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@ex3rtion
﹟ 𝗘𝗫𝟯𝗥𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡. a loud corner of the world plagued by overworked creatures puppeteered by flea ( she & her ) for fleelangston. a race against time for those who fight to be remembered, and a monotonous game for those who are no stranger to loss.
𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱 : finch & zee ( @collegiatesins ) !
𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗿: 3:17pm.
𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: the stand off, vintage music store.
* ❪ 🦇 ❫ : 𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘄𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗮 𝗼𝗳 𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 typically be kicked off his feet, now rendered speechless twice this week. life had continued to throw him for a loop, poked and prodded at his sides by two different figures in his life. a rat in the glass cage of a scientists who loomed over, writing down their results on a little pad overrun with thoughts. reactions spanning from teeth that bit down nailbeds to the quick, to the way he had convinced himself it was fine. she was fine, she had moved on from what happened, and so should he. let go of the trance he had been in when she was deemed missing, when the vigil that had been held was made into a mockery of the feelings that had threatened to suffocate him as nightfall came and went with no sign of life. no sign of reprieve for a demented play that foresaw a bitter end. selfish almost with the way he thought it was unfair. he hadn't had the chance to explain himself, rid himself of the guilt that feasted on whatever meat he had left to offer. why he had become something so rotten to the core, someone that zahara simply could not recognize as their years of bittersweet bliss had come to an end. someone he had thought of before he slept, as he rose from a bed that littered his spine, his side with sores from having nothing else to do but lay. wait for the nurses to take his temperature, calm his panic of being cooped up in a hospital room with sedatives that made him a zombie of the person he once had been. child, really, not yet a person of his own making, though he felt that zahara had a hand in that.
cracking the shell that hollowed out the childlike wonder that once consumed him, the unforgiving reality of a sickness that didn't care to let up. she had satiated his woes with a simple twinkle of laughter, warming up a frozen heart, humoring him by a joke he'd muttered out in broken english. he couldn't remember what he said if you had asked him now, but he could sketch out the details of zee's face as she broke out into laughter, eyes squinting as she clutched at her chest, the iv tubes attached to her inner elbows twisting though she didn't mind the pain. too focused on the joy that had bewitched the two teenagers, sharing a moment of happiness that had not often come, sounds that tuned out the beep of a heart monitor that faltered now and again and made them remember where their fates could lie one day. yanked from them before they could say goodbye, grateful for the hello's as they survived until the next day, blue eyes lighting up at the sight of curly hair weaving through the breakfast crowd. older individuals they couldn't relate far too much to, although zahara had tried her best, head tilting as she focused on an older patient. cancer. untreatable. sharing an anecdote of her past that zee nodded happily to, fond with a hand against their chest, before her eyes lifted to meet with finch's. he remembered the way he lifted his hand, an embarrassing reflex to wave in her direction. a teenage fool that he's rendered back to as he snaps back to the present, staring ahead at the woman that sits with her back facing him. a guitar in her hand, headphones over her head, an angel marveling the middle of the tryout room in a vintage instrument shop he had meant to snoop in for a moment — well aware he could not afford anything in here, not even the luxury to really look — before leaving. ringed fingers clasp in a tic he hasn't practiced in a while, confident enough with his audacity to have proceeded and tapped her shoulder, if she had been anyone else. but she wasn't. not by a long shot. no. she was zee. his zee. or rather, had been, what felt like so long ago. though not long enough, the fresh sting of a broken heart lipping across the expanse of his chest. he braves the pain, wanting to know if she was truly alright. if she'd been hurt on her journey, wherever the fuck she had been, wherever the fuck she had chosen to stay and give him a scare. wrong, and he knew that. wrong in the way she was no longer his to worry over, question her whereabouts.
still, it sits idly on his tongue, inked digit of a pointer finger tapping gently against the right side of her headphones, unlinking her from the chords she strums from 4am's new tracklist. ❝ hey, uh, hey. it's me. ❞ and well, she'd know that eventually, simply by looking up. but it sputters out anyway, throat clearing as he proceeds, ❝ can we talk ? for a second ? i wasn't fucking like — stalking you or anything, by the way. i just — saw you. you look good. ❞ a double entendre he hadn't meant to sound like one, simply meant that she looked healthy. physically sound. okay enough that he could just leave, visually gathering what it is he needed to settle the race of theories that plagued his mind. the stress that still caught his breath in waves. he'd almost lost her. again. forever this time. ❝ i mean, like you know, despite fuckin like — everything. i'm not complimenting you. ❞ he's growing wide eyed, hands shoved in his pockets now coming out once more to raise in surrender. ❝ not what i fuckin mean, ah shit. sorry, i meant like. you do look good, you're fuckin beautiful. i mean — shit man, you know what i meant. ❞ eyes squeezing shut now, taking a slow breath out as he shoves his hands back in his pockets. safer there. gathering himself before they fly open again, wishing nothing more than for her to take over the conversation. force him to shut the fuck up.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS LANGSTONITES - FROM SILLY LULU.
𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱 : lucky & blue ( @distortedblurs ) !
𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗿: 6:43pm.
𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: house 718, their shared residence.
