Unlike every other girl, Demyx likes the lowest notes of his sitar.
He sits and plunks and listens to each mistuned resonation warble until it dies. He'll nod, again and again, slowly, assuredly; scratch the stubble of his sinewy beard, and continue to pioneer his pot-induced fantasyland.
Serious, why are all bass players so hell-bent on the functionality of beards?
I swear, I come out of every fuck with a mouthful of blonde hairs and last-month's cornflakes.
"Ienzo, sweetie," he mutters into my neck-flesh as I curl his chest hair and complain of his raging testosterone, "shut the fuck up, kay?"
I guess too many reefers can shit a brain so bad that you become a Demyx.
God, beards are weird.
Gnarls Barkley plus bearded potnut!Demyx and Ienzo equals Skymall.
Ask me later about my experience with the bearded freshman.
He cheated on me, but hey, he was unnaturally fun to kiss.
not own.
