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

darius scarlett

[onefellswoop]

1) You need 4-7 business day to recover from a fingering like that.

2) Fuck my brother, I don't give a shit. Punch him in the dick while you're at it. Ungrateful little twat.

3) Who shows up to the big fucking get-together still drunk and freshly high on blow and and bags the negotiation of the decade? This guy. Good at business. Super good at being fucked up. Congratulate me.

4) You might've broken his nose at the bar but he still went home with me.

5) Is he the one who was handing out home-made business cards that read "finger slamming the good puss since 1986"?

6) I got cut off for calling the flower girl a slut. What are you doing?

1

[honeystuff]

that doesnt leave a lot of time for more fingering

[...]

glad you liked it ;)

[onefellswoop]

'Liked it'? No need to play modest, Puppy. You know the cries of a god undone, hm?

As it happens, your Daddy is uncommonly quick to mend. Four days, and you'll have another chance.

Until then, I'm certain we'll find other pursuits. You're a creative boy, yes?

1/2

[honeystuff]

i dont know about creative

enthusiastic though

[...]

[...]

would you like coffee ?

i'm getting coffee.

2/2

[honeystuff]

[ The next text is a screenshot of an article about rimming. ]

google is creative FOR me

[...]

too slow. bringing you coffee

[onefellswoop]

Oh, you'll find your creativity in time. Patience, Puppy. Build the basics and the rest will follow.

A note for the future: you might do best to guard your research. A little bit of suspense will carry you a long way.

Still. My proactive Puppy deserves a reward. Lucky thing he's coming around with coffee (no sugar; almond milk); perhaps Daddy will have a gift waiting.

1/2

[honeystuff]

force of habit

i have to use google a lot.

going to need a second phone so i can talk to you while i run searches for half the words you use. ;)

I still can't find corick. Korick? Coric?

[honeystuff]

joke's on you.

daddy IS my gift.

[...]

no sugar, though? ILLEGAL

ugh

can you believe i'm going to do such filthy fucking things to a guy who doesn't put sugar in his coffee?

bet you don't like froot loops either

1/2

[onefellswoop]

Are you surprised? Daddy's got a bitter heart; I take my coffee to match.

Or would you prefer I say it this way: My Puppy is the only sweetness I require.

Which is true, do you think? Or is the truth manifold?

I bet my Puppy can guess.

In any case, the next time you consume Froot Loops, you WILL scrub your mouth before bringing it anywhere near me. That goes beyond the pale, my Enri.

2/2

[onefellswoop]

'Choric,' Enri.

1/2

[honeystuff]

your puppy guesses the bitterness is froot loops related.

i'm going to have to ban them until i solve that heart problem of yours.

for this week

fuck

[...]

[...]

:)

i'm on to you daddy.

almond milk sweetens it up.

2/2

[honeystuff]

" of, relating to, or being in the style of a chorus and especially a Greek chorus "

?

trade you a kiss for a hint ?

[...]

just pretend i wasn't planning to kiss you anyway. it's fine.

1/2

[onefellswoop]

I beg your pardon, was the traditionally accepted spelling not enough of a hint? It seems you already owe one kiss, Enri; are you prepared to fall further into kiss debt?

Think carefully, my boy: payment compounds as the hints add up.

(Plus the kiss you initially intended! As this rate, we'll have no chance to find other employment for your mouth, hm?)

Your second hint: It's a theatrical term. Convention. What do you know about the Greeks, Enri?

2/2

[onefellswoop]

A wise decision on the Froot Loops ban. Perhaps I'll factor that in against the weight of your debt; some slight alleviation of payment for sound planning.

Keep the almond milk between us, would you? Our little secret.

6 i'm sorry i'm sorry

[ultimatenegative]

I am most emphatically not calling flower girls 'sluts', if that is the direction you were heading with your question.

- A question which, by the way, has arrived almost two years to the day since our last word exchanged via text.

I am at present sitting at the entrance of a very gay establishment, ensuring no one attempts to enter said gay establishment before they have reached the arbitrary age of twenty-one, at which time they may legally enter and be as gay as they please. And drink, if they so desire.