* ❪ 💸 ❫ : 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗿𝗮𝗽 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳𝗳 𝗻𝗲𝘄𝗹𝘆 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗸𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘀, 𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗮𝗻𝘀 being shifted around as lucky empties out the boxes piled mile high atop the island. marked cardboard that designates things that don't ever go in their proper location, distracted by the sonar of a telephone that never stops chiming, a frustrated sigh as each notification pauses the speaker's bluetooth connection. a thumbpad flicks across the screen, searching for the option that puts his phone on do not disturb. a habit that he doesn't often participate in, if not for the need to drown out the thoughts that spin on a one track mind: blue. the sentiment that had been displayed the other night stills rears its ugly head whenever they make eye contact, lucky dismissing the tension with a callous greeting and being ignored in turn. watching as the boy in azure beelines their way into their room, shutting the door with a deafening slam. he had let it slide, allowed blue to come to grips with themselves on their own accord and take the time to process what had been done. completely forgoing his own feelings on the matter; the thrum that echoes in his chest when he recalls the desperate, aching tone that had been conveyed through a simple fucking device that taunted him. blue wanted him. still. despite his attempts to dissuade them, trip them up from their desire whilst forgoing his own. therein a truth that kicks up blood to his brain in a terrorizing race. sprinting toward the finish line of a marathon only he was running. blue taking their time and merely walking behind to calmly watch, never wanting this to end. a chase that lasted eons with lucky misstepping in lieu.
he's taking a moment to grasp onto the counter in front of him, white knuckling granite that delivers a frozen blown to the furnace of large palms underneath. a sensation that only increases with the memory of blue's shaft peeking out for someone else in one ill picture. someone who appreciated the details of a body that lucky worshipped only in his dreams, waking up to the strain of fabric against leaking tip, having to take care of it himself with hurried breaths and the image of familiar locks slowly working their way up and down. a rhythm he achingly believed only blue could fulfill. a guilty pleasure shoved toward the back of his mind, throat swallowing down a choked sound that climbs as he salivates prematurely. thrown back to present reality when his phone vibrates against the counter, an action only done by way of someone proceeding to have their call pushed through his first line of defense, staring at the words mom blink white. he's ignoring it to walk forward, heels stepping against the floorboards loud enough to announce his presence, before he's rapping his knuckles against blue's door, metal rings scratching wood with a shwip. a sigh when there's no answer, instinctively reaching for the knob to jiggle it. locked. his heart sinks to his gut at the revelation, a habit of blue's that had never been practiced before. not with him, anyway. lucky's chewing at the inside of his cheek, sighing out a soft, ❝ blue. ❞ an ear pressed against the door, listening for any shift in movement. a sign that he was perhaps, sleeping, instead of refusing him attention. ❝ dude, you're not gonna stay in there all day are you ? haven't even seen you come out to piss. ❞
𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱 : finch & abel ( @cloyingblccd ) !
𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗿: -
𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: weasel’s, abel's apartment.
* ❪ 🦇 ❫ : 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝗮𝗯𝗲𝗹 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗵 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿, 𝘁𝗼𝗼 busy procuring the concoction he had taken the time to ensue, a summer meal he had made one too many times when his mother had first taught him how to cook. the only thing he knew how to for weeks, tosha groaning with the knowledge that finch's nights to cook meant that it would be the same old dish. his parents had humored him, his mother the most with a gasp and a pat against his shoulder, accompanied by a kiss against his cheek as she told him very good, you are getting so much better! that he had preened about, chiclet teeth in a straight line as he took in the compliment with a new sense of pride. despite it being the same one, the same turn of phrase minced and made to look different, inspiring enough to have finch continue. better himself, take on more challenging recipes that soon made his more unimpressed kin and father sigh out a relief when he'd presented a plate that favored different ingredients. the same one he seasons in the pot that glows with a fire on medium heat, only looking toward the side when abel sniffles in snot that accentuates a blemished face, blue eyes widening only slightly. the taut feel of muscle makes him stand rigidly, the usual hunch in his spine gone as he awkwardly stands to his full height. unsure of what to do here, unsure of what to say, how to answer the elephant in the room that would typically invite a litany of sympathetic cooing. behavior he isn't privy to, doesn't know how to begin, though it quickly becomes something he doesn't have to engage too much thought in, abel already moving forward to close in the gap.
the pat against his chest is a familiar touch that he accepts by lifting a hand and placing over abel's, big eyes still staring back at a face that reads an expression he is not use to seeing. disheveled. a lack of gleam that naturally crossed over smooth features, a baby face that pinches together with the stress of someone of abel's true age. it unnerves finch momentarily, watching blankly as abel begins to tear up, a prickle at the back of his neck, sweat building up on his wrists and making his hands clammy. he's unsure how to express his concern, though he recognizes the thrum of a rising heartbeat beneath his chest. still human. still with feeling. abel's clear distraught is enough to make him want to try, comfort as foreign a concept as the english language that had forced itself onto his tongue, became something he evolved with as time grew. the kickstart of abel's panic snaps him out of his robotic movements, head tilting down as he wraps his own arms back around abel's torso, reciprocating with a squeeze that presses abel's chest into his own. hearts dancing at the same speed but with a stark contrast of intent, freckled nose pressing into brown locks mussed around by stress, a large hand coming up to cup the side of abel's skull and make him smaller. something to be held, to be cradled against the taller man. ❝ it's alright. ❞ a gentle whisper to coax off the dark string of apologies that crawl from abel's mouth in a litany that finch despises, blonde brows knitting together as he thinks of what to do, how to help him cope. can't help but wonder what happened, brain drowning in a tsunami of questions that typically flushed through an overactive brain.
