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writinginthetwilight · 7 days

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Knock, knock.

Neighbour!Eddie x Neighbour! Reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ for smut in later parts if you are under 18 you do not belong here, be gone.

AFAB reader. Stress. Strong language. Loneliness. Anxiety. Dubious Dnd lore. Horror-esk/creepy vibes. See Masterlist for full list of warnings.

Authors note: Thank you for all the love on the last part of this fic you're a lovely bunch. This all Eddie's POV, slowing down to show a little glimpse of life on the other side of the wall and in his noggin. As always, all my love to @bettyfrommars @allthingsjoeq and @somnambulic-thing for writing the original prompt that birthed this weird little world and being so supportive.

Special thanks to Somna for beta reading this chapter and soothing the brain goblins 💙

Wc: 4.4k

Reblogs and comments are much appreciated. I hope you're all being kind to yourselves. Bye.

Part 6 - Rapid eye movement.

Starbursts roll over his vision, the edges are fading into burning static, there's a darkness rapidly approaching. He's falling.

Then he's awake.

Sitting bolt upright, his fingers catch the knots in his curls as he runs his hands over his head, panting breaths leaving him in time with the way his eyes dart around the room.

The world's a gentle sombre blue, shadows still overbearing as the sun starts its crawl out from beyond the horizon.

The knock that comes from behind him forces out the last of the breath he's been holding, reality slowly sinking in as he falls backwards.

He knocks back on the wall behind his head.

A returned acknowledgement of the shared time, somewhere.

The walls are too thick to pick up any small movements, but he waits and listens anyway.

He hopes you get back to sleep.

Dashed red numbers are a blur from his nightstand, too bright for tired eyes, they edge into focus slowly as he blinks away the sleep, he wishes he hadn't.

He needs to get up soon.

His first appointment’s in a couple of hours, a new one on the outskirts of the city and he needs to stop by the store first, see if he's picked up anymore for the week ahead.

A car revs its engine outside, his heart stutters, eyes clench closed.

It was just a dream.

Kind of.

Whatever it was, he's back now.

You're back now.

He scrubs at his face, pulling off his sweat stricken shirt, material damp against his skin and rapidly turning cold, before reaching out blindly for his cigarettes and balancing his ashtray precariously on his stomach.

Smoke curls up as he lets out his first exhale and he tries to calm his racing mind as he watches the shapes they coil into, serpents consuming themselves, tendrils that dissipate into nothing.

It had been what felt like a lifetime that you'd both nervously waited to wake, for something to appear from the darkness, but nothing came.

You were stuck, stock still as he'd tried to get you through the light, everything in his body telling him to go.

Your lack of self preservation would be impressive, if it didn't make him feel like such a fucking coward.

He can still see your face, eyes trained on the wall, mouth working like you were trying to get words out as you finally moved with him away.

The relief on your face as the rushing in your ears began.

The small wave you'd given him before being ripped away.

Fuck.

His letter from you sits on his nightstand amongst the clutter he needs to clear. He reaches over, turning on the small lamp which does very little, barely illuminates the area around him in muted peach hues.

It's enough.

I'm going to plan an exorcism, so if you could let me know which weekday evening would be good for you, that would be great.

In the meantime if you could find some sort of bell to wear so I don't almost die of a heart attack each time I come home that would be great.

His cigarette smoulders at the edge of the page smoke drifting over the words like fog.

He scratches at the stubble that's starting to come through on his jaw, trying to hide the smile that comes to his face at your words.

He's not sure who from.

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, letter still in hand he pads his way through to the kitchen.

Bare feet hit the smooth cold tile, stray crumbs sticking to the bottom of them that he wipes off absentmindedly against his leg as he leans against the counter.

The coffee machine clicks and gurgles as he looks up from your words to stare out over the street, golden light now edging in making the opposing windows reflect back like a hall of mirrors, light dancing over his hands in waves.

He frowns, moving before the idea can fade with distractions, into the living room.

Peanuts and popcorn lie strewn over the floor as he rounds the corner and he curses lightly under his breath.

He'll deal with it later.

He pulls a stack of books off the bookshelf rifling through until he finds it.

‘Manual of the Planes’.

He discards the rest, sitting down criss-cross, stray kernels sticking into his calves where his sweatpants have rolled up.

He shifts them away and glances up to the space in front of him, the memory of you laughing fleeting through his mind.

The coffee pot fills and clicks off in the kitchen, light reflecting off the glass that shrouds the dark liquid.

It goes lukewarm, forgotten.

It's odd that the intentional quiet of his mornings seems to make the apartment less empty.

He'd stopped turning on the TV or playing music in the mornings a few weeks ago, afraid he might wake you.

The fact that there's someone there to hear him seems to make the silence less overwhelming.

He has to pull himself away from the book, pushing it into his bag to resume later, the responsibility of the day taking priority if he wants to make rent this month.

He's crouched at the foot of your doorway down the hall slipping a note under when he hears footsteps.

There's a woman coming down the stairs that curls off at the end of the hall heading towards him with a wary look.

He tries to look as casual as he can.

“Morning.”

He flashes her a grin still down on one knee and she quickly rushes past without a response.

Shit.

He hangs his head, standing slowly as his knees crack and back protests.

Mumbling, he curses tense muscles and aching bones as he slings his backpack over his shoulder, pulling up his soft black hood he adjusts the hair out of his eyes before long limbs carry him down and out onto the street below.

Dewy spring air still holds its chill, the sun still low in the sky and his breath mists in the air around him. He pulls up the collar on his leather jacket, shoulders hunching up around his ears.

The morning rush hasn't started, but there's still bodies on the street, heads down, paper coffee cups steaming in the air.

The constant low murmur of cars and people's existence buzzes around him, and accompanies him all the way until he finally boards his first bus, steel doors closing and muting the world.

The record shop isn't too far, a twenty minute walk at best, but if he's going to make it out to his first lesson he's not got the time to spare.

Early morning sun warms the side of his face as he pulls out the extra book in his rucksack, eyes resuming where they left off, as the bus takes off.

Transitive planes, demi planes, gods, demons and elemental struggles.

It's lighting up his brain.

The places which sit dormant, unentertained in the daily grind to exist, he greedily takes it in, lets it wash over his mind.

His notebook balances awkwardly on his thigh while he takes notes of anything that fits.

Lights, sleep, entry ways, reflections.

Voids and disembodied voices that will suck out his soul.

Shadows crawl over the pages as strangled light gasps between buildings and as the towering skyline clears daylight catches the white of the pages, making his intense gaze falter and look away.

Just in time to see the record store pass.

Shit

He rams everything into his bag, book pages crease and his guitar case rings out muffled pained notes as he clumsily stands and rushes to pull the cord.

The visit’s short and sweet, the owner Buck doesn't bat an eye as Eddie shouts out a slightly breathless hello as he barges past the closed sign.

Raising a hand in response, his gaze still stays firmly set on his newspaper even as Eddie reaches blindly behind the desk and pulls out a green book.

