found a decent side business - giving rides home to drunk executives. Very profitable.

4) You came into my rooming singing "shots, shots, shots," then walked to the drawer and threw socks everywhere singing "SOCKS, SOCKS, SOCKS!"

5) Please he is no good in bed, bless his little heart and his over-enthusiastic dick.

throwback texts :O!

[onefellswoop]

1) Oh yeah I'm in a ditch.

2) Lost the fuck knife

Fucking knife

Whatever. Both.

3) According to the book of Dipshits, chapter 37, those who hoard their stash will burn at the hands of Jesus cocktwisting Christ himself. This is the word of the Lord.

4) Count em up: three visible bite marks, a black eye, arm's bandaged, thumbnail's turning black and blue. A good night's work, I'd fucking say.

5) Fucking dipshit geese don't even speak SPANISH.