the thrill of such an intense outburst, the morbid curiosity of what made someone tick, what could've possibly made merriment crash down to this level. instead he's clenching tighter around the shorter man, walking them backwards at a pace that abel can follow with ease despite his cane, a free hand reaching out to guide them around the wall and into the bedroom that bleeds sunlight across sheets that pull back at finch's insistence. ❝ here, lay down for a second, yes ? ❞ the mother accent of a country he longed for unraveling with the mood that shifts him into the role of giving, caring, making sure that abel was okay before anything else. ❝ i got you. ❞ a sentiment that spills from his lips before he can swallow it back down, sunkissed lashes fluttering as his gaze roams across the pink of abel's cheeks, long fingers coming up to smoothen out the furrow of a brow as abel's anxiety continues to overtake him. ❝ this bad day will not last, doc. you're home. you're in bed. will be okay. everything will be okay. i will stay here. you need to close your eyes. rest. i'll watch you until you sleep. and then — ❞ and then i can go, give abel time to himself, time to recuperate by himself if he wished to. used to the coping mechanism by those that needed the space, refused to have another anchor them down to a room that they couldn't cope in, preferring to take a walk, to push it back down. untapped to their emotions the way that abel constantly had, leaving a fragile heart on his sleeve, one that finch watches with awe, near envy for someone so difficult that abel made look so fucking easy. he doesn't bother finishing the thought, hopeless in the idea that abel will tell otherwise, a wish that looms over his shoulder and he pushes off.
HARRIS DICKINSON Triangle of Sadness (2022) dir. Ruben Östlund
FT: shep devi. @ex3rtion INT: slaughterhouse rave.
Ghostly, fluttering tendrils that stuck, in part, to the sweat glinting silver on her glitter clad limbs. Delilah felt transported to another point in time with her hair longer, like that, back when Elijah was still alive, when she'd find him meekly huddling in the stables, nursing her albino mare's mane with wet eyelashes after another of their father's outbursts. The strobes froze her in otherworldly, unsettling snapshots: a cacophony of unseeing white eyes; white feather tips dipped dark and bloody; sanitised visions of angels weeping as their pale spines contorted to support the weight of her elevated heels. She was there, dancing in the middle of the crowd, a small perimeter around her due to those too intimidated to encroach upon her spectral glow, and then, in another hard flash of strobe, she wasn't. Anyone might have thought she'd disappeared entirely -- wouldn't have questioned it, plausibly in line with a reputation as mythologised as hers -- if it weren't for the fact that a cluster of bodies parted and there she was, out of nowhere, sidling up besides Shep at the sidelines, nonchalantly shaking her mane loose from the shackles of her dozen synthetic eyes. Her own beneath bore milky white contacts, blinking beyond the corporeal veil. They slid over Shep without any qualms about appearing bashful, none of the guarded reproach that seemed to have become commonplace among the majority of the student body. "What are you supposed to be, one of the three blind mice?" She punctuated the deliberate misinterpretation with a sip from a clear cup, straight vodka coating her throat with blank-faced resolute. "Sweet. Didn't take you for a squeaker."
* ❪ 🔌 ❫ : 𝗵𝗲'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁 — 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗵𝗶𝗺 from all angles, nor the crackle of glow in the dark jewelry that people attempt to put on him, bucking at them with a glare and sending them off with a whimper. he's shoving people off who get too close, who get too handsy with him in their drunken stupor while he's still sober. while the night is still open to possibility. she's a spectre of white at the corner of his eye, vision flitting as she draws nearer. slightly surprised, not by her newfound appearance, but by the sudden apparition of someone far from home. curious to her previous whereabouts if only for a moment. where they would allow such a creature. if anyone could handle the facade of a woman who bore the earth in her palms, deluded with the ability to create universes and desecrate them within the blink of a thousand eyes. convinced almost, that her human body had been the costume itself. an uncanny form she untethers herself from by the mask that now hangs between them, annoyance projected with the way he pushes it away with the tip of his pointer finger. the mere association with biblical beings running the risk of burning his existence to ash. ❝ thought you died. world was better for it. ❞ shepherd follows the movement in her throat, lip curling with acid that bubbles inside his gut. the familiar ache of a feeling he'd rather keep contained. ❝ darling, if i knew you were coming i'd have gouged my fucking eyes out either way. ❞ he's staring back, glare hidden behind sunglasses that shine red underneath shouting lights. her faux hues reflect his own, albeit heterochromic and natural to his visage. the cup in his hand remains full with the alcohol that he refuses himself, a gloved palm reaching out to curl over her knuckles, the heat of leather interlocking with her bare skin as he begins to pour out his drink into her own. his voice is gritty with cigarettes chainsmoked minutes before stepping into a room full of those who wished him hell, and those he brought hell upon, scowl permeated on otherwise soft features. ❝ giving the world another go, then ? realized running away on your little tippy toes wouldn't do ? ❞ blonde locks are a spark against the black suit that shifts across his chest, lenses glinting as he tilts his head ever so slightly. a vulture looming overhead, watching a carcass that he inhales the stench of without chagrin.