There's no new students.

But there are a couple of kids he hasn't seen in a while, names penned in next to their parents phone numbers.

A little tension leaves him at the sight, lessons are an extra expense, easily cut around the holidays and as spring crawled in, he was sure he wouldn't see them again.

His flyer in the window needs replacing, the words starting to fade from sun exposure. He should probably check the others around the city too.

He'll do it tomorrow.

He daren't risk too much distraction as the next bus carries him out of the city, as the streets outside turn suburban and unfamiliar he needs to count the stops.

Day dreaming’s an expense he can't afford if he doesn't want to be late. First lessons are hard enough without having to explain why he's not on time.

Languished footsteps fall onto pristine sidewalk as the bus hisses and takes off behind him, leaving him to unknown cookie cutter streets.

A knot in his shoulder makes him huff and wince backpack sitting uncomfortably over the muscles there.

He misses the van.

The thought isn't new but lingers a little longer on mornings like this, as his feet hit the ground every step’s a reminder of how much easier it would be.

How much safer he'd feel.

He pushes the thought down, reasoning he wouldn't be able to afford the gas anyways.

Ignores the fact that one appointment wouldn't take almost two hours out of his morning.

A low whistle leaves him as he finds the street, a cul de sac of matching white houses with cloned cherry wood trees to the left of their driveways.

The air smells like breakfast and there's distant chatter of kids in the tall fenced off gardens.

Number 12.

The driveway alone rivals the size of, your his apartment.

He checks his hair in the car window, pulling it back with the satin purple scrunchy on his wrist, biting into his cheek as he wraps it round his hair.

Just another piece of her which remains, stuck into his life like splinters that he keeps fucking finding, just beneath the skin.

He takes a breath, shaking out his arms as he pushes the doorbell, a muffled sing-song tune alerts the house to his arrival.

He shifts nervously, an outline through the frosted glass approaching.

It wouldn't be the first time someone had closed the door in his face. Not even giving him the chance to explain who he was, why he was there bringing down the house prices.

The lock clicks.

“Hi.”

“Can I help you?”

“I'm Eddie, we spoke on the phone. I'm here for guitar lessons with Sam.”

An hours worth of Munson charm and some badly done scales later, he leaves with an envelope full of cash and homemade brownies snug in his backpack.

Six more lessons booked for the same time each week, discussed while Mrs Graham waved him away and flushed pink at his talk of her not looking old enough to have a 10 year old.

As the buildings get taller again, the bus back starts filling out and his mind strays as he tries to avoid eye contact.

You said you worked around here.

He doesn't need to be at the school for another couple of hours and he lets his feet carry him off a few stops early. Through seas of trench coats and shoulder pads he meanders, a streak of black slipping between white pressed shirts.

Shined shoes file into buildings through glass doors and he wonders, if in another time you're hurrying in with them.

All the buildings look the same here, concrete mountains, unfriendly and overbearing.

He hopes you don't work in one of these.

He sits himself on the back of a bench when the streets turn more pedestrian, bakeries, cafes and mini marts lining the sidewalk.

The cool metal of the bench bleeds past dark denim and into the skin on the back of his thighs as he digs into the bag of brownies, squinting into the late morning sun he pulls his hair free shaking it out.

The woman on the opposing bench watches him and he gives her a tight smile, she looks away.

The next bus is late.

Of course it is.

The walk into school feels surreal enough without him rushing in late for classes.

It's some kind of ironic fuck you from the universe that the best steady source of income he's got means he’s back in the hallways of a high school 3 days a week.

He pulls at the creases in his shirt, formed in his bag over the course of the morning, swapped out for his hoodie on the bus ride over.

The tie around his neck makes him feel like he's choking.

The kids aren't bad, just, not as enthusiastic or interested as the home school kids, he can't blame them.

Pale walls and bright lights seem to suck out your soul while simultaneously spotlighting all your imperfections.

He hadn't wanted to be there at 16 either, still didn't a decade later.

They keep fucking about. Not listening and he doesn't mean to snap, but the fluorescent lights and noise are grinding on him quicker than he should let it.

He spends the time between lunch and after school classes pouring over the book in the teachers lounge while it's empty, drags his way through after school lessons then makes his way back to the city.

One more.

A standing appointment.

Within the city only a short walk from the bus station.

There's no Munson charm here.

He won't leave with brownies.

It's the most comfortable he's felt all day.

A shared acknowledgement of a long day is made over tired eyes as Ruth answers the door to the 5th floor apartment.

“Eddie's here.”

Lizzy, 13, spunky, and really fucking good.

She likes old school Maiden and is in love with Joan Jett.

She reminds him he's old every chance she gets.

Her mom can't really afford him and pays by the week, no block payments but she's never missed a lesson.

Change and creased notes scavenged and saved, are always waiting for him on the small kitchen counter when he leaves.

He picks up snacks on the way there, store brand candy bars and chips that he always forgets when he leaves.

It's a routine he savours.

A place he feels welcome with no pretence of being the help. An hour of playful jabs, jamming and laughter that drowns out the low hum of the radio.

Everything's dropped as soon as he passes the threshold of the door, his shoulders sagging as he walks heavily into the living room.

Late afternoon sun casts the far side of the room in shadows.

Popcorn and peanuts lay all over the floor.

His hands find his face and he lets out a frustrated moan into his palms as he turns and grabs the broom.

It's the bare minimum swept back into the bowl, gritty flakes and salt still peppering the green carpet

He can vacuum tomorrow.

The full coffee pot sits idle on the counter as he walks into the kitchen and his foot catches a crumb pile he made while he swept this morning

It didn't quite manage its way to the garbage.

It's overwhelming in the least intrusive way and he can't stand it.

He's done and the rattling quiet is making his thoughts tumble and run into each other.

Chores and bills and otherworldly bullshit.

It can all wait.

He collapses onto the couch, hair splayed out as he groans face down into the upholstery, legs stuck out at angles which will ache soon if he doesn't move.

The music’s turned up, drowning out the silence of his surroundings and the noise inside his head.

He should read, make more notes, clean, put away the cash sitting in his bag but instead he lets the music become a theme tune to his overactive imagination.

The sound of the door slamming into the wall announces your arrival home, reverberating around him and causing a grin to spread across his face from where his head hangs upside down off the couch.

The tape’s long finished and the energy to get up and flip it crawled out into the couch cushions a good half hour ago.

“Hello” your voice calls out and he purses his lips as it echoes out into the empty space.

“Eddie?”

That's louder, there's a distant sound of something being dropped to the ground with a dull thud, then your movements become clear.

He manovers himself silently upright.

You're mumbling to yourself, some kind of list and he can imagine you infront of him at your kitchen counter.

With a stretch of his arms he cups his hands around his mouth.

“Warning! Warning! ”

The choked scream you let out is followed by the clatter of cans and his responding cackle has him falling back against the couch, soft pillows catching tired muscles as he grins.

“You fucking son of a bitch. Why?”

Your voice is breathy and he shrugs to himself.

