[As serious as Raylan was about his job, he wasn't exactly over the moon to be getting right back to it. Likely because his new inmate had also just been Francis's roommate and sometimes make out buddy. Jesus. And now Raylan had to deal with that fact every goddamn day. But there was no way through something but to just do it, so he starts with a call.]
Looks like we got our carts hitched together before the Collage throwback.
Seems to Trixie that she and Roman's social calls have been limited to one catastrophic event after another, and yet here she is again, once more paying him a visit. This time it's after his brother's up and disappeared -- she's noticed he's been gone after usual circulations around the Barge turned up no sight of him.
She knocks on his door, bottle of whiskey in hand as offering.
[ So, Kendall's gone. And maybe Roman should be happy about it, glad he's out of here, but he feels like the rug's been pulled out from under him and for some reason he's angry about it. Kendall left him.
Well, fuck Kendall then. Fuck him in his stupid frog turtle face. He'll run on spite if he has to--not really his style, normally--but it's a special case, right?
Even Roman is intimately aware that his thoughts ring hollow, but it helps. And hey, here comes Trixie right on time, like some kind of gorgeous blonde angel with a machine gun mouth and a knack for knowing when he's miserable. She has whiskey, too, and Roman lets her in with nary a protest. ]
At some point we've got to threaten a warden at knife point so we can get into the theme parks I'm in charge of. Less depressing. Get you on a fucking roller coaster instead of both of us being miserable in a cabin.
When Raylan finally was able to peel himself up off the bathroom floor and move without feeling like his stomach was crawling up his throat in a rebellious rage, the first thing he does is follow up on the message he found in his unread folder.
Roman had shot someone. Roman was in Zero. So that's where Raylan went - convenient that it wasn't far from deck 8 at all.
"Which onna these you in, Rome," he grogs, voice rough and worn but very clearly still Southern.
There's probably better things to say. 'Hey, Raylan, I'm here on the cell furthest to the left!' or 'follow my voice, I'm over here!,' or at least something even remotely helpful. Roman, right now, is decidedly unhelpful. Probably because he, like Raylan, is in the middle of being violently, violently ill.
The man of the hour is currently on his cot in zero and looking absolutely miserable. He's pale, his own voice just as rough and worn as Raylan's--he's fairly certain if it weren't for the southern twang he rips on so much he wouldn't have been able to recognize the Marshall's call at all--but he does manage to pull himself up. He's half-sitting, hunched over, and when he pushes the flop of his bangs away from his face it stays slicked back due to sweat. It's disgusting, but so is getting poisoned.
He's debating whether or not forcing himself to throw up like a bulimic model will help when Raylan finally comes into view. He presses his lips into a thin line instead, forcibly forgoing the up-chuck.
She still doesn't like to leave the deck, but this is important, so Iris tells herself to stop being a wuss and clatters down the stairs anyway.
The light isn't dim, and the hallways are neither cramped nor airless. She has to keep reminding herself of that but she walks with purpose and without hesitation. She doesn't know where Roman's cabin is or if he'll be in it, so she tracks him by scent.
When she finds him, she doesn't speak, she just tackles him in a surprisingly strong hug.
"John's back. Wanted to be very sure I weren't going to blame you. 'Ow you feeling now, love?"
Roman's got his actual cabin back, thank God--a small, small mercy after the events--and he still feels a bit wobbly, though he's not sure if it's lingering after affects or this weird thing called 'guilt' he's just been introduced to.
What he's not expecting in any capacity is to be hugged, let alone from someone he only sort of knows. He freezes on instinct, mostly out of sheer surprise, and once his brain catches up to what's happening he's already trying to wriggle his way out of it.
Even if the hug felt really, really nice.
"Wh--Jesus Christ, a little warning--I'm fine." He's not, but like he's he's going to ever admit it.
Neal can't help the way his skim pimples up with goosebumps when he steps into the too-familiar setting of Level 0. A genuine prison in the belly of a prison ship. The only difference is how unsettlingly quiet it is.