she startles at the cold brush of mouth against her ear, a sharp intake of breath catching in her throat. then, like glass under pressure, the laugh comes — fractured and gleaming, splitting open in the smoke-drenched air. the slaughterhouse throbs around them, bass rattling her sternum until she feels stitched to the ruin itself, neon strobes flashing like a surgeon’s cauterizing blade across the bodies convulsing in slow, ecstatic violence. she doesn’t wriggle free. she leans back, caught and caged against his chest, tilting her chin so his hand only barely veils her lashes. “you’re drooling on me, you dog,” she quips, tone dripping in endearment, her voice roughened by foreign cigarettes and sleepless flights, threaded with that wicked lilt only he can pull out of her. spiderweb chain drapes from her skirt, jangling faintly against the beat, the gauzy veil tangled where his fingers had caught it. her hand finds the gauze of his own attire at his throat as if it’s second nature, fingers curling into the fabric and tugging him down closer to her height: the spider snaring her jackal. their faces hover close, veil brushing his jaw, the crowd’s smoke curling in the small stolen space between them. his mask swings loose behind him, catching flashes of white light, and romy grins like she’s claimed her favorite trophy. “contraband,” she echoes, voice husky with the scrape of travel, of cigarettes smoked on hungarian balconies to drown out laszlo’s heartbreaking silence. “i should’ve known you’d ask for it first, you devil.” her lips twitch into something profligate. “stuffed the fireworks in my bra tonight, just so you could play fetch. surprised the idiots at customs didn’t blow themselves up trying to fucking confiscate them.” her hair, still damp from the crush of the crowd, flicks against his jaw as she twists to face him, blonde strands illuminated in seizure-light.
the veil across her shoulders glimmers like a snare in the strobe, her bra a thin shimmer of gauze, and her pupils, already blown from the press of the dancefloor, glimmer with something more reckless. in contrast, finch towers above her, his wrappings loose at the collar where her hand tugged them down prior, the strips of cloth catch and flare out like a burial shroud being shaken open, his height shadowing her so completely she looks spun from it. she slides two fingers into the hidden pocket of her skirt, slow, theatrical, and pulls them back out closed, holding them tight to her palm like a magician before the reveal. “but maybe,” she murmurs, pressing the fist flat against his sternum, against the layers of gauze swathing him like a god wrapped for judgment, gaze catching on his mouth with shameless precision, “you’d rather have this for now.” her hand uncurls — two neat tabs of molly for them both, pale jewels glimmering in the wash of violet strobes. her fingers find his lips first, thumb tracing over the cherry stain on his lips with a casual, intimate tenderness to prompt his mouth open for her gift. the press of her palm makes her own pulse hitch; she’s aware of how close she is, how easily she could snap, how long it’s been since someone made her really feel this reckless. she tilts her head, eyes glinting in the luminescent strobe, and whispers brashly, “missed you.” her voice threads through the bass like a promise, teasing, daring — but underneath it trembles the knot of exhaustion from hungary, from the fight with her family, from the weight of all the truths she’d been shoved aside. “play house with me tonight. you know you want to,” she purrs, digit pressing into the wet of his open mouth as his lips part pliantly, waiting for his own omission before she places a pill atop her own tongue, baiting, “we can burn the fucking walls down.”
* ❪ 🦇 ❫ : 𝘆𝗲𝘃𝗴𝗲𝗻𝘆 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝗸𝗼𝘃𝗮 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗮 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 - 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱, 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 night woes of a wife who's workload had become too much, and her husband began to give too little. he would play pretend and let them run circles around him if it meant giving him his last leg to stand on, playing to the dream world they had imagined for their children: model students and properly behaved sons. a postcard of a happy family that frayed at the edges with the flames of a withering mother and a grief stricken father. finch kiskova was a thing of insomniac daydreaming. a lucky thirty minute nap that woke you with bleary eyes and shapes that danced across your vision, tormented by the taunt of rest. a natural order of human behavior, but never able to fulfill it. in this moment he's a mixture of two selves, pliable only underneath romy's grasp as she pets his bottom lip, jaw splitting to let her world in and salivate around it's form; a capsule that melts across red tissue. his hands hover over her hips, cathedrals painted into flesh covered by bandages. a detail that sparks a sudden frustration, vexed by the realization that he won't be able to knead into her skin with his own. fingertips touch down and trace circles into bone, breath hitching as she coaxes the key of persuasion into his lock of restraint. she was not a force to be played with, and he doesn't take the challenge. instead, takes the opportunity to study her, observe the mechanisms of her face as she admits her yearning despite who he was. who he'd always been around her. finch kiskova was someone to be missed. permission enough to draw him in closer, wrapping lean arms around her waist and lifting until high heels sink into the front of his boots, making himself a stepping stool as she tilts her head to look back at him. no longer has to crane her neck, deal with the muscle sore as he drinks in her perfume. the liquor that wafts from her breath. the smell of weed from his mask that intermingles in the air.
❝ guess if i'm the dog in the family ... that makes you the little flea i can't shake off. ❞ a quip that he doesn't truly mean, but hopes that she reciprocates by leeching into his skin. sucks all the blood he has left. ❝ — fatten you up with everything i've got in me. till' we're one and the same. ❞ a sentiment that he doesn't truly register, and doesn't take the time to really consider. his facade is a dwindling car wreck that he doesn't care to reach back out for and stop, mouths crashing together in a whine that catches in his throat, squeezing her to his chest until her ribs creak underneath the weight of his hold. the room shakes with the final succumbence of a spider in a sarcophagus, trapped in a coffin for eons to come of a dead king that will no longer rise. an insect caught in a web, not of its own making. the pills on their tongues are swapped with the saliva that seeps between their lips, wet noises muffled by the shout of partygoers that tumble around them without notice. the makeup around his eyes smear with champagne that sprays into the air and sprinkles down upon them like thunderous rain. his chest sings with the thrum of a heart that had awaited eagerly for romy's return, desire that he planned to hold for years if need be satiated tenfold. an offering given to the shrine of a man who hadn't even known he was still capable of feeling, of touching, of craving meat that bleeds into his mouth as she bites down on his piercing and pulls with a savage lack of remorse, letting her hands slide up his spine and take around his throat. fingers curl around her thin wrists in instinct, not to yank them away, but to coerce them into clutching harder, keep him in place as he squirms beneath the heat of her palms, pupils blown as he attempts to swallow down, adam's apple bobbing beneath her grip. he's choking out her name in a soft tremble, lids half - fallen with the haze that overtakes flushed features. a truth that cracks in his voice, a pant that slips between each word. ❝ wish i could say this is how it felt when you were gone. ❞ but her absence didn't feel half this good, half this painful.