“Couldn't find a bell. So next best thing.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don't.”

There's a pause and something stutters through him as he wonders if the impulse to fuck around with you was too much.

He's too much.

“How was work?”

It comes out quick, a little cracked and he winces as his words press into the empty air.

It reminds him of the first few days, when he thought that the loneliness was finally starting to mess with him.

“Fine.” You say finally, a small laugh in your voice that comes out in a huff, echoing and floating around him. “You?”

“Uh yeah, yeah good, got a new kid on the roster, got lunch out of it.”

“Lunch, how ingenuitive of you. How'd you manage that?” The yawn you let out disguises the last syllables of the words and it catches the muscles in his jaw.

“My unyielding charm” he says with his own, eyes falling closed.

He hears you snort.

“Just ‘cause I haven't turned it on with you.”

“Hmmm.”

He smiles and imagines you rolling your eyes.

Imagines that you're walking around the room.

“So scaring me half to death whenever I walk in isn't part of your unyielding charm. ”

The last few words are muffled by another yawn and his eyes open, staring at the ceiling with a small frown.

“You get back to sleep?”

There's a pause in your footsteps.

The obvious unconscious elephant in the room rousing.

“For a bit."

He nods his head chewing the inside of his cheek as he hears you resume doing whatever it is you're doing in the kitchen.

“I think I know why we end up there.”

He turns his head towards your voice, warped and disembodied its floating out from around the sideboard Paul left.

“ Yeah?”

“ Well not why, but how. Sort of?”

“Sounds like you cracked the case Columbo.”

“Shut up.”

He waves out into the open air and you proceed like you've seen him.

“We both fell asleep around the same time right? So, maybe we both have to be in the same sleep stage? We could both be in deep sleep or REM at the same time if we fall asleep at the same time. ”

“We sleep at the same time all the time.”

“ Yes, but we went to bed at the same time. ”

“I'm lost.”

You sigh and the clank of something metal being set down rings out.

“There's different stages to sleep, depending on how long you've been sleeping. If we go to sleep at the same time maybe we could test it.”

He quirks an eyebrow, smirk twitching at his lips. “You want to give me a bedtime”

“Yes.''

The resolute sound of your voice makes him break into a full grin and he withholds the puns which threaten to spill out.

Then the sickness comes wrapped in the memories of last night.

“If it's all the same to you, I'm not exactly excited about going back,” another yawn wracks him and he's thankful for it hiding the shake in his words. He lets his head lol to the side “I can't promise I'll stay awake anyway.”

“Rough day?” Your voice has lost any edge and he doesn't know why it makes his chest ache.

“Just, long.”

His stomach suddenly grumbles loud enough to hear and you laugh quietly. “I should probably eat before I pass out” he grimaces, hauling himself up with a groan.

“You making some sort of future food? Astronaut blocks, powder you stir into water that keeps you full all day.”

You laugh, and he stretches his arms above him smiling to himself.

“Lembas bread.” you quip.

D. RiPpp…

His eyes snap open, dust twisting above him dancing in a gentle light that nowhere provides.

The drip is always off on this side, garbled like it's been re-recorded so many times the edges of the sound have lost any clarity.

You're going to be so smug.

The dread hits him then, catches and settles in the pit of his stomach as he climbs out of bed and peers into the hallway shielding his eyes from the unwavering light at the end.

There's a fleeting fear that you might not be here this time, leaving him to navigate the nightmare alone.

It makes his feet move a little quicker, over the disarray and dirt that clings to the world around him. The items from his life sitting amongst it all like pristine placeholders for when he'd finally checked out for the day.

You're standing at the threshold to your bedroom door when he makes his way through.

Biting at the side of your thumb with a small frown as you glare at the darkness in front of you.

You look tired, clothes wrinkled and posture leaning awkwardly.

“So, this is when you gloat, yeah?”

You startle a little before a triumphant grin spreads on your face.

“I told you.”

“I never said you were wrong.” He scratches at his neck looking over the room. “So what now?”

Your grin dies and you turn away from him, taking tentative footsteps edging around the black.

He wishes he wanted to move, but he doesn't, he's rooted to the floor, watching you.

He can just about see the kitchen floor, it's completely black, indistinguishable between the darkness and the liquid that's now merged with it, slowly soaking out onto the carpet that borders where the linoleum should be.

You're leaning in, you're so close to it.

He swallows.

“I've been reading up, about where we might be.”

“You have?” you look at him over your shoulder and he manages a step forward .

“You're not the only one who can investigate and shit.”

He squirms internally under your gaze wondering if you can see his heart pounding, eyes flicking to the shadows.

Nodding his head behind him, he moves back as soon as you start to approach, slipping behind waves of light as you follow.

Thank fuck.

“D&D? “

You say face unconvinced as he waves his hands out with a flourish to the books that lay haphazardly at the end of his bed.

“What?”

“I was just kind of hoping for something. Real.“

His face falls and he looks at you eyes slowly moving to the light which now pours in through a dark window.

You press your lips into a hard line nodding to yourself. “Fair point.”

He settles onto the end of the bed pulling the book onto his lap and opening his notepad. Pages decorated in scrawl, page numbers circled, words underlined.

“So there's a few planes that match stuff here, but the cosmology of planes just makes sense, like the overlaps and- ”

His eyes flick up to where you stand, wide eyed and staring.

“Lost?” he asks and you nod your head stepping towards him.

“Shit. Okay.”

You come to sit beside him.

“Where'd I lose ya’”

You wince “The beginning?”

You smell like the cold, like when Wayne would come back home on early spring mornings, the world still dark, bird chatter in the trees around the trailer.

It makes him homesick.

He tells you the basics: the idea of the planes, overlapping worlds, door ways of colours.

You're a good student, interested, asking questions.

Running off on tangents with him.

He explains the fey wilds and all the other worlds that he noted down messily as the bus swayed this morning.

“So what's the dark?”

He flips the pages, doodles of monsters and ghouls litter the page and he passes you the book.

The Abyss.

Sprawling desolate landscapes and figures shrouded in shadow stare back from the pages and he looks to you.

“Yeah that checks out.”

Your eyes scan the pages, taking in details about shades and fiends, creatures that suck the life from you.

He watches you absorb it all, then your eyes lift, staring at a spot on the other side of the room before you abruptly stand.

“Where are you going? Hey?” his arm shoots out grabbing your wrist. .

“To look at it, if it's a different place then -”

“Can we not, go stare into the dark caverns of hell tonight.”

He drops his grip on you, hand scrubbing over his face.

“Don't you want to know if there's something in there? “

“It hissed and made screeching sounds that made my lungs feel like they were going to explode. I think it's a damn safe bet something in there.”

Your face softens a fraction, eyes moving to watch where his leg is bouncing and he slaps a palm to it in an attempt to steady it.

“Okay.”

You offer the book back to him and he takes it sceptically.

“Okay?”

“We know how to get here now, it can wait.” You say with a shrug.

He watches as you come to sit back on the bed leg tucked up under yourself.