He's (mostly) okay now, and the effects are (mostly) finally waning off, but that doesn't mean he feels alright. On the contrary, he feels like shit. It's just easier to focus on the physical portion of the pain, because otherwise--
--well. That's a step too far in a direction Roman refuses to think about.
He hears someone call for him, the voice not quite recognizable from where he is all the way tucked at the end like he's Hannibal fucking Lector, but he doesn't have the energy to tell whoever said it to fuck off.
"No one else here," he calls back, voice still hoarse from screaming and crying and, unfortunately also from upchucking all of the poison that had invaded his system. He's sitting on the floor with his back to the cot, awfully close to the toilet, face pale and hair slicked back with sweat, his large, almond eyes looking almost sunken as his body protests the chemicals that have ripped through his body. Roman's genuinely surprised to see Neal and doesn't bother to hide the confusion.
The party is almost entirely forgotten. It's never been a matter of confidence--despite his self loathing, Roman Roy has confidence in spades--it's something else, and he's had just enough alcohol and is in just the right mood that John's needling is hitting in just the right way.
If John wants to get away, who is he to disagree? He downs the rest of his mint julep, chugging the last half of it and sighing contentedly as he places the glass down, does a quick glance around the party--he thinks he sees Raylan and Flint entering--and nearly skips to the exit, knowing damn well John is following him.
"My room's closer." He knows damn well they're not going for a walk. Or if John's actually serious about it, Roman's determined to turn it into something else.
"Mm, it is," he agrees, absolutely following behind him. He's not missing out on this moment, on this chance. He shoves his hands in his pockets - not out of nervousness, but anticipation. Lack of anywhere else to put them, especially when he wants them along Roman's sides.
"But moving from a haunted mansion to your fucking loft isn't much of an upgrade, Trust Fund," he mutters, sitting back on that old nickname, the one that he used when they were at odds. The one that has become as close a term of endearment than anything more sentimental.
James is intoxicated, but lightly so. The fun kind of intoxicated, where everything is vivid and exciting and a little bit silly.
The thought of going all the way back to his own small apartment after the glamor of Pagan and Trixie's party doesn't appeal, which is why--he'll blame it on the booze if asked--he keys in the security code to Roman's front door since the lights are on when he gets there. He knocks on the wall of the front hallway, like that will announce him better than the fact that he knew the code.
Roman's got a lot of apartments--suites, really--scattered across cities and planets. He's rich, and he can afford it, and fuck everyone else, right? Right. He's got money, he might as well use it. He opts for comfort and security than anything too lavish, although one would argue a place furnished and as big as this is lavish to begin with.
Only a few people know the code. He's vaguely surprised someone's here this late at night, though given he barely tells people the code it only means it's one person.
"Look what the fucking cat dragged in," Roman says almost immediately once he hears the knock. Definitely James. He's on his couch, lounging in a crisp white t-shirt and pants that clearly denote he's ready for bed, watching what looks to be the news. There's a glass of whiskey next to him, and he doesn't bother getting up when the other enters.
"Nice shindig, party boy?" He'd abstained from going himself. Too much work. Too much noise.
[ Good thing: he's not dead. Bad thing: he still hurts. He does get up, at least, and shuffle awkwardly over to the door.
The cabin is the same as ever: a large door to a brownstone apartment only to be met with his penthouse apartment, the rich, woven maze of city lights and skyscrapers in the windows like he's actually in New York. Roman himself is in a fairly comfortable looking robe with track pants and a t-shirt, though he's lacking his signature smug smile as he squints up at the redhead. ]
Flint?
[ What the hell is Flint doing here? ]
Uuh--hey.
[ He's leaning against the door, only mildly confused due to the fact that he'd mostly been sleeping on and off. He has no idea what time it is. ]
[ But fuck it. As weird as he thinks Kiryu is, he is Izzy's warden, and he has to play nice at least a little. ]
Fine. But you can't kick my ass if you don't like what you're going to hear. [ It's not that he thinks Kiryu is inherently violent, he's just covering his bases. And ass. ]
But he also doesn't have many people he can freak out to. Jedao was the problem, he's too embarrassed to face Gonou yet, he's pretty sure Shaw wouldn't get it, and he's not sure anyone else likes him enough to understand the crisis.