FOR: shepherd devi ! ( @ex3rtion ). DETAILS: slaughterhouse rave. around 10:38pm.
budapest still lingers on him like a chokehold, bruising the tender flesh of a neck hung low in an iron - like grip and threatening to wring him breathless. a pup held up by its scruff in the maws of uncontrollable grief - of a guilt that lights up each nerve ending until laszlo is nothing but a constellation of it, skin illuminated beneath the black leather that panels his chest and protects what little left of his heart that he has left to give. the week plays out in a blur of split vision; one version of laszlo kovach here, lost in a crowd of moss - wreathed creatures and feather - fell angels whose touch he pushes away from like it burns too much for him to bare, and the other - there. in a hospital room with the curtains drawn shut, lending the shadow of oszvald kovach just enough space to linger in without the scorch of sunlight to drive him away. one version of him seeking out, always seeking out, the one constant on his mind, the one thread that keeps his sanity tethered together and keeps him placated; the other frayed at the seams, calloused fingers brushing against the strings of a cello like it weren't just second nature, but instinct that's always existed inside him. a singular, desperate beg to be remembered, knowing that that his anger - his retaliation - would all be for fucking nothing if oszvald kovach didn't remember the hurt he wrought. if his own father couldn't recognize him, not out of refusal, but because his own mind had betrayed him; rendered him into the shell of the man laszlo once knew and still feared. he had always existed like this - like a trail of crumbs left behind something - someone - great, like the remnants of a legacy he'd always been destined to falter beneath. good, but never great - great, but never overpowering the one who had begun it all, who had seared their name into musical history and left laszlo to ultimately disappoint. it'd been the first word his father had uttered to him, voice rumbling out from concaved chest and slowly splitting each string of laszlo's cello with each death - defying croak. i'm disappointed. végre visszajöttél hozzám, és még mindig nem tanultál semmit. még mindig csak egy vicc vagy, egy álság, egy hamis isten. you never deserved the love i gave you.
the words are still ignited inside him - a low, careful flame running the candle's wick short, until his lungs are blackened and burned. reducing him to short, stuttering breaths and spat up tar - leftover rot. a stickiness in his throat that he's not sure is from his own, nauseating regret, or the week - long high he's yet to come down from. a salve meant to soothe his wounds, both physical and emotional. both the crescentic scabs burrowed deep into the meat of his palms - the same that reflect on smaller, softer hands - and the secondhand knowledge of the destruction he left in the wake of his absence, shepherd devi's unraveling a shot heard around the world and aimed directly for laszlo's already marred chest. a foreign object lodging into the fibrous tissue of his too - human heart and embedding itself there with the sole purpose of ruining him. the week away from shepherd had done just that, had left him stripped raw and searching for the familiarity in a limb turned phantom, knowing full well he had severed it himself and had been bleeding out since; double - taking each corner turned in deluded hope that shepherd devi would fucking be there despite it. laszlo knew better; could still hear the mirror shattering underneath shepherd's curled fist, the honesty that threatened to splinter his voice as he told laszlo you're the only one who's seen me, you fucking cunt. you're the only one i let see me. and he had left - laszlo had fucking left, anyways, memory warping its thin grasp on the texts exchanged between him and leona: leaving just makes it seem like you're running away. shepherd devi had shown laszlo every part of himself - and he had ran away from him. abandoned him when he needed him. an action with no foreseeable redemption. love something unspoken, something laszlo had never cared to know, not from his father or the adoring fans who cooed over a boy too young to understand just how fucking heavy the weight of fame would be. love something he never cared to crave, to want, another uncomfortable constriction against a chest finally freed -
until shepherd. if he demanded it, if he asked it of him, laszlo would pry himself open. it wouldn't be a second thought, a moment's hesitation - laszlo would flay himself on his own knife, all too willing - all too wanting. hands imprecise yet confident beneath the tremble of pain, eyes not drawn to his own operation but to the man overseeing it. if shepherd wanted it from him - he'd extract his ribs one by one, each small, fragile bone pressed firmly into the calloused palms of someone incapable of holding something so delicate without crushing it to fine powder inside his clenched fist. if loving him meant dying - meant choking on chlorine and terror, meant being carved into and hollowed out - laszlo wouldn't hesitate. he needed it, to be loved by shepherd - needed him, and needed to see him now; desperation seeping into his bones as the realization strikes him hard - body weaving in between crooked elbows and antlered heads thrown back in mirth, rings carelessly scratching against exposed flesh as he pushes his way through the tight - packed crowd and towards the head of bottle fucking blonde his gaze had hooked onto since the moment he'd stepped into the slaughterhouse. "szívem -" he hadn't spoken it since their fight, a word too holy to belong to anyone else, to be anyone else - and it feels like swallowing back his own blood, like something metallic and frantic permanently staining itself against his tongue. coating every word he says, "- finally fucking found you. fucking - cunt." fond and erratic, his palm splayed flat against shepherd's back as he comes up from behind him, chest brushing against a concert black shoulder. knowing full well that shepherd has all the right, all the will, to shove him away - their last conversation not forgotten, but willingly ignored beneath the drug haze and his own fucking relief - shepherd devi in front of him again, tangible and real. alive, alive, alive. "mindenhol láttalak - like a fucking apparition. death knocking on my fucking - door." laszlo's voice lowers against his ear, a taunt he's unable to stop from spilling out from his lips - pupils blown beyond recognition, "heard from a little fucking - birdie, you've been causing trouble. miss me that bad, yeah? couldn't even try to keep your fucking - hands clean. what else have i fucking ... missed, then?"