“So, what now dungeon master?”

He lets himself fall backwards onto the bed and you look down at him expectantly as he waves the book at you.

“Roll for initiative?”

The only noise that echos is the drip, the sound curls then dodges around rays of light and distended furniture until it dissolves into the black.

Your muffled laughters hidden away behind walls of light, his responding grin concealed by its gentle movements which roll and flutter.

The next drip falls without a sound, a spark of light blinks behind crumbling plaster.

The abyss starts to move.

Tag list: @munsonburn3r @winchester-angel @kellsck @valhallavalkyrie9 @em0220

@sheneedsrocknroll92 @strangersmunsons @hellfirenacht

Let me know if you would like to be added <3

#eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x afab reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fic #joseph quinn #knock knock #my writing #Spotify

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ps1snake · 8 months

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day 1 of @book-omens-week : character design!! commentary transcript is under the cut :)

from top to bottom, left to right, aziraphale's commentary reads as follows: - in the top left, some floating text reads "doesn't change his clothes enough (doesn't need to), so it tends to droop & mold to his body. he's worn his shoes for so long that the lace-ends have fallen off!" - an arrow points to the cartoon aziraphale's sideburns, and reads "cloud poof sideburns" - an arrow points to his fingers, and reads "manicured (duh)" - an arrow pointing to his thighs reads "STAIN CITY!!!!! (he miracles them all away. he knows it's there, but that doesn't stop him)" - an arrow pointing to his shins says "a little baggy" - an arrow pointing to his shoes says "popular with nurses & fast food workers" - an arrow points to the semi-realisitic aziraphale's hair, reading "hair tex based on a man from my local post office!" - an arrow points to his neck, reading "droopy bowtie" - detail drawings of his earrings, rings, finger braces, necklace, and bookshop key are blown up. each is labeled as such. the earrings and necklace are matching pearls. the rings are all simple silver bands, with the exception of the right pointer and middle fingers, which are simple silver finger braces, similar to the style used by people with ehlers-danlos syndrome. the bookshop key is the solo key on a large carabiner, hidden in the drawing by his sweater, but shown in the detail image. an arrow points to the key, and reads "just one key, but he wanted a "ring of keys" sooooo bad (he's not a lesbian* but he believes in their beliefs)." the asterisk on "lesbian" leads to a footnote reading "usually." - an arrow pointing to his shoe reads "woman's orthopedic"

from top to bottom, left to right, crowley's commentary reads as follows: - an arrow points to the semi-realistic crowley's head, and reads "F. mercury shades." the shades are mirrored aviators, similar to the style freddy mercury is known to have worn. - detail images of crowley's sunglasses, rings, and earring are blown up and labeled. the earring is a simple black hoop stud. the rings are a snake that wraps around your finger, and a simple dark band. the sunglasses are at an angle that obscures the style of the lens, but the arms are more visible then in the main drawings, revealing that they bend in a severe up-and-down wave pattern between the lens and the ear rest. - an arrow points to his nails, which are painted black, and reads "manifests pre-chipped" - in between the semi-realistic crowley and the cartoonish crowley's feet is text reading ""white" snakeskin shoes match belt and watch" - an arrow points to the cartoonish crowley's head, reading ""he looks like a bug" shades. the sunglasses this crowley is wearing are large circular lenses. - an arrow points to his left ear, reading "pretend this is the gay ear (i forgot)." forgot is misspelled as "forgor." - an arrow points to his chest, reading "this hot pink bitch is named breakfast" - floating text near his leg reads "magic pockets mean the line of his suit is never ruined (which he never rmbrs to take advantage of) - text below his feet reads "those are his hooves you bitch"

the shared commentary is as follows: - between aziraphale and crowley is a line with a starburst in the middle, showing that they are making eye contact. - above this, they are both thinking in a shared thought bubble "i should send him a spam email.*" the asterisk leads below the eye contact line; to a footnote, also in a shared thought bubble. it reads "*in a sex way" - on each character's detail image of thier rings, one ring for each has a asterisk. this leads to a footnote between them, centered in a large patch of negative space, reading "gay ass wedding rings"

#half tempted to include my radio designs but this is book week its right in the name.#mine #my art #good omens #book omens #book omens week

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rotworld · 2 years

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1: Decadence

each year, the kingdom of ilcordia commemorates the death of a tyrannical king with a day of feasts and festivals. you see nothing to celebrate about.

->explicit. contains dubcon/noncon, gore, graphic depiction of corpses, various methods of public execution, angst, threesome (kind of), necrophilia (kind of).

The finest dyes of dawn adorn Lynzveth, City of Beauty. Light shimmers prismic through twisting crystal spires and gilds the gentle waves of the Divinitas River. Flowering trees scatter starburst petals like dots of paint across the Moonstone Promenade. There are only the softest wisps of gossamer clouds drifting across the sky and the warm winds of spring. It is splendid weather for the Day of the Tyrant’s Demise.

Tranaud, the King’s Ear, catches you slinking out of the royal servant’s quarters long after the day’s festivities has begun. He seizes you by the arm before you can slip past him. “Your mask,” he hisses. You can hardly see him through all the silk and finery, ruffles and scarves and pearls lining the seams of his robes. His mask holds a tranquil expression, emerald blush dusting the sculpted cheeks. “You cannot leave the palace like that. Do not dawdle. His Eternal Eminence will be displeased.” He hears your sigh before you exhale it, snapping, “Now, Eye.”

You would drag your feet just to spite him, but you’re already running late. When you return, your face covered, Tranaud nods in approval and lets you pass. Merchants gather just beyond the palace bridge, selling silks, pigments and alcoran flowers, their opal blossoms in full, glittering bloom. Children play with toy swords, shrieking and laughing. Their small masks are tipped with horns and flowers, little cherub wings. The one playing the part of the Tyrant is cornered at the edge of a fountain, teetering on the stone edge. “Kill him!” the others cry out in glee, closing in with their paper lances and daggers. “Stab him! Drown him! Slit his throat! As many times as it takes!”

The glassy, crystal path of the Moonstone Promenade sparkles beneath the noon sun. Rainbows of light arc across a makeshift stage, tasseled velvet curtains and elaborate costumes speckled with kaleidoscopic splendor. The crowd is enormous, gathered on all sides of the elevated stage platform. You spot King Leolis in his ornate robes easily, enormously tall and surrounded by dignitaries. It’s easy to reach him. The crowd parts for you, native Ilcordians bowing in deference, outsiders shrinking back with unease and suspicion. Unnerved the smooth strangeness of your mask, the inhuman shapes, the lack of holes for eyes.

“A Blessed Day of the Tyrant’s Demise to you, Eye,” King Leolis murmurs. His twin masks are opposites, one of jagged gold and ivory, one of smooth silver and obsidian, sun and moon. The sun mask gazes up at the stage while the other is downturned, scrutinizing you. A noblewoman hangs on his arm—a foreigner, her face bare. She has powdered her face, rouged her lips, painted her eyes in an imitation of the local style with shimmering inks. She makes herself smile brightly, intent on holding this single expression without the slightest twitch. She has tried, meticulously, to make herself resemble a Lynzvethian mask, an effort you find both amusing and pitiable.

