⌗　　ᵉᶰᵈˡᵉˢˢ　𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗲,

there’s shivering with anticipation,  and then there’s this:  candy - cane ribs practically quake with it  !  fair portion of that attributed to the  thwump!  of basslines that worm their way inside chest cavity, inescapable from behind a liquor - sticky bar that’s caught the flat of a tattooed hand about six times more than necessary. the rest of it   —   well. gaze made liquid, all baby calf brown, just as wide whenever sheridan ghosts past a gaping door  +  into fondest of daydreams, spectre of a smile etching up on rum raisin mouth.  (  half of that lacquer is destined to wear off around the rims of glasses  /  all the better that it’s gone by the time last call rings around, when pearly whites find lower lip  +  dig into tender flesh.  watching sherry shepherd the haphazard shapes of far - gone drunks out the door is hot, okay? jesus.  )  clock can’t move fast enough, but the crowd that normally knocks them for six isn’t quite as dense tonight  /  gives her time.  a second, really.  she’s just being considerate, not shamelessly flirtatious when she weaves through crowd hips - first, glass held over her head like a beacon.   “drink?”  beads of condensation drip down the birdbone shape of her wrist, catching refracted light.   “figured you’d need one.”   and i like watching the flex of your throat when you swallow. it’s normal.

summer unfurls, devours irving whole   —   long, hot, snakelike in the way it squeezes. not even the wheezing of an air conditioner well past its glory days can take away the sweat - slick dampness of it   ;   beachy breezes that roll off waves do approximately diddly - fuckin’ - squat to extinguish the lazy way it seems to swallow him, alive, barely breathing. all of this exacerbated, of course, by the burn at his very core, sick little furnace  /  accidental by - product of existing around monty a moment too long, he’s convinced of it.  (  it’s unhealthy, the fixation he has with lodging himself underneath other’s skin, digging a trench in limited patience  +  making a home of it. therapy’s expensive, alright  ?  )  cue whatever this is: rehearsals extended long past their natural demise, limbs stretched almost to breaking point. cotton gone thin  +  transparent where it clings to patches along his back, his shirt’s ended up rucked up to expose a dazzlingly pale strip of skin. damp curls are an inky halo, huffed out of obscured vision when he shoots yet another glare towards front of the room.   “is this productive? like, genuinely. level with me.”   protest comes at the tail - end of a huff that echoes, wet, across studio that remains unspeakably empty bar the two of them.  danger, will robinson, get the fuck out before you fog up the goddamn mirrors again.   “i’m fuckin’ dying here. do you get off on this shit?”