thx for the open casket pics i'll pour one out for our shit luck that coulda been shittier
( par the course — if she's wrong and god's will does exist, she has a vendetta against him for wasting his precious time fucking, personally, with her. )
can you get my stuff 🙏 i don't want some fuckin bozo thinking it's free game
[ His immediate instinct, having long since vaulted himself past any real need to do what could be quantified as grunt work, is no, but after a long beat (not even graced with ellipses that indicate typing): ]
( fucker, ani thinks, with no true viciousness driving the thought; might as well find fault with new york for breeding the same type of inconsiderate, if she's taking silco to task for bustling in his own lane. it is what it is. with a scoff of cigarette breath, the blinged-out brick of her phone bounces on a lakeside sun lounger. lights up not a second later in an obnoxious game of phone tag, like it's laughing at ani's impatient glower.
ani's attempt at a text bubbles up, vanishes, bubbles up again. less a choice of etiquette, less a consequence of hesitation, and just a presence that lives to announce itself. even if it's just a pixelated blurb: ani is typing ... for the (vengeful) duration of a dragged-out minute. )
just the shit in my locker pink backpack. it should all be there change of sweats, big ass fucking ring, make-up bag, my best pair of pleasers, enough thongs for a panty raid
( practical items, with only a three carat rock of sentimentality sandwiched in the list, like a dull list will make its dull appearance on it only worthy of silco's dulled-down attention. )
[ Immediate, this time: a thumbs up reaction. Less a result of learning what a woman of her temperament expects but because it's easy — he's already agreed to play runner, and there's little else to say (that he wants to say) unless he ends up not being able to find what she's asked for. Plus, it conveys about the degree of attentiveness that he expects she wants out of this interaction, which is to say — he pays attention to her, but he doesn't ask questions.
The ring doesn't stick out, per se, but there's still the fact that it's something he has to look for, the one small thing amidst a list of items that are otherwise fairly obvious. In the moment, he notes it — something specific, rather than the loose tangle of lingerie that serves as the last item on the checklist — but that's all. When her bag finally reaches her, tucked dutifully inside the flap of her tent rather than left outside, everything is where she last left it. ]
( distantly, she imagines silco's geriatric squint surveying the emoji options on his mobile set-up like it's all Very Serious, phone screen jammed into his face. like their little yellow expressions will make more sense up-close, a choice as insignificant but integral to conducting business as debating how to sign off an email. which one screams polite yet slightly inconvenienced professional? god, he's such a fucking dad. makes a sort of sense for why he'd been her perfect pick for the job — the hiring pool of guys who wouldn't pop a boner over inventorying her panties is slim pickings. silco, for all he'd probably mistake tiktok as slang for hurry your sweet ass up and leave her on read over the mistranslation, is uniquely qualified.
her own little sign-off to the conversation: ani blips out a snort of amusement. returns the favor by not interrupting his damage assessment of the club. by nightfall, she squares her shit away in the corner of the tent, unobtrusive. ani's thoughts are less so, an intrusive refrain that keeps reminding her of that unmentionable thing tucked away with the rest of her unmentionables. (a stupid name — ani has an easier time talking about her panties than the proof of how she got played.)
before she drops into her tent that morning, she leaves behind a vintage bottle of a fine red at the lip of his, a 1990 lafite rothschild, five-finger lifted from portia's personal collection. (see also: her unattended birkin; ani only briefly considered stealing the baby with the bathwater.). the attached pink post-it reads, in loopy curls of glitter pen: IOU. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
i'll pour one out for our shit luck that coulda been shittier
( par the course — if she's wrong and god's will does exist, she has a vendetta against him for wasting his precious time fucking, personally, with her. )
can you get my stuff 🙏
i don't want some fuckin bozo thinking it's free game
no subject
Send me a list.
no subject
ani's attempt at a text bubbles up, vanishes, bubbles up again. less a choice of etiquette, less a consequence of hesitation, and just a presence that lives to announce itself. even if it's just a pixelated blurb: ani is typing ... for the (vengeful) duration of a dragged-out minute. )
just the shit in my locker
pink backpack. it should all be there
change of sweats, big ass fucking ring, make-up bag, my best pair of pleasers, enough thongs for a panty raid
( practical items, with only a three carat rock of sentimentality sandwiched in the list, like a dull list will make its dull appearance on it only worthy of silco's dulled-down attention. )
no subject
The ring doesn't stick out, per se, but there's still the fact that it's something he has to look for, the one small thing amidst a list of items that are otherwise fairly obvious. In the moment, he notes it — something specific, rather than the loose tangle of lingerie that serves as the last item on the checklist — but that's all. When her bag finally reaches her, tucked dutifully inside the flap of her tent rather than left outside, everything is where she last left it. ]
no subject
her own little sign-off to the conversation: ani blips out a snort of amusement. returns the favor by not interrupting his damage assessment of the club. by nightfall, she squares her shit away in the corner of the tent, unobtrusive. ani's thoughts are less so, an intrusive refrain that keeps reminding her of that unmentionable thing tucked away with the rest of her unmentionables. (a stupid name — ani has an easier time talking about her panties than the proof of how she got played.)
before she drops into her tent that morning, she leaves behind a vintage bottle of a fine red at the lip of his, a 1990 lafite rothschild, five-finger lifted from portia's personal collection. (see also: her unattended birkin; ani only briefly considered stealing the baby with the bathwater.). the attached pink post-it reads, in loopy curls of glitter pen: IOU. )