And you are right where I last saw you, it would seem. Cut off from your Manhattans? Excellent. We can pick up where we left off. Prior to the last text, sent at 3:45 a.m. on March the 26th, 2019 - 'Fuck you and the cock you rode in on' - we were discussing the merits of neo-classical architecture. I can assure you that I still find it laughably pretentious, particularly in its American iteration. Thomas Jefferson should be resurrected and beaten with Monticello's tacky "Doric" columns.

Have you come to your senses?

Flower girls notwithstanding. (Don't slut-shame flower girls, Darius. Don't slut-shame anyone under 18. In fact, don't be in the same room as anyone under 18. You're a walking moral violation. A man of equal caliber to de Sade, himself.)

1/2

[onefellswoop]

What the fuck.

2/2

[onefellswoop]

[ That wasn’t his intended recipient. Darius knows who it is - impossible to mistake, even after two years of silence - but it takes a minute to process that this is Senan the incurable bombast, who, last Darius knew, had been eminently unreachable. Who hasn’t crossed Darius’s mind in months. Who Darius apparently messaged while awaiting Enri’s return.

And, yes, who Darius hadn’t felt any particular urge to speak with again. Ever. Christ. ]

The question foremost in my mind right now: Why for fuck’s love is your number in my phone after two years of blessed silence?

You live and breath again. A Lazarus for our modern era.

Pursue this line of conversation and I’ll condemn you back to that old cock. We are not doing this. Surrounded by shit music and chattering skulls as I am, I’m not going to risk adding Monticello to the mix.

Christ.

So you found

Renault’s put you to work. Careful; someone might mistake you for a responsible adult.

(Don’t, by the by, tell them I say hello.)

As for this wreck of a wedding and my choices in behavior, ‘Il est très doux de scandaliser.’ And I’m bored.

And the flower girl IS a little slut.

Asshole.

1/2

[ultimatenegative]

I live as I have lived. I breathe as I have breathed. My resurrection is in progress, and progressing apace.

Rin has been accommodating. My salvation, my ally, my truest friend, my light in the darkness, etc. (I abbreviate my praise of them for your sake only; I'm certain your time is limited, and I could wax poetic about my Not-Knight, Not-Damosel, Nor in Shining Armor for hours yet.) Bread and board, and means by which I might repay the cost of both in some small way.

If that small way is standing guard at the gates of their empire, then I am pleased to repeat until I am hoarse the none-too-ignoble refrain: "Let's see some ID."

Rin received your not-greeting with not-indifference - which is to say, they attempted to suppress a murderous glare, said 'no', and stalked off. It was a very swishy sort of stalking, but stalking nevertheless.

Je sais que vous adorez scandaliser, mais si ça ennuyez-vous, peut-être que vous pourrez trouver un autre divertissement. Or do you still take pleasure in impotent complaint?

Whose wedding, whose wedding. That of the illustrious Waverly, I should imagine. A gauche affair? My invitation must have been lost in the mail. (Or Rin shredded it in the garbage disposal.)

2/2

[ultimatenegative]

And - why do I have your number? To answer a question with a question: did you not intend to text me?

I'm [...]

Wounded.

[...]

No, I mean that truly. I'm rather wounded. After Rin, you are, I had thought, one of my oldest and dearest friends. I realize now, I've seen neither hide nor hair of you since my incarceration.

You degenerate cunt. Say 'hello' and mean it.

And come see me when you're free of your scandalizing.

[onefellswoop]

Funny, that's funny, you're

Beg your pardon did you want a welcome basket, or a get out of jail free card?

As if I make a habit of being associating with known felons and

I didn't ASK for a treatise on dotage featuring our mutual acquaintance

You can fuck

[ ... ]

You have a nasty habit of leading me to think twice about what I say.

Senan.

There are worse unintended recipients a man might entertain.

[ And Darius is still talking, and Darius hasn't tossed the phone aside or blocked Sen's number, which says rather a lot on its own. ]

A point: If you wish to incur the grace of my presence, I’ll need you to name some neutral ground. I have the distinct impression that my ‘impotent complaints’ and I are unwelcome in the empire within which you’ve taken refuge.