* ❪ 🔌 ❫ : 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘄 𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗿𝗼𝗺𝘆'𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 kovach siblings leaving a blip on his radar that consumed his every thought, wondering if laszlo had truly had enough. if that was it, done and over with, packing up every part of his life that he'd built in hadden and fucked back off home. cooper had asked, of course, where everyone was. keeping tabs of their whereabouts after his contract written in blood had been submitted to him and kept tightly sealed. signing their souls away to someone shepherd had already bared his to and lost all those years ago. a grimace as cooper immediately begun his onslaught, making sure that anything else they published would belong to him entirely. solo projects included, harnessing the power of legalities and lawyers looming over their king at his bedside in case anyone thought to defy. the hours laszlo had been gone felt like days. the days had felt like weeks. purple shapes taking form underneath shepherd's eyes as he'd peel himself away from the masses. a pathetic lump of coal that burned out the moment laszlo washed himself of the flame that'd been shepherd devi. the willpower of a man who once devoted his life to the blonde allowing him to walk away like it was nothing. dwindling the drummer down to just that: nothing. decades of sweat and blood procured from passion debilitated by the hands of someone shepherd shouldn't have loved in the first place. rejection turning him into a sullen ghost, scrambling his way through a phone that held the only connection left to the younger man, blocking and unblocking him in a childish fury that only further frustrated him. a loss of control that humiliated shepherd to no end, and with no benefits to any of it. jarred with the painful fact that laszlo had really up and gone. festering in the shame of vulnerability and the guilt of harming someone he'd never meant to. not in the way he had, the back of his palm still stinging with the aftereffects of remorse, cradling it to his chest. as if it were the last memory that would remain, forever. i'm sorry, words that never reached his lips, too lodged into his throat as laszlo had turned away from him then. i'm sorry i didn't mean to hurt you, i don't mean to be this way. not with you. apologies that didn't mean shit, swallowing it all down with the fear that surged through his veins, waiting for the repercussions and still taken aback as they came to fruition.
the blackness of a heart gone unchecked for so long had finally caught up to him. a chalice of molten acid served right back at him by the only person who could get close enough to trick him into taking a swig. he would swallow it again, anyway. swallow it all if it meant one more touch. one more try, one more go at salvaging a heart that seemed to grow weary of him, perhaps coming to grips that shepherd might always be this way: cruel, vindictive, a fucking evil denomination of mankind. a cannibal of all things good, consuming human flesh that bore unto him sweetness or a kindness he hadn't felt since childhood, laszlo's heart squeezed and popping between human teeth turned drooling canines. the stupidly tight and uncomfortable costume he had pieced from his closet was no longer a farce. the real corinthian was here, lurking through a crowd of mortals who placed their hands upon him like jesus risen, flat palms against his chest remained clad in dark fabric. ears are clogged by the static of a speaker that crackles underneath climbing volume, artificial smoke trailing his feet in tendrils, pets from the underworld nipping at his heels. exhaustion and deprivation have been compromised with a strike of lightning by the name of adrien beaumont, sizzling and settling low enough to pique interest. a mirror image of a man that led him out of the apartment with the promise of meat and bone, coaxing him from the pit he dug for himself in amine's music room. hair greased and left unwashed, hands shaking with overexertion around red stained sticks, mouth cracked and dry from howling through the night like a fallen beast. self pitying in a way that alarmed both inhabitants, stuck in a loop of forgetting laszlo entirely and feeling every touch come back in waves. every whisper of delicate adoration that laszlo reserved for him at night, when doors locked them in tight and they were to remain unbothered. every breath heard as laszlo kissed him into submission, tense shoulders falling into lithe fingers. shepherd sighing out against laszlo's throat, moaning out a kiss me, everywhere, that often made him sick afterwards. hearing the echo of a man pathetic enough to give himself over to attachment that could easily be taken away should laszlo have grown bored. should he recognize the ache of wanting something newer, fresher. should he no longer want shepherd. cool water down his spine as he replays the phrase like a droning track on a shattered record player. i don't fucking want you. i don't fucking want you. i don't fucking want you. i don't fucking want you. he had pushed him to the brink, molded himself into a caricature of things laszlo couldn't stand. fell into the recognizable pattern of making himself unattainable, unwanted where desire once took lead.