“Which one are you?” she asks. “I’ve met the Ear and the Tongue already. What a delightfully strange practice!”

“The Eye, my lady,” you say. She hesitates to offer her hand, flinching when you press your porcelain mask against her fingers in an imitation of a kiss.

The reenactment is half over. You’ve arrived just in time for the Tyrant’s death by disembowelment. The executioner’s black robes flutter behind her like a crow’s wings as she crosses the stage, ceremonial dagger clutched in one gloved hand. Her beaked mask is scarlet, wreathed with blood red feathers and a veil of black lace. “How unsightly, this beast that once ruled!” she recites. “He has defied the noose and scorned the flame. Shall he face my blade with the same impenitence?”

The Tyrant, bound to a wooden beam, struggles against his bindings. There is a crack in the facade of his weeping mask, tears of sapphire dotting the golden cheeks. “Please don’t do this,” he begs. “Please, I—there’s been a mistake. I’ve been loyal all my life.”

The noblewoman’s discomfort is obvious. She shifts, the beads and baubles along her dress clinking together. “What is it that you do, exactly? Eyes and Ears and whatnot,” she asks.

“Ilcordian monarchs are blessed by the heavens,” King Leolis says. He strokes her arm through one velvet sleeve, drawing her gaze to the serene expression of his sun mask. “We manifest our will through these appendages. An Ear and Eye to learn all that happens in the realm, a Tongue to speak what is decreed…”

“Peculiar,” she says. “We have a royal spymaster for such things.”

“A spymaster can’t do what I can,” you say.

On stage, the executioner unsheathes the ceremonial dagger. The blade glints in the golden light, sharpened to a razor point. She begins the Butcher’s Lament, long, poetic verse about duty, honor and the cleansing of sin, drowned out by the Tyrant’s shrieks. “King Leolis!” he screams. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I’ve done nothing—!”

“This death I give with pleasure!” the executioner declares. She glides forward, dagger in hand. With vengeful purpose, she drives the blade into the Tyrant’s chest. The sound is a dull, wet thunk. The executioner must always be an actor of great strength and dexterity to strike through flesh, and sinew, to saw through layer upon layer of sacrificial garment and expose the flesh beneath, and to do it all with style. This one is perhaps the best you’ve ever seen. She works with artful precision and wild ecstasy all at once, soft giggles turning to raucous laughter as she begins to gut the Tyrant like a fresh kill. Ilcordians cheer and applaud, chanting, “The Tyrant’s Demise! The Tyrant’s Demise!” Foreigners shift and murmur, hesitantly excited. They were warned, surely, heard stories at the very least, but to see it is another thing, you suppose.

“I’ve always admired the Ilcordian flair for spectacle,” the noblewoman says. “You make an art of everything.” Blood spatters across the stage and wets the executioner’s gloves. She plunges her fist into the gaping wound, wrenching a length of pulsating intestine from the Tyrant’s stomach. He makes a gurgling, weeping sound, sagging in his bindings. You watch. A dull heat ignites in the pit of your stomach, a quiet rage.

This is a farce. A disappointing imitation. The Ilcordians who were here that day know it as well as you do, but they’re willing to swallow this uninspired forgery. The real thing, you recall, was indescribably beautiful.

“Is it true you had to kill him six times?” the noblewoman asks.

“Eleven, actually,” King Leolis says. He chuckles at her wide eyes and soft gasp. “A dreadful business, but it’s behind us now.”

“For that, I’m grateful. The old king—the Tyrant,” she quickly corrects as King Leolis’ cold, moon mask turns towards her, “his war against the northern provinces came dangerously close to our borders. I woke each morning to smoke on the horizon, fearing the worst.”

“Never again,” King Leolis vows. He touches her openly, shamelessly, his hand sliding from her arm to the small of her back as he draws her in. “War is not my way. You will see that, in time.” The noblewoman’s facade nearly crumbles, the corner of her lips twitching, her eyes half-lidded with desire. You wonder what she, and all foreigners, think is beneath an Ilcordian’s mask. Ear has told you all manner of bizarre rumors he overhears, that your masks magically change themselves to suit your soul, that you die if they break, that the masks are your faces. She must believe the latter. Unfortunate, you think. If King Leolis manages to lure her to his bedchambers tonight, she’s unlikely to survive the night.

“Could you send your Eye away?” she asks quietly.

King Leolis’ masks both turn towards you, lingering behind her. He says nothing. You stare back at those mismatched faces, both gentle and stern. He is, to the outsiders, austere and imposing, towering over mere mortals. To you, he is no better than the reenactment, the impotent squelch of flesh unraveling around a blade, a shadow cast by a greater being. You say, with a sweeping bow, “If that is what the lady wishes.” You know that King Leolis lets out the breath he was holding only when you have crossed the Moonstone Promenade and gone far, far away.

Veyette, the King’s Tongue, stands in the town square, drowning in an extravagant gown. The lips of her black mask are stretched in a wide, golden smile, a crescent moon and stars painted across her features. She stands straight-backed, hands clasped together, as motionless as stone. “His Eternal Eminence welcomes you to the City of Beauty,” she says, her voice smooth and pleasing. “Partake in all that intrigues you. Indulge in all that pleases you. That is the Ilcordian way.”

You’re restless. It’s hard to sit still for long. Another, more grand production of the reenactment is staged at the amphitheater, a venue of greenery and marble columns with the scent of flowers wafting through the air. You drift through during the infamous scene where a mob of Lynzvethians storm the palace, disinterested even as the Tyrant is dragged across the stage in chains, sobbing, “Don’t just stand there! Help me! Do something! You really think Leolis is any better? You think it won’t be you up here next year?”

Courtesans in lavender masks travel in search of the lonely and unoccupied, alcorans and their winding stems painted beside their eyes. They whisper to starstruck outsiders about the coming celebrations, a performance of movement and pleasure held in the royal gardens beneath the moon. Gossip is everywhere. A horde of nobles corner you in the marketplace, fishing for secrets. “King Leolis is refreshing, isn’t he? More fond of the pen than the sword,” one says.

“He is what he is,” you say, amused. Outsiders are fun to look at with their expressive, fearful eyes and quivering lips.

“Do you think he’s interested in increasing trade with the western realms?” another presses.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I suppose you haven’t been his Eye for long. He only ascended to the throne four years ago. How does that work, anyway? It sounds like sorcery. You simply came into existence when he became king?”

“I’m not his,” you say. The nobles make even more interesting faces. You watch their skin stretch and furrow, their mouths twisting into worried frowns.

“That mouth will get you into trouble one of these days.” Oanick, the King’s Hand, drapes his spidery fingers over your shoulder. Swirls of silver are embossed across his mask, a colorful diamond pattern adorning the edges. “Honored guests,” he addresses the outsiders, tilting his tricorn hat, “don’t mind this one. The Eye is a creature of riddles. We are the appendages of His Eternal Eminence. King is such an uninspired title in comparison.” His grip slides down to your wrist and he drags you away, heels clicking across the stone path.