Otherwise. Well. What is it they say? Aside from living, and breathing, and exuding honeyed nonsense, how HAVE you been?

1/2

[ultimatenegative]

Now, there's an affable gentleman if ever there was one.

I'm afraid that "neutral ground" is a passé concept in the new millennium; one must always be for or against any subject, from raisins to racism. Either you or I or both will find any empire inhospitable. You might as well come here; the monarch of this kingdom is nothing if not the perfect host.

And as I am the muscle (laughable, yes), you will find there is little to fear in that quarter.

It's a nice place, Null Set. Quiet, after hours.

Be tempted. There's a karaoke machine. (It rather pointedly does not have any version of 'I Touch Myself'. I wonder why that could be? Shall have to put that inquiry to Rin.)

Honeyed nonsense?

As for me, I am as I was and will ever be. Immutable, ineffable, indefatigable, and incorrigible.

2/2

[ultimatenegative]

[ And. Because that was...nice. Darius, being nice? He'll just tack on: ]

Rather painless segue from "Asshole" to "Senan".

You've got a fresh one, don't you.

[onefellswoop]

[ Damn the man; he managed to draw a smirk, bringing up that fucking song. (Jesus, that feels like ages ago. A different life, or Darius just doesn't really think about it. Doesn't think about much he's left behind, at all.

Sen should have been left behind. It'd be wisest to let this conversation drop. And yet.) ]

There he is: Senan "Asshole" "The Muscle" Wilkes, professional bullshit dealer and purveyor of non-answers. Companion to the monarch most liable to break my nose. Curator of the new millennium's conceptual trends. Please, Sen, tell me all about what you learned on the cutting edge of prison.

Nice to see nothing's changed, after all.

Please, it's a fucking wedding, and what's more, a wedding populated by Boyles, Pendletons, and every other head-up-their-ass family Manhattan can supply. Would I be here without a source of interest?

So. No, I haven't been drinking alone.

Don't think the absence of a karaoke track will stop me, by the way. It's a nice trick of Renault's, but with will, all things are possible.

1/2

[ultimatenegative]

There he is: Darius Scarlett, whose pseudonyms, bynames, and appellations will be stricken from the record; only boys half our age can be led down any such primrose path.

What answer would you like? You asked only how I am, and the social contract states one ought to keep to the lighter side of such conversations. (More to the point, Darius, I suspect if there were an answer that was not a non-answer, it is an answer you would not care to hear. It would be an imposition.)

[...] Well.

You know my abhorrence for lies.

And it seems you are, as the kids say, butthurt that I withheld a straight answer from you.

[...]


I'm not well.

[...]

If you repeat that to Rin, I will let them break your nose. They don't know and they don't need to know. I am telling you because I trust you will have the good grace not to treat me as any sort of invalid.

And because you are, my dear Scarlett, butthurt.

Now, the next time a man gives you a non-answer, perhaps you'll let it fucking lie.

As to the subject of the Boyle wedding (populated by Pendletons? Who is she marrying?) I suggest you lock Emma and Lydia in a room together and give odds on which one comes out alive. Do you remember

Esma.

Her name's Esma, that's the one.

Do you remember that summer in, oh, 1995? 1996? That was Lydia, if memory serves, who cracked Esma across the face with a pool cue for some trespass with one of the Pendletons. ('Trespass'. Tried to fuck him on the billiards table in the middle of that wrench of a party you dragged us to.)

[...]

The feral one. Outwardly, seemingly possessed of an intellect rivaled only by that of garden tools. (Not so. A feint, a sleight of mind to catch one unawares.)

Morgan.

Are they there? Don't tell them I said 'hello'. I owe one of them a rather large quantity of illegals, and I'm unsure which. Regardless, you can imagine I'm in no position to supply.

2/2

[ultimatenegative]

I relayed your precarious (but not solitary) circumstance to Rin, and they have reminded me that Trevor is one of that lot, and so, by proxy, is his fiancé.

Have you met Alice?

Tell Alice that Rin says 'hello', and asks that he drop by, won't you?

Please and thank you. There's a good youth-destroying consumer, corruptor, and compromiser of naïve young men. (In that vein, give my regards to your newest acquisition.)