laszlo was right. he was right to quit the addiction that ate him up and spit him back out in a constant battle. there were no more happy endings to their days, succumbing to the negative space of things left unsaid and affections that shepherd could not grant. would not grant. because of something so stupid as fucking fear. a foreboding premonition of putting your all into someone that would use love against you. a heart that beats a lucid rhythm with laszlo's own whenever he was near, falling into step, into a dance that would not pause even when they were apart. stumbling perhaps, forgetting the next move without the other to guide them along, but still alive. still kicking. waiting for the next time they were to share the dance floor of heated chest cavities. the same organ that plummets in the dark as a familiar voice beckons him to turn around. szívem, a name that makes him swallow hard, head tilted back slightly as he lets relief wash over him. greedy with the split second desire that everything would be as it was, nothing had happened, and shepherd could melt back into arms that knew his shape. but vengeance is painted black, seeping into his bloodstream and replacing oxidized red. instead, shepherd is spinning around to meet him head on, just an inch taller but using it to make laszlo lean back, staring back with discolored hues that deem him lesser than the dirt lodged in his heels. he watches laszlo for the longest second, the longest minute, stomach sinking low in his gut. wanting even though he's right there. waiting even though there's no longer a reason to. every last inch of him wants to devour and consume, take him away from eyes that linger on a barely covered frame, divine and ready to take into his mouth like a holy sacrament for a religion he hardly believed in. it takes such mental strength to pry lazlo's fingers off like an unwanted pest, twisting them suddenly in his grip so that he's forced to bend toward the side, a crooked wrist that almost snaps underneath the pressure. ❝ i should break your fucking hands right here. right now, ❞ he hisses, eyebrows knitted as he glares down at the brunet. laszlo's fingers in his burning with heat, pulse skyrocketing from the concoction of too many drugs and too much liquor in his system. he wants them in his mouth unlike anything else.
❝ make sure you never play again, never touch anyone again. ❞ a card that he doesn't bother hiding. he had missed laszlo like a smokers lung, suffering without the substance to satiate it. ❝ no one missed you. in fact, you were better off gone. ❞ words that should sting like venom, if his grip didn't betray fanged bite. hands loosen as the instinct to vore buckles his restraint, shepherd yanking him closer, nose to nose now, lips nearly brushing. a low noise burrows in his throat, yearning muted by a creature who snarled the belief he didn't need anyone. despite the way his body impulsively draws nearer, falling into old habits — though never truly archaic. rather, a learned mercy, drowning shared memories in a vat of searing alkalis. miserably failing to forget them as he crooned out love songs that would never see light of day. in his drunken haze shepherd's ears are flushed pink, pupils slowly blowing out to match his companions. ❝ you leave me— you leave and then try to come crawlin' back like it's fucking easy ? stay the fuck away from me, kovach. ❞ a frozen, callous attitude thawed out by the warmth that reaches his cheeks, chest vibrating from the thump of a heart that punches to connect with laszlo's, thrashing behind the bars of a ribcage welded shut. ❝ i'm warning you. this is me being fucking nice, real sweet actually. you fucking touch me again i will leave your guts all over this fucking floor. ❞ which meant please, put your hands back on me. a desperate pleased filled with wrath, hypocrisy of a man left perturbed, shoving laszlo's arm back into his chest and sending him stumbling into a group of clubgoers, lip curled in a feral growl, expression pinched by the image of laszlo slinking off into leona's bedroom. pathetic. lonely. not thinking twice of it, of shepherd. shepherd who's knuckles still sting with the blow against his lover's jaw. inner turmoil that reaches the dark of his brow, flitting between giving in and just getting started.
By misprized.possessions on instagram
silent hill 2: born from a wish
Weapons (2025) dir. Zach Cregger
𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑶𝑭𝑭𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑾𝑨𝑰𝑻𝑺 !
* 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗶𝗲𝘄 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 @𝗱𝗲𝗳𝟭𝗹𝗲𝗿: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍'𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊. 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 '𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝; 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝'𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎. 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚔𝚜 . . . 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎.
( *&. @distortedblurs, @tintedswindows )
oh im sure
You want me out of here? For the community, Jack? You don't know the community! And you don't love these people. GROTESQUERIE, "The Bender" (1.3)
It’s not often that Zak drinks, preferring the leisurely swoon that makes their body buzz whenever they smoke, instead. Even tonight, they’d had a drink or two with Leona before showing up, but it’d been the joint they’d finished outside before promising to find her once they were done that made them feel at ease in the otherwise chaotic atmosphere. Everyone else at a ten while Zak had always lingered somewhere at a five. Missing Leo already, attempting to find her amongst the crowd - stuttering in their movements when he watched Adrien paw at her back, pull her in closer, and Leona not only accepting it, but committing to it. Stroked at his hair, gripped at his jacket. And Zak knew they weren’t exactly allowed to be angry - it wasn’t like they were official, they hadn’t labelled anything between themselves yet. Anger and Zak didn’t even really know each other. But something coiled in the pit of their sternum. Maybe jealousy - or embarrassment. They’d never been brilliant, but they felt as if they might as well have shown up in a shirt that screamed I’M WITH STUPID on the front, and a clarifying declaration of I’M STUPID on the back. They still lived in the haze of a high that they were used to, but they decided then, instead of approaching Leo, seeking rationale, that they were simply going to get drunk enough that it did render them as stupid as they seemed to be.