“Are you upset with me for telling the truth?” you ask.

“You forget yourself. You are to watch. Nothing more.” He doesn’t look quite as absurd as the rest of you, permitted sleeker, more subdued garments, embroidered sleeves hugging his long, slender arms. Together, you make your way back to the palace. You pass the marketplace, Veyette still speaking words that are not her own, “His Eternal Eminence asks only that you enjoy yourself to the fullest. Take what you wish and do as you desire.” The reenactment has ended at the Moonstone Promenade, the crowd dispersing. King Leolis and his conquest are already gone, onto the next spectacle.

“I’m tired of this,” you say. “Tired of all of this.”

“He does not want to see you like this, Eye.”

“He’s dead,” you say.

“Even so.”

One must pass through the palace gates, the gardens, and the servant’s quarters before finally reaching the royal cemetery. The air is cold here. The grass is gray and brittle, the sky swirling with clouds. There is sunlight beyond the trees but it doesn’t reach here. They call this strangeness “Ilcordian gloom,” and it was once everywhere. It shrouded Lynzveth in its smothering embrace. It followed the royal army into battle. It crept through the earth and menaced the frail realms on the borders of Ilocrdia, threatening to overtake them. Now, it can only be found here.

Oanick leads you to a mausoleum, the eclipsing sun and moon of the royal crest adorning the heavy, stone doors. He splays one of his long-fingered hands against the stone and pushes. You see it, and he must feel it—how all of Ilcordia trembles when that first wisp of accursed air seeps out. The darkness within is deeper than night. A set of stairs spirals into the abyss.

You don’t speak to Oanick for the entire descent, and he doesn’t speak to you. It takes everything you have to keep walking, to keep yourself from turning around. That heat in your chest burns hotter, fires of anger licking the inside of your lungs. You long for this, year after year. You dread this more than anything. Deep in the earth, covered in cobwebs, cave moss and ancient dust, lies the tomb of the old king. There is no casket. No headstone. No surviving monument that bears his name. There is only an old throne and his corpse seated upon it, still bearing the wounds of his executions.

He wears the thin, ashy remains of his once splendid robes, his head concealed behind crude burlap, the hood of the executed. Chains bind him and long, iron rods nail him to the throne. His throat is slit and gaping, his bones prominent through stretched, emaciated skin. A rope of intestine dangles from the grotesque woud in his chest, a flayed display of flesh peeled back and held open by insect pins. A snapped noose hangs around his neck. And yet, when you set foot in this old, forgotten place, you see the corpse move. His fingers flex and curl. His chest heaves with rattling breaths. He lifts his head and you feel his gaze.

Oanick shoves you so hard you stumble. You catch yourself on the armrests of the throne, face-to-face with the grotesque husk of the old king. You look back and he shakes his head. An apology. The action wasn’t his.

“Your Eternal Eminence,” you murmur, stroking the mangled, pale hand of the corpse. “You see what I see. But do you see it the way I do? I wonder what you think of all this sometimes.” It’s with some difficulty that you climb into his lap, straddling his bony hips. The chains and sharpened stakes dig into you, catching on your extravagant clothing. You push yourself closer, leaning against his chest. You hear lace tearing. You don’t care. He’s so vast compared to you, even bigger than King Leolis. He towers over you, even seated. “I don’t get it,” you admit. “He’s not much different than you. He does all the same, awful things, but more carefully. He dresses them up, gilds them. There was never any pretension to your cruelty.”

The old king sucks in a low, rumbling breath through his dead lungs. One finger twitches like a dying spider’s limb.

“What do you think of that? Do you think anything anymore?” you ask him, running your hands across his chest, feeling the unraveling silk turn to ash beneath your fingers. It’s maddening. Dead eleven times over, gray as the stone around him, and still so regal. Long, unkempt hair trickles out of the burlap hood and spills down his shoulders, the same immaculate color as the stone path of the Moonstone Promenade. You lean into him, rest your head against his cold chest. His heart beats a faint, stuttered rhythm, once with each breath. “I have always hated being your Eye,” you say. “But I hate this even more.”

You hear the click of Oanick’s heels and then his hands are on you, curling over your shoulders. They’re the same as the old king’s. Smaller, more delicate, but the same spindly fingers, the same firm, confident grasp. You can hear him panting as the old king’s arousal overtakes him, his breath warming the nape of your neck. He took his mask off. A shiver runs through you.

“I have nightmares where you take your vengeance,” you tell the corpse. “You reclaim everything. Your kingdom. Your palace. You take us, and we are whole again.” You hear your clothing coming apart, seams ripping on Oanick’s sharpened nails. The chill of the mausoleum hits your bare skin, shoulders first and then the expanse of your back. Your hands rise to the hood of the executed, feeling for the shape of the old king’s jaw. You touch him through the burlap, frame his face against your palms. “And when I wake up, I feel the Ilcordian gloom on my skin and in my lungs. And I’m hateful and afraid.”

Oanick’s lips caress the shell of your ear. His fingers hook into the strings holding your mask in place and you feel indignation. He doesn’t deserve to see you. It’s his fault that Leolin took power, his fault that this new age of masks and make believe began. “Don’t,” you whimper.

Oanick hesitates. The old king does not. The string snaps and you hear the porcelain shatter on the mausoleum floor. Oanick feels you with the king’s hands, tracing your jaw, your lips, the shape of your eyes. All of them, along your cheeks and bared forearms, wiping away the tears gathering like pearls on your collarbones. It’s the old king who grabs your hips with careless, sharp fingers, the old king who blankets himself against your back as his hands roam your body. Oanick whispers apologies and kisses your neck, and he is just as lost and broken, a disembodied appendage.

“Let us go,” you beg him. Oanick inhales sharply behind you. Your insolence is rewarded with a hand twisting in your hair and pulling hard on your scalp. The old king takes you both.

Oanick gasps and shivers as he buries his cock inside of you, his lower half moving against his will. It’s misery, shivering in the lap of a dead thing that will not die. He is cruel through Oanick, making his hands pinch and scratch you, leaving marks in your skin. Every thrust pushes you harder against his cold body. You feel his malevolence like a fog in the air, a burning smog in your lungs. You understand, without words, without anything but how frantically Oanick begins to fuck you and his teeth sink into your neck, that he still wants with the same terrifying ferocity he held in life, he still desires.

Oanick bounces you on his lap. His nails sink into your hip like knives in your skin and every thrust makes them cut deeper. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, but his kisses have turned harsh and biting. The flesh of your shoulder crunches between his teeth and you shiver at the hot press of his tongue against the wound. The pain is not as terrible as the yearning in your chest, the knowledge that this, too, is a pale imitation. A theatrical performance of something greater. The old king watches you shiver and cry as his stand-in fucks you harder, the slap of his hips against yours echoing in the emptiness of the mausoleum.