He's not sure Roman won't make fun of him for it either, to be honest. But he's been on a hot streak so far with the being nice stuff, so.]
What's up, shitdick? [ There's absolutely no hesitation, Roman leaning entirely into it. Which is in an of itself a little strange for Roman, but he's definitely coming to terms with the fact that maybe he kind of sort of has a real genuine friend.
[ He sends dick pics because most girls hate them and he has the impulsive, childish need to get attention no matter the cost. Probably even because of the cost, but he's never been a fan of examining his own inner workings and he sure as hell isn't going to now, not when there's one of those weird little freaks that make him feel less neurotic about everything hanging out in his pad and especially not when the incredibly hot girl he's only ever really talked to on the network until she punched him is apparently perfectly alright with casual sex.
Roman's not complaining. Far from it, he's doing the opposite of that, he's inwardly cheering. He's somehow managed to keep his pad neat and tidy despite not hiring anyone to clean, and by the time he hears the tell-tale tapping he's pulled out the only bottle of wine he has (expensive shit, something looted from the fake New York City but girls like wine, right?) and just set it on the small counter.
The heavy oak brownstone door opens to reveal Roman's pad, carefully and tastefully decorated by someone who was definitely hired to do so, a complete lack of anything personal in it sans a painting on the wall. Roman himself is in his usual attire, though his hair isn't slicked back like he usually is, and his lips pull taught into an excited, boyish grin. ]
Welcome to the shit pit. Hiya.
[ He moves with a dramatic half-spin, leaving the door open for her to make herself at home. ]
[ She engages with men who have issues of some kind, be it whatever level of pride they think they can pass off when really it's about covering up their insecurities by being loud and outrageous and demanding attention. Kind of like the class clown. Only Roman is rich as fuck and has too much time on his hands. He's bored.
But so is Laura.
When his dick pic showed up on her screen, she couldn't sit on her hands. While everyone else was reacting the way Roman wanted and craved, she saw an opportunity to have a little fun herself, and before long, she couldn't resist the lure of doing what no one else wanted to do: call him out.
The game was on. Just like old times.
She follows him in, eyes wandering almost immediately at his cabin. She's left her hair down, loose and tumbling down the black, sleeveless wrap dress she wore. Without knowing for sure if he'd be serving drinks, she brings the single malt whiskey she'd been holding onto for no special occasion. Laura sets it down beside the wine and moves over to the "view". ]
Nice place. Now, if only this were real.
[ Her tone is suggestive enough, and her smile should tell him exactly where she was going with that. Laura looks at him. ]
[ Roman knows what he wants. He's always known, and it's always been Norton in some nebulous form: at first because John liked Norton and Roman craved what John desired, but it's morphed into something else. The Brit's attractive in a way Roman can't really deny: the deceptively shapely arms, the mischievous glint in his eye, the way his lips purse and that he genuinely doesn't seem to care about what people think of him. His patience with Roman's issues--which since the arrival of the strange little creatures floating around in his cabin haven't surfaced--has skyrocketed Norton to one of the people Roman covets the most.
He can have fun and he knows what he wants and he knows Norton wants him, too, and it's enough that the other's cheery tone is about all he can take in terms of preamble. The brownstone door closes, Roman's penthouse bright and perfectly elegant in a way that only rich people can afford it to be, and Roman is already crowding Norton. ]
I did.
[ Roman also doesn't seem to give a shit he's shorter, either: Norton's barely in the door when he crowds the other, one hand grabbing at Norton's hip to guide him as he walks the other backwards. He backs him into the wall, other hand on the wall next to Norton to support himself as he finally takes what he feels like is his. He kisses Norton with a fervor his usual laissez-faire movement lacks, sharp and focused and pushing past lips with his tongue and tilting his head for a better angle. Norton is his and only his, just for a moment, and Roman intends on making good use of their time. ]
[Norton goes where Roman directs him, grinning the whole time. And when Roman kisses him, he returns the kiss with equal enthusiasm, sliding his tongue along Roman's, and his lips still curled with a hint of a smile. He runs his hands through Roman's hair, over his shoulders, down his chest, and breaks the kiss so he can murmur in Roman's ear.]
look at you running circles around him just to be annoying you little protege fuck id say lets drink to celebrate but the orange juice and a sippy cup youll need kind of kills the vibe
you know i can just do it for you right i very badly want to see what your hiding on your pale perky person and i negotiating is kind of like foreplay to me but i can just do it
no subject
[ paragon of maturity here. ]
I've got an offer for you that I think you'll deny but I'm offering it up anyway.