Leaving the bar, Zak’s features are still twisted into a sour expression, whiskey shot sliding down their throat and leaving their core molten when they almost run directly into Lucky. Who had always had an excellent habit of somehow leaving them feeling bashful, rolling their eyes fondly at his compliment. Distantly, Zakaria knew that he wasn’t ugly - but no one made him feel quite as appreciated as Lucky did, who was so openly wanton in his compliments that they had no choice but to rouge slightly at the ears, gaze dropping to their feet as they shyly toyed with the solo cup in their hands. “Thank you, Lucky, my tits feel properly admired.” Once upon a time, Zak had no idea how to talk to Lucky - had just allowed him to be as raucous as he usually was, while Zak attempted to stumble along to keep up. Now, they knew his M.O., knew how to give as good as they got, what made him tick. Still a bit of a mystery wrapped in a man who spoke like he’d just stepped out of the screen of a bad sitcom that surrounded the lifestyle of the world’s sluttiest fraternity, but there was no real hesitation anymore. Allowing Lucky to tug them in and meeting him in like with an arm wrapped around slimmer waist, dragging him in until Lucky had no choice but to spread his legs slightly to make room for Zak’s between them. “I, uh, don’t think you have to worry about getting into trouble. She’s - distracted,” They tried not to sound bitter - attempting, instead, to focus on their present company, even though the words made a shadow cross over their features. For only a mere, vulnerable moment, before they’re reaching up to hook a finger in the metal collar at Lucky’s throat and give it a gentle tug, cup bumping into his chin, “I like the accessories. You look - you look good.” Things with Lucky were - easy. A reprieve that Zak melted into when they realized they’d desperately needed it. Leaning in close to ask in his ear, “Do you wanna come dance with me?”
* ❪ 💸 ❫ : 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘇𝗮𝗸'𝘀 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗽𝘂𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝘁𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗮 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 outside and left there while its owner tended to their responsibilities inside, lucky had always gravitated toward them. a passerby that bent down to give them a scratch behind the ears, see them for what they were. good company, and well, not a goddamn dog at all. human. someone who had often been mistreated. a familiar treatment from those in lucky's life that rendered him equally as dumb, though he never felt the need to prove himself to anyone, living life with the fruitful energy of an individual who couldn't be assed to wallow. he refused to dwell on the negatives. knew it would take too much time to bring himself back up once he fell into a pit of sorrow. that it would risk him quitting a dream he worked so hard for: getting his siblings out of the barren home he once been trapped in, and now having the opportunity of a lifetime to travel the world doing what he loved. far more grateful now that he had enough company to share this passion with. people who accepted him for who he was or fuck off if they didn't like it, although he always strived for attention no matter how bad. his mo for life, something that kept his arrogance alive. zakaria was a good lay, there was no denying that fact, knowing they would always leave him satisfied, but they also knew how to keep him emotionally tied. a strange feat. whereas lucky would often distance himself from others at the whiff of emotional intimacy, he had still sought zak out after his return to hadden. had still stepped foot into the skate park and exchanged a pen that coiled good fucking weed into their lungs, passed back and forth as zak asked him where he'd went, what he had been doing the entire time. lucky had answered with the enthusiasm of someone who had never been allowed to talk in their life, edging the night on until 8pm became 2am. still having the zeal to converse as zak had admitted his own strifes though a smile that fought to be kept on their face. lucky knew they'd been hurt somehow, but never pried until zak all but melted into the night. clear that he was starved of such verbal affections, satiated by the way lucky remained listening with the intent to file it for later. advice never his best forte as every solution was to get their lick back, or just drop what made them crazy. although he'd be made into a hypocrite himself, fighting his own internal demons that often taunted him with the color blue that popped up into his for no reason. shoegaze notes that came onto his shuffle despite driving his car like it was built to be wrecked. why he had messaged blue in an act of weaknesses, keeping the boy far despite burrowing himself in a sweater he had stolen from their closet before leaving them behind all those years ago.
he knows better than anyone what it's like to want something you cannot have. however, he recognizes the difference here is that he's denying himself. without a single ounce of hesitation lucky is melting into zak's hands, letting himself puzzle into the taller man's torso with a smile that peels back in a golden glinted grin, newly purchased grills that flash impishly with the strobe lights that cast over the duo. ready to source the skin of their next victim, leaning up to bite down on the side of zak's jaw in an act of restraint that never bodes well. never lasts long. he's even grasping at the cup and pulling it from their hands so that both palms can linger over lucky's body, self serving in that way, and benefiting double time as he downs whatever had been poured into it, letting it burn down his throat with a small hiss, liquor settling low in his gut as he shoves it into the chest of a passerby, never letting his sights off from brown eyes that watch him. a mouth that compliments him in kind, relishing in zak's full attention in spite of utilizing him as a distraction. he doesn't care, doesn't matter to him in the slightest, quite actually preferring it most days. a pawn in a game he had no idea was being played. ❝ hmmm, ❞ he responds in a hum, head tilting so that a brown curl unfurls and brushes over caramel hues. they both know his answer is yes, of course, but what's the fun in giving in so quickly? especially when zak needed the longevity of this interaction. ❝ i dunno know, can you keep up ? or do i need to beg for you to stay on me ? ❞ hands are already moving from zak's waistline to the sprawl of their back, fingertips digging gently into muscles that flex with the release of pressure as lucky massages small circles into meaty scapula. enjoying every detail of zak's physique, appreciating it with a small sound that motivates him into shifting his head up and pressing a wet kiss against warm clavicle. light as a feather. a mere brush of desire. ❝ whisper for it, scream for it, cry for it ? ❞ a list of effects he's more than willing to act upon, dimples pressed into a face that reads: up to no fucking good. once he feels the tension disperse from zak's spine, he takes the initiative to show them a good time. not only as a lover of past, but as a friend that desperately needed the interference. he's peeling himself off and taking zak's hand in his, pulling them along with a gentle, ❝ come with me. ❞ away from the sidelines to the center of the dancefloor where they can be seen. where bodies close in and shower both with hoots and hollers. where patrons drink up life with a passion.