You cry out when Oanick’s hands wrap around your abdomen and you’re pulled into the rhythm of his thrusts like a toy. He slams into you and holds you still, stammering more useless apologies as you writhe. Oanick's hand wraps around your throat and starts to squeeze. Your fingers scrape at his wrist, tearing the delicate fabric of his sleeve. He rolls his hips and your eyes roll back in your head.

“He wants you to beg,” Oanick says.

“I won’t,” you mutter, and he starts to choke you again.

There is no time in the abyssal darkness of this tomb, no way of knowing how long you’re there, lungs burning, shivering between Oanick and the old king. You are broken and put back together, granted just a glimpse of wholeness. Oanick grasps your hips as he starts to move again, pounding into you faster than before. You find yourself with your arms over the old king’s bony shoulders, your fingers tangled in his hair. Your lips move mindlessly against burlap, kissing something you can only remember. His mouth doesn’t move. He does not speak, does not return your devotion. But there is rigidity in the old king that wasn’t there before, intention that does not belong to the dead. You feel, distinctly, that you are seen, beheld by hidden eyes. You feel him like a fist around your heart, squeezing until you burst.

Far above in the streets of Lynzveth, the King’s Tongue cannot help the satisfied smirk that crosses her lips. “The King is dead,” she says in a voice not her own, “long live the King.”

#rotpeach writes #goretober #starting the month off with a weird one lmfao #original

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neopronouns · 4 months

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colorgenders inspired by the results of a “What is your Aura” quiz ((https://)uquiz(.)com/quiz/pxTx2D/what-color-is-your-aura):

Sky: short poems, teacups, clear skies, diaries, dripping icicles, tears, tennis shoes.

Honeysuckle: succulents, key lime, glow-in-the-dark stars, blown glass, honeydew, garter snakes, notes in bottles.

Seafoam: clear water, milkshakes, crystals, agave, candy dishes, converse, seashells.

Yellow: daisies, road signs, bumblebees, lemon meringue, bicycles, polaroids, awnings.

Hickory: felled oak, brass, sunken ships, olive pits, graphic shirts, splinters, dark room.

Orange: guitars, fanta bottles, sunglasses, orange peels, butterflies, popsicles, paper lanterns.

Sage: herb clippings, matcha, bullet journals, mini backpacks, needle felts, pistachio, laptop stickers.

Teal: dyed hair, scales, doc martens, aurora borealis, stormy seas, kingfishers, agate.

Royal (blue): crown jewels, portraits, satin chairs, masquerades, nebulas, betta fish, secrets.

Gold: lion statues, coins, gold leafing, bound books, goldfinches, crowns, heart lockets.

Crimson: rose vines, blood, apples, velvet, sharp nails, galaxies, dripping jewellery.

Navy: brush strokes, suit jackets, midnight, comforters, star gazing, arctic waters, starlings.

Forest: fern leaves, greenhouses, cloaks, bookstores, pine trees, chokers, snake scales.

honey: friendship bracelets, beehives, school buses, children's books, flower petals, honeyed toast, polaroids.

Ashen: old newspapers, smoke, quiet cities, pale cheeks, pebbles, chalk, the clouded moon.

Garnet: Brooches, anthologies, stained glass, leaves, dining chairs, long robes, curtains.

Chiffon: stone walls, sweaters, moths, dusty lace, animal tracks, incense, throw pillows.

Red: leather jackets, cherries, bruised knuckles, roses, lipstick, fast cars, rose petals.

Magenta: splattered paint, glitter, childhood friends, neon, pleather, dance floors, crystals.

Amaranth: bundled flowers, ribbon, merlot, overcoats, gemstones, lipstick prints, red velvet.

Periwinkle: knit hats, candies, tiny flowers, beads, teacups, washi tape, clouds.

Jade: islands, sketchbooks, rainy windows, pendants, puzzle pieces, tree frogs, sea glass.

Pink: cupcakes, sunglasses, pink sands, starbursts, pinky promises, flower crowns, ice cream.

Rose: lace, blown kisses, milk tea, paper fans, pillows, ballet slippers, fairy wings.

Amethyst: earrings, violet corts, parades, gemstones, insect wings, grape bushels, outer space.

Noir: drops of ink, eyeliner, crows, spiders, charcoal, painted nails, the night.

Cream: dandelions, marble, bottled coffee, hair ties, banana cream, bedsheets, sketches.

Beige: lattes, dry fields, footprints, easels, cat fur, pottery, fresh-baked cookies.

Pearl: abalone, perfume bottles, chandeliers, tulle, ball jointed dolls, satin, paint palettes.

Bronze: leather books, cowboy hats, foxes, candle jars, sword hilts, cobblestone streets, hourglasses

Amber: autumn days, freckles, torches, cabins, fossils, unbrushed hair, enamel pins.

Fire: sunrises, woven blankets, campfires, tigers, whiskey, monarchs, road trips.

Purple: geodes, club lights, ferris wheels, sunglasses, hummingbirds, eyeshadow, outer space.

Blush: lollipops, warm cheeks, lip gloss, flowers, flamingo feathers, painted nails, heart glasses.

finally done with all of these — they're queued!

#long post

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foxymoxyvintage · 2 months

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Atomic Gold nugget faux pearl brooch and earrings with simulated diamonds. Mid century vintage domed Demi Parure.

#vintage jewelry #AtomicNuggets #vintage rhinestone brooch #ChunkyFauxPearls #BrutalistPearlEarrings

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peacelovecatsandvintage · 7 months

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: 90's Mother of Pearl & Abalone Starburst Earrings - Inlaid MOP Abalone Dangles.

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nahidasjewelry · 8 months

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Sterling Silver Peridot Ring 925 size 7.

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fifthdegreeus · 9 months

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Opal Starburst Pendant Necklace

These gold-plated hoops are sure to add a touch of glamour to your evening look. Designed to hug the ears, they’re a sure snug fit, finished with pretty pearls swinging off the base. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea…

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synajewel · 1 year

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Diamond Owl Pendant

Add a touch of elegance to your jewelry collection with our stunning Diamond Owl Pendant. At Syna Jewels, we offer exquisite and unique designs that are crafted with precision and quality materials. Browse our collection of Diamond Owl Pendants and find the perfect piece to complement your style. Shop now and make a statement with Syna Jewels. Call us at 201-336-4132 Address: 2125 Center Ave #107, Fort Lee, NJ 07024, United States

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shopofthemoment · 1 year

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: new Nadri ❤︎ Freshwater Pearl Crystal Drop Bridal Earrings ❤︎ Beach Wedding ❤︎.

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yesteryearsnows · 1 year

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Dis shit again: an unexpected drop

Yesterday I also picked up two vintage hat pins/lapel pins and a set of earrings at the American cancer society. That store be popping, truly like a high end boutique experience but without the prices. So the first hat pin is Klementz gold filled with cultured pearls and blue enamel! Paid 5, worth maybe 20. I want to say…made somewhere in 50s-60s? This brand did fine jewelry too, but mainly higher quality costume jewelry. Gold filled is a fancy way of saying a thin gold layer rolled on a cheap base metal. More gold then your electroplated F21 stuff, but still not that valuable. But still, it’s designed well and it’s sweet! The flowers are Forget me Nots.