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
One Day Post Breach
Looks like we got our carts hitched together before the Collage throwback.
no subject
[ If he sounds absolutely chipper because he can tell Raylan probably 90% of their college times together it's because he is. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
--> to Spam
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
She knocks on his door, bottle of whiskey in hand as offering.
no subject
Well, fuck Kendall then. Fuck him in his stupid frog turtle face. He'll run on spite if he has to--not really his style, normally--but it's a special case, right?
Even Roman is intimately aware that his thoughts ring hollow, but it helps. And hey, here comes Trixie right on time, like some kind of gorgeous blonde angel with a machine gun mouth and a knack for knowing when he's miserable. She has whiskey, too, and Roman lets her in with nary a protest. ]
At some point we've got to threaten a warden at knife point so we can get into the theme parks I'm in charge of. Less depressing. Get you on a fucking roller coaster instead of both of us being miserable in a cabin.
[ That's a thank you. Honest. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
no subject
no subject
[ It's text for a reason. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
whoops that mean to to be text
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
audio
Day after the poisonings/Murder
Roman had shot someone. Roman was in Zero. So that's where Raylan went - convenient that it wasn't far from deck 8 at all.
"Which onna these you in, Rome," he grogs, voice rough and worn but very clearly still Southern.
no subject
There's probably better things to say. 'Hey, Raylan, I'm here on the cell furthest to the left!' or 'follow my voice, I'm over here!,' or at least something even remotely helpful. Roman, right now, is decidedly unhelpful. Probably because he, like Raylan, is in the middle of being violently, violently ill.
The man of the hour is currently on his cot in zero and looking absolutely miserable. He's pale, his own voice just as rough and worn as Raylan's--he's fairly certain if it weren't for the southern twang he rips on so much he wouldn't have been able to recognize the Marshall's call at all--but he does manage to pull himself up. He's half-sitting, hunched over, and when he pushes the flop of his bangs away from his face it stays slicked back due to sweat. It's disgusting, but so is getting poisoned.
He's debating whether or not forcing himself to throw up like a bulimic model will help when Raylan finally comes into view. He presses his lips into a thin line instead, forcibly forgoing the up-chuck.
God, this is the worst hangover of his life.
"You look terrible."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
[after Zero]
The light isn't dim, and the hallways are neither cramped nor airless. She has to keep reminding herself of that but she walks with purpose and without hesitation. She doesn't know where Roman's cabin is or if he'll be in it, so she tracks him by scent.
When she finds him, she doesn't speak, she just tackles him in a surprisingly strong hug.
"John's back. Wanted to be very sure I weren't going to blame you. 'Ow you feeling now, love?"
no subject
What he's not expecting in any capacity is to be hugged, let alone from someone he only sort of knows. He freezes on instinct, mostly out of sheer surprise, and once his brain catches up to what's happening he's already trying to wriggle his way out of it.
Even if the hug felt really, really nice.
"Wh--Jesus Christ, a little warning--I'm fine." He's not, but like he's he's going to ever admit it.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Post-Poisoning, Level 0
"Roman?"
no subject
--well. That's a step too far in a direction Roman refuses to think about.
He hears someone call for him, the voice not quite recognizable from where he is all the way tucked at the end like he's Hannibal fucking Lector, but he doesn't have the energy to tell whoever said it to fuck off.
"No one else here," he calls back, voice still hoarse from screaming and crying and, unfortunately also from upchucking all of the poison that had invaded his system. He's sitting on the floor with his back to the cot, awfully close to the toilet, face pale and hair slicked back with sweat, his large, almond eyes looking almost sunken as his body protests the chemicals that have ripped through his body. Roman's genuinely surprised to see Neal and doesn't bother to hide the confusion.
