woke up sexy as hell again!

just a small note that i’m going to be limiting my time on here a bit. i still love writing with you all, but i’m trying to split my free time between tumblr and some longer-form projects offline.

i’ll mostly be focusing on plotted / established dynamics for now, though i’m always open to organic development when it clicks.

he'll run it deeper into the ground than the man of the hour.

he takes his own pinch of her hat brim, and studies her face like he knows what he's talking about. his tongue clucks quiet against the roof of his mouth, timed with a snap of the fabric. a makeshift clapperboard.

"action."

a sniveling woman is reciting an eulogy by the gaping grave; a girlfriend or a sister. monroe seizes her opportunity by conjuring tears. nothing dramatic, just a glisten and a few sniffles for authenticity.

"you can work those on demand, huh." his rental jacket itches, shoulder seams squeaking while he rearranges his hands: left over right, disguise the too-wide space between the sleeve cuff and the knob of his wrist.

it's not a big deal from the back row. the mourners are preoccupied with the whole casket lowering, last goodbye situation. tossing dirt. open weeping. someone might be singing, but his hearing's kind of shit. could just as easily be a bird.

"look, it ain't your close-up." quiet exasperation, like this must be an actress thing. he pretends he's not as equally attention-seeking as he's accusing. the goal really is just to blend in. stay quiet, look sad, catch a word with the widow before the rsvp-only luncheon. most especially, come along so dean doesn't look like a freak that crashes these things on the regular. bat those big bambi eyes, monroe. sad old ladies eat that crap up.

as they lower the casket into the abyss of soil, she fidgets and brushes against dean’s shoulder, gauging his own level of tension. crying would give her something to do, but dean provides performance suggestions like he’s the director of this little play. what’s the story, anyhow?

' i, ' began lis, getting up. she stretched her arms, cracked something in her back, rolled out one ankle at a time. she looked like she was warming up for something: a sprint, maybe. or a marathon. depended on monroe, really, and how far she could run. how much she wanted to survive. ' need pants. the mosquitoes are killing me. '

' the fire, ' mumbled charlie, half-heartedly, ' needs wood. '

' be right back—if i don’t get murdered by a giant mosquito or an evil, masked killer! ' hahaha. lis thought this was funny; charlie thought it was annoying.

he frowned at the ground. ' if the fire doesn’t get another log, it’s going to go out. '

lis shrugged, pulling her hair back and over her shoulders. but charlie was right: the fire was eating itself out of existence, shedding itself to the bone. smoke was already veiling monroe in a funeral shroud. ' i’ll see if i can find naomi, ' she added, then made her way down the path—and right past the stack of wood.

the radio cut out again, tshhhhhhhhhhh. a loon let out its wistful, mournful cry. maybe it missed the music, as charlie did.

' … i thought … she was going to … ' charlie let the thought die, sputter out with the last few flames. he didn’t watch lis disappear into the night. he didn’t look monroe in the face. he didn’t look anywhere at all, because the axe was in his peripheral, propped against the pile of logs, and he thought that if he looked at it, it would give him away.

he started up again: ' the fire— '

@pixistic, ' —do something about it or shut up already. '

charlie went very, very still. he was looking at her now. it was the first time he’d done so all night, perhaps the only time he’d done so since they’d met.

he thought she had the biggest eyes he’d ever seen.

' no. ' he said finally, quietly, after far too long. the fire was nothing but coals, and the coals were quickly fading to nothing but ash. soon—in one minute or in two—the darkness would set in.

and maybe she was safe or maybe she wasn’t, and maybe he’d kill her or maybe he wouldn’t. no matter how the story ended, the fire, the night, the light could not protect her. but maybe it could keep her warm.

when lis bounded into the thicket toward the cabins, the woods seemed to get smaller. in any other movie, this scene would be romantic. them with low light and music to set the mood. any other boy, she’d invite him for a dip in the lake. with night approaching, it wasn’t getting any cooler. the heat was encroaching on her like a second body pressing her down. suddenly her spandex shorts and t-shirt felt like too much clothes.

charlie seemed so thoroughly oblivious or indifferent to her presence that monroe was almost certain she could strip naked and it wouldn’t stir a reaction. she didn’t know how to handle that revelation. fuck him. dismiss him. she snapped at him like it had been building up after days of zero communication. well, that got his attention. he was staring at her now.

for a moment, there was only the stutter of her heart and the uproar of cicadas. then, charlie’s voice — resolute, detached. there was a musky scent pervading the air. the coals or charlie’s cologne. she’d have to move closer to figure out for sure.

delta was making this up, but he was doing it in a way that seemed both reasonably plausible and unreasonably dishonest. which it was: unreasonable. and not for any tactical benefit. what he was waving around was a flask, not a bottle, smuggled into camp in his waistband. and the top of it was silver, not black or white or even something in between. it reflected the hazy glow of the campfire, the sunset above. when held up to the ear, it echoed with the sounds of the lake, the gentle lapping of waves, the croaking of toads in discussion.

the flask, scholars agreed, was the degenerate man’s seashell.

' just shut up and drink, ' interjected @pixistic, which either meant that she didn’t believe him or that she didn’t care. or just that she was thirsty.

because delta was thirsty, and because he didn’t really care whether hanna cared, whether she believed him or not, he did as he was told. he threw back his head, took a gratuitous shot of ( it wasn’t even vodka ), and sat down, wobbling, on a tree trunk bench. there were three of them arranged around the campfire, the tops of them worn flat from years worth of asses and termites.

there was a mosquito gnawing on her shin that kept circling her regardless of her swatting it away. she was worried her hair was frizzy from the humidity. damn woods. damn…delta. because who else was there to curse? he was in front of her, tipsy and smiling.

her phone was resting on the stripped bark of the log she perched on, glaringly silent. she was used to jumping at every notification, not the ominous lack of them. she really just wanted a drink, to ease her nerves.

hands.  for your muse to take a hold of my muse’s hand.

tie.  for your muse to adjust an article of clothing on my muse.

combat.  for our muses to train together in combat.

pin.  for your muse to pin mine to ( the ground / the wall / a surface ).

push.  for your muse to push mine in a playful manner.

shove.  for your muse to shove mine in an aggressive manner.

tend.  for your muse to help tend to my muse’s injuries.

trace.  for your muse to trace their hand along my muse’s ( skin / scars ).

gag.  for your muse to place their hand over my muse’s mouth, to try to keep them quiet.

kiss.  for your muse to kiss my muse.

hair.  for your muse to brush my muse’s hair from their face.

pull.  for your muse to pull my muse close to them.

sit.  for your muse to encourage mine to sit and rest.

lap.  for your muse to pull my muse onto their lap.

tackle.  for your muse to tackle my muse to the ground.

fight.  for your muse to physically attack my muse ( by hitting / punching / kicking / etc).

neck.  for your muse to place their hand around my muse’s neck.

throat.  for your muse to hold something against my muse’s throat.

collapse.  for your muse to catch mine, preventing them from falling to the ground.

carry.  for your muse to insist on carrying my muse when injured.

warmth.  for our muses to seek warmth from each other, after being caught in a ( snow storm / rain shower ).

morning after.  for our muses to wake up together the next morning, after having a one night stand.

wake.  for your muse to wake mine up by kissing their ( shoulder / neck / lips / etc ).

dance.  for your muse to force my muse to dance with them.

drink.  for our muses to spend time together whilst drunk.

swim.  for our muses to go for a late night swim.

intimacy.  for our muses to embrace each other after sex.

death.  for your muse to comfort mine after they have lost a loved one.

the lack of memory is less upsetting than the source of the amnesia. ishtar's debauchery rarely entails large amounts of alcohol: she likes to ruin things with a clear mind. but yesterday… oh yesterday must have been horrid. she can smell it in the room: sex and drinks and something heady-- probably the result of a joint passing between spit-slick lips.

panic grows tenfold when an unfamiliar weight is registered on the hand that clutches the covers. a ring. she can see it as it gleams in the blurry mid-afternoon light. "fuck," comes first, soon followed by another heartful "fucking hell", spitted while she tries to get up and finds that her head is swimming in all directions, while her body has yet to move. deciding that sitting might be the only option, she goes back down, and waits a moment, breathing through her nose.

they never closed the hefty polyester curtains over the large windows before crashing last night — ishtar’s delicate hand print is smeared smack in the middle of the view — and now the midday sun streams in the room fierce and mean. dust mites float in the slants of crystal light. he notices ishtar’s ring before his own. plain, only thing special about it is that it’s on her finger. and he’s got a matching one.

his mind is spinning with nowhere to land, and it’s hard to focus when he’s hard because ishtar is nude and backlit like an angel with a halo. her scowl is all spitfire and devil. he can taste her in his mouth, more potent than the whiskey. his cloudy gaze zooms in on a hickey above her collarbone before flitting down to the band on his finger. he inspects the silver without any big reaction. she’s doing that for the both of them.

[ ... ] THE LANGUID LIMBS OF THE GLADIOLI HELD STEADFASTLY TO THE BLOOMING ROSEBUDS, THEIR CROWNING LEAVES, THEIR BRUTAL THORNS, THE BLOOD-RED VELVET OF THE ORCHID PETALS, THE BASHFUL SEPALS, THE COQUETTISH LILY PISTILS THAT TICKLED THE FURRED UNDERSIDES OF RESTLESS POLLINATORS. WHIMSY LINES OF VARYING THICKNESS ALLUDED TO THE STOLEN INSPIRATION OF A SEASIDE GARDEN OR FUNERAL ARRANGEMENT AND HE COULD TASTE, WITH LITTLE ROOM FOR IMAGINATION, THE DISTANT SEA-BRINE, THE AROMA OF ROTTING FISH, THE WHIPPING OF THE BLUFFS..

AND THEN THE GELID CRYSTAL OF HIS STRANGE EYES RETURNED TO THE PAINTED EDGES OF HER ILLUMINATED PROFILE.

She looked herself apart of the delicate chinoiserie, a whisper of the rococo echo, another inch of the infinite demasque that was her antiquated abode. The man, suit-clad and severe-faced, straightened the shaft of his tie and sat upright, rigidly-so, in the brittle-boned armchair she'd so graciously proffered upon his prompt arrival. Luggage sat at his feet like crumbling ruins.

“it’s uncanny, isn’t it?” she asks, jerking her chin in its general direction, indicating his observation. “old. well, i mean —” a wave of her slender hands to gesticulate the vicinity, the tiger-stripped patina on the black wood desk, the madder red oriental carpet, the calfskin leather ledger instead of a computer. “— the whole place is old. due for a renovation. but it’s my parent’s place. i never considered myself a sentimental person. quite the opposite, actually. i’d throw everything out. hate getting gifts …”

now she’s rambling. he doesn’t care about this. of course he doesn’t. he’s just a traveler in need of a place to stay. it can get quiet here, especially during the off-season. “don’t worry about it. the average rate is fine. should be a couple weeks until business picks up, anyway. tourists.”

she texts it under the table at the lawyer's office, while he continues to drone on and on. considers throwing her phone at his face, then ends up typing another text instead.

he gets out of bed, brushes his teeth over the tiny sink in the kitchenette, and just barely refrains from washing his mouth out with the fifth of jack daniels by the stove. hair of the dog and all that. ishtar would be pissed if he showed up buzzed.

he grabs his keys.