The second pin is unsigned and I cannot find anything like it no matter how much I googled. However, I’m reasonably sure it’s mid century modern and supposed to be a starburst, which was a popular design motif, especially with the two tone metal.

The third set are vintage matroyshka doll earrings, real wood and hand painted. Not super old judging from the style of hook earrings, but possibly twenty years+. They sell new ones too, but the painting is…..sure is something. I like my earrings sweet expressions!

Also the unexpected: I was walking through the garage when I saw these three random ass silver plate items. The teapot is genuinely old at 1885 manufacture, the lion head ice bucket is mid century modern, and the serving dish I have no idea at all how old. All ballpark at 30-40 but my mom refuses to let me sell any. In her words “if the apocalypse happens we need gold and silver” ma’am if civilization collapses we gonna be struggling for firewood and lucky to be cooking gruel in the silver plate. When my sister bought her house in LA it was due to the previous owner dying, and even after an estate sale, there were some pieces remaining, of which my sister gifted my mom. Sister still has a wood piano and some marble panels with dolphins in the house. Life is a rich tapestry….of stuff.

#antiquing #vintage

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s86226 · 2 years

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: GOLD Floral Starburst Diamond Crystal Earrings.

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jewelrylove · 2 years

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🌹🌹Korean Jewelry Starburst Pearl Pendant Necklace 🌹🌹

“He wanted to die. He prayed for it. Through the roar in his ears, he begged for it.”

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heffrondriving · 3 years

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❦ ѕσмєтнιηg ℓιкє αη αƒтєʀgℓσω 〣 втʀ ∂яαввℓє ❦

» 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝟻 𝚘𝚏 𝚒 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝

❝ IF I CRY, YOU’LL CRY—AND THAT WON’T BE FUN FOR ANYONE. ❞

Carlos’s welling tears glistened under the blaze of the ephemeral sunset, coalescing liquorice-scarlet and honeysuckle-yellow against salty drizzle, and he screwed his blurry gaze shut to keep it from spilling over into coastal ruin. Santa Monica Bay fell heavy with twilight gloom and balmy summer wind breezing past frigid bodies, so Kendall shook the sand off the gingham picnic blanket and carefully wrapped it around their bare shoulders.

“It’s okay to cry, babybear.”

“No...it’s nothing, really. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I just...nevermind. It’s so stupid.”

“It’s not stupid at all. And hey, we had a fantastic afternoon at the beach today, didn’t we?” soothed Kendall, stroking warm fingers through Carlos’s short-cropped hair. “I think those were some pretty tasty corndogs from that newly-opened Korean food stand. I mean, I didn’t even know corndogs could have different flavours on them until now! I think my favourite were the gangnam ones, though. What about you?”

“Hmmm...maybe bacon and mozzarella?” Carlos pondered. “Stretchy cheese is always fun...and the squid ink ones were like, insanely weird-looking, but surprisingly delicious too.”

“Oh, that’s true.” Kendall beamed a black-stained grin, making Carlos giggle breathily despite himself. “What?”

“Umm, I think you have something in your teeth.”

“Oops...I can’t believe I didn’t wash it all down with that lychee-coconut bubble blast yoghurt drink!” Kendall sheepishly chuckled. “I mean, it was refreshing, but I think I got a liiittle too distracted with all the chewy tapioca pearls and giant fancy swirly straws and tiny pink umbrellas.”

As the younger boy tried to wipe away the inky mess with his tanktop collar, the candy-stripe fabric hitched up to reveal a blossoming cluster of purple discolourations just beneath his ribcage—and those stains, Carlos knew all too well couldn’t simply be scrubbed out.

“Ken-ken...” he swallowed hard, transient mirth dissipating to dusky grey, and crushed both palms to his eye sockets so hard the darkness screamed with starbursts and woozy fireworks.

“Don’t worry about me, it’s nothing. I’ll be fine, I promise.” Kendall assured, covering up his injuries with barely a passing wince. “On the bright side though, you were right—those umbrellas did look awesome on the sandcastle forts we made! Even if the hermit crabs weren’t too pleased with being appointed moat guards. Those were some snappy lil’ fellas...”

With this, he held Carlos’s clenching hands and softly pinched each fingertip as he traipsed his own along. “And even that treasure hunt afterwards was really fun, ‘cause those couple cool seashells and old pennies we found might just sell for a good museum mint or two. Well, if we could convince Griffin that it’s actually worth bajillions...which shouldn’t be too hard. And then we could finally buy our own private Malibu beach house and invite James and Logan and all our friends over and throw all the beach parties we ever want twenty-four seven, and then we’ll be the Hollywood super party kings of Hollywood forever!”

“That sounds really lovely. But just don’t suddenly grow a yucky caterpillar moustache on me, okay, mi osito?”

“Mmm, I’ll think about it...” teased Kendall, pecking Carlos on the shell of his ear. “Just kidding, of course. I know my babybear doesn’t like scratchy kissies.”

“But yeah...I guess it would be kinda awesome to live by the sea, wouldn’t it?”

“It really would, especially with this whole dry spell making LA’s weather so unbearably hellish lately. And the water always feels really nice out here in Cali, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Carlos sighed wistfully, “and it’s super cold and clear today, too.”

“No offence to the Palm Woods pool, but being out in the ocean is just something else entirely.” the lines on Carlos’s forehead eased as he breathed deeply and allowed his reminiscing thoughts to drift along to the tidal melody of Kendall’s voice, ever so gentle yet steady, “like being submerged in a completely different world, leaving behind the choking smog and blinding lights and noisiness of crazy Hollywood as we drift underwater with crystal blues and peaceful waves instead. Everything’s just so exquisitely beautiful and it takes away the pain, even just for a breathtaking moment. Just you and me, floating hand in hand, with all those colourful reefs and fishes and the teeny silver minnows tickling our skin as they quickly swim past us...”

Kendall playfully poked Carlos’s tummy, making his mouth quirk upwards just a bit; but it still wasn’t enough to hold back the rivulets of tears beginning to trickle down the older boy’s cheeks. From the way they were sitting together, Kendall couldn’t quite see Carlos’s shadow-smeared face, but somehow he already knew. And he understood. All too well.

“I can’t, I...I’m really sorry, Ken...you got in trouble, and—and got hurt because of me. I didn’t mean to...”

“It isn’t your fault!” insisted Kendall. “None of it is, Los. If anything, I’m the one who should be sorry, ‘cause I had to go and let those jerks spoil our fun. Seriously, a bunch of lame CrossFit meatheads who think they could just swagger in and own the whole joint, I should’ve done more than just send their front teeth rattling up their empty skulls for saying all those horrible things about you.” he darkened. “Heck—I would’ve drowned those fