Sprained in prone, his arms shot out like a double-jointed tight-rope, Solomon basked in the sweltering humidity of premature summer. His fan was whirring, the blades of the overhead ceiling fan were sketching in blurry circles, barely minimizing the salty taffy sweat varnishing his long strain of his tattoo-printed body. But all of the white noise couldn't drown out the thunder of footprints through the hollow ceiling, as though Quinn and her guest were doing some wild tango. Pinching a pursed tight-line of his ash-pink lips, his switchblade body took an abrupt roll to the side, pressing into the empty queen-sized pale of his mattress. He dug his temple into the pillow, and curled up despite the heat, his lavender-pouched eyes taking a dizzy carousel ride around the room, moody and soon crashing into a thick zipper of vinyl lashes.

Upstairs was a different story. Quinn and Noe were both enjoying the summer smolder. The windows were closed to seal in the damp crackle. In the very corner of her disheveled bedroom, he had her pinned like the dried wings of a monarch butterfly against the cracking plaster of her wall, beyond the slope of her mattress. The thick crease of his bandage-free hand was sculpting the outline of her throat, keeping her nailed violently, and leaving behind a lovenote necklace of plum bruise for future explanations. She was hitched up on his hips, in a messy, glossy scrawl of askew legs, and fingernails launching raw onto his shoulders. She dug red war-trenches, grinding for a root, provoking peekaboo-glimpses of blood.

Their mouths were stifled in their union, these two thick pairs of lips competing and swallowing one another. Their jawbones strained wide, their tongues laboring in a polished flurry, churning every which way to get a better angle at one another. His hand receeded down her throat, and plated her collarbone instead so that he could run his tongue down her neck, his hips brashly throwing a jolt out of left-field that baited a cry from her.

She was nailed there, her hair in a rapidly-loosening knot, her lids crashed closed against her cheeks, her skin oven-warm and cherrypink. Their chests were nailed together, and he duct-taped down her breasts with the plateau of his moist skin. She scraped in an up-and-down waver against the wall, her hands fumbling over whatever she could grab. She'd smudge his cheek, his forehead, his mouth, his shoulder, his throat, she'd cling like a little girl to his shoulderblades, folded over until the nailed bone of her mid-spine chafed against the white.

Solomon had invited himself in, and was now leering at the bedroom door which bore a delicate crack. His eyes weren't all startled at what he saw. Grazing a shoulder against the door, he sauntered in.

Noe cupped the apple of her ass and turned. In his periphery he sensed his voyeur, but threw her down into the mattress anyway. She squirmed until her stomach was concave, her soles printing the flimsy mattress springs, her thighs wide. Her skull lolled back, and even though she caught a glimpse of Solomon, warming up to the ledge of her dresser, daubing his thoughtful thumb to the lower bridge of his lip, she wasn't deterred.

The boy shot down onto the ledge of the floor-laden mattress on his knees. He snared the writhing ashtray girl by the skeletal lumps of her ankles and dragged her until her whole entire back lit on fire from friction back over to his level. The black bootlace fell in his face and shielded the hungry possession star-studded in his pupils from Solomon, but she was well-aware of what a brilliant fuck this man was. The loopholes his hands made around her ankles drew the neverending stems of her legs high over his shoulders until she took the hint and her calves fell limp, and scissored over his twitching shoulderblades. He lunged deep inside, and swung back only to thrash harsher. Quinn's fingers took rioting handfuls of the bedsheets, kniving them between her delicate knuckles, her whole entire body surrendering to an arch. She was convulsing around him again, and no matter how hard she tried to tear away at his skin, no matter how much she tried to hit him, it was all in vain, because she couldn't reach, and he kept bubbling snickers between his boyish whines and pent-up grunts, slapping away at her feeble attempts.

The Brit stared onward, watching them lash out at one another like lunatics, one with his hips, the other with her arms. She was howling at the ceiling, and his teeth were cinched tight, sawing away at the sound brewing in the tunnel of his throat. The weak bedsprings were grieving every greedy ragdoll toss of her body, until she finally caught his hair by a fistful and tore at him. She steered him away from her body, and he whined with the most gorgeous masochistic scowl(grin). Solomon watched on as she shamelessly mounted him in a diagnol-scrawl across the bed. She edged forward and held the bouquet of his wrists far over his head.

He shifted, crossing one ankle calmly in front of the other, burning holes into their skin, writing every spastic muscle twitch, every cry, every bite into his memory.

Quinn ditched his hands to splatter his chest for more support, she fucked him literally into the mattress, until there was an impression around him, and his toxic-waste-green eyes were panned so boyishly huge over the ceiling, his mouth borderline beaming. His adam's apple took a chainsaw trip into the air, his scalp pressing further and further back into the bed, like a crippled Christian healed by a t.v. evangelist. Her tidal wave, her violence rocked into him until he swore he saw black stars of God bordering the lense of his glossy vision. She bruised his hipbones and syced her talons on his chest, scratching him to ribbons. His hands took a landlock victory over her hips, coursing them tighter, and tighter, buckling her down until she could barely move. She protested with a fanned-out slap that resonated all the way across the room and might've shocked Solomon, but he seemed detached enough. Noe's profile nailed to one side, and while he gasped and his breath ran ragged, his knuckles rinsed white. He refused to let go of her hips. His swung upward, keeping her perched on a slant midair, his adam's apple straining until he let go. And when he filled her, she relaxed too, even if she was on the verge of another. She hiccuped something pleasant and almost-giddy, before she slumped over into sweatsheened retirement his side.

The two stared up at the ceiling, squirming, swallowing down oxygen by the mouthfuls, having choking fits. Their chests rocketed raw and endlessly, teetering up and down quick, quicker, quicker, faster, harder--slowly, slower, slower, slower, shallow. Noe wore his battle-scars like a painted up model; this wonderful shade of Venezuelan-suede all sugarcoated in her blood bristle. It ran like holy wine down his chest, along the flatboard tension of his stomach, his lip was caked and dry from a bite-mark, the red on his shoulders refused to actually trickle, but it was inevitable there. Both were well-aware of the loitering boy on the other side of the room. Who, after the show turned and prowled out without a word.

Quinn spilled to her side and giggled half-heartedly into Noe's shoulder, and he, after smoothing away vines of hair, did the same --- but he snickered instead, at the ceiling.