"Hel-lo."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
halloween; (most likely nsfw)
The party is almost entirely forgotten. It's never been a matter of confidence--despite his self loathing, Roman Roy has confidence in spades--it's something else, and he's had just enough alcohol and is in just the right mood that John's needling is hitting in just the right way.
If John wants to get away, who is he to disagree? He downs the rest of his mint julep, chugging the last half of it and sighing contentedly as he places the glass down, does a quick glance around the party--he thinks he sees Raylan and Flint entering--and nearly skips to the exit, knowing damn well John is following him.
"My room's closer." He knows damn well they're not going for a walk. Or if John's actually serious about it, Roman's determined to turn it into something else.
Re: halloween; (most likely nsfw)
"But moving from a haunted mansion to your fucking loft isn't much of an upgrade, Trust Fund," he mutters, sitting back on that old nickname, the one that he used when they were at odds. The one that has become as close a term of endearment than anything more sentimental.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
BANG! BREACH - post-fancy-party thread
The thought of going all the way back to his own small apartment after the glamor of Pagan and Trixie's party doesn't appeal, which is why--he'll blame it on the booze if asked--he keys in the security code to Roman's front door since the lights are on when he gets there. He knocks on the wall of the front hallway, like that will announce him better than the fact that he knew the code.
"Hello! Anyone home?"
no subject
Only a few people know the code. He's vaguely surprised someone's here this late at night, though given he barely tells people the code it only means it's one person.
"Look what the fucking cat dragged in," Roman says almost immediately once he hears the knock. Definitely James. He's on his couch, lounging in a crisp white t-shirt and pants that clearly denote he's ready for bed, watching what looks to be the news. There's a glass of whiskey next to him, and he doesn't bother getting up when the other enters.
"Nice shindig, party boy?" He'd abstained from going himself. Too much work. Too much noise.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
Post-Stabbing, once he finds out.
no subject
The cabin is the same as ever: a large door to a brownstone apartment only to be met with his penthouse apartment, the rich, woven maze of city lights and skyscrapers in the windows like he's actually in New York. Roman himself is in a fairly comfortable looking robe with track pants and a t-shirt, though he's lacking his signature smug smile as he squints up at the redhead. ]
Flint?
[ What the hell is Flint doing here? ]
Uuh--hey.
[ He's leaning against the door, only mildly confused due to the fact that he'd mostly been sleeping on and off. He has no idea what time it is. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
after flints post (not during flood)
Would you be willing to talk to me regarding what happened with you and Hands-san? I'd like to hear your side.
I understand if you would prefer not to. I hope your wound heals well.
Kiryu
no subject
[ But fuck it. As weird as he thinks Kiryu is, he is Izzy's warden, and he has to play nice at least a little. ]
Fine. But you can't kick my ass if you don't like what you're going to hear. [ It's not that he thinks Kiryu is inherently violent, he's just covering his bases. And ass. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
I'm fucking stressed. Come drink vodka and play space video games with me.
no subject
[ Damn that really does sound like fun, though. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
no subject
But he also doesn't have many people he can freak out to. Jedao was the problem, he's too embarrassed to face Gonou yet, he's pretty sure Shaw wouldn't get it, and he's not sure anyone else likes him enough to understand the crisis.
He's not sure Roman won't make fun of him for it either, to be honest. But he's been on
a hot streak so far with the being nice stuff, so.]
Hey Rome, can I like- borrow you, for a minute?
no subject
Gross. ]
(no subject)
cw minor slur?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
text (after a conversation with raylan);
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Text; 3:48 AM
You're gonna be okay, kid.
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
thedeadgirl â–º flood/nsfw;
[ He sends dick pics because most girls hate them and he has the impulsive, childish need to get attention no matter the cost. Probably even because of the cost, but he's never been a fan of examining his own inner workings and he sure as hell isn't going to now, not when there's one of those weird little freaks that make him feel less neurotic about everything hanging out in his pad and especially not when the incredibly hot girl he's only ever really talked to on the network until she punched him is apparently perfectly alright with casual sex.
Roman's not complaining. Far from it, he's doing the opposite of that, he's inwardly cheering. He's somehow managed to keep his pad neat and tidy despite not hiring anyone to clean, and by the time he hears the tell-tale tapping he's pulled out the only bottle of wine he has (expensive shit, something looted from the fake New York City but girls like wine, right?) and just set it on the small counter.
The heavy oak brownstone door opens to reveal Roman's pad, carefully and tastefully decorated by someone who was definitely hired to do so, a complete lack of anything personal in it sans a painting on the wall. Roman himself is in his usual attire, though his hair isn't slicked back like he usually is, and his lips pull taught into an excited, boyish grin. ]
Welcome to the shit pit. Hiya.
[ He moves with a dramatic half-spin, leaving the door open for her to make herself at home. ]
no subject
But so is Laura.
When his dick pic showed up on her screen, she couldn't sit on her hands. While everyone else was reacting the way Roman wanted and craved, she saw an opportunity to have a little fun herself, and before long, she couldn't resist the lure of doing what no one else wanted to do: call him out.
The game was on. Just like old times.
She follows him in, eyes wandering almost immediately at his cabin. She's left her hair down, loose and tumbling down the black, sleeveless wrap dress she wore. Without knowing for sure if he'd be serving drinks, she brings the single malt whiskey she'd been holding onto for no special occasion. Laura sets it down beside the wine and moves over to the "view". ]
Nice place. Now, if only this were real.
[ Her tone is suggestive enough, and her smile should tell him exactly where she was going with that. Laura looks at him. ]
A drink, please?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
pharadyne â–º flood/nsfw;
[ Roman knows what he wants. He's always known, and it's always been Norton in some nebulous form: at first because John liked Norton and Roman craved what John desired, but it's morphed into something else. The Brit's attractive in a way Roman can't really deny: the deceptively shapely arms, the mischievous glint in his eye, the way his lips purse and that he genuinely doesn't seem to care about what people think of him. His patience with Roman's issues--which since the arrival of the strange little creatures floating around in his cabin haven't surfaced--has skyrocketed Norton to one of the people Roman covets the most.
He can have fun and he knows what he wants and he knows Norton wants him, too, and it's enough that the other's cheery tone is about all he can take in terms of preamble. The brownstone door closes, Roman's penthouse bright and perfectly elegant in a way that only rich people can afford it to be, and Roman is already crowding Norton. ]
I did.
[ Roman also doesn't seem to give a shit he's shorter, either: Norton's barely in the door when he crowds the other, one hand grabbing at Norton's hip to guide him as he walks the other backwards. He backs him into the wall, other hand on the wall next to Norton to support himself as he finally takes what he feels like is his. He kisses Norton with a fervor his usual laissez-faire movement lacks, sharp and focused and pushing past lips with his tongue and tilting his head for a better angle. Norton is his and only his, just for a moment, and Roman intends on making good use of their time. ]
no subject
Confidence looks sexy on you, darling.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
c:
no subject
you little protege fuck
id say lets drink to celebrate but the orange juice and a sippy cup youll need kind of kills the vibe
[ That's roman for: i'm so proud ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
3am moment
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
re: dick pics
Yours the dick pic in question?
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
Bachelor Parties
Do you get on with Florian?
I mean socially
Not sexually
[Even if he does the latter, Sweeney would rather not know.]
Re: Bachelor Parties
weve talked like once
why
Re: Bachelor Parties
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
You can have that picture if you let me into the Enclosure in the next two minutes and then fuck off.
no subject
i very badly want to see what your hiding on your pale perky person and i negotiating is kind of like foreplay to me but i can just do it
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Backdated slightly to like a minute after Yellow's death
[His voice is perfectly flat, in a way that betrays actively trying not to let emotion through, just plain facts. He's obviously practiced with it.]
no subject
Yeah-uuh, okay, that's what--thanks, fucker--ho-lee shit--
I'm on my way--
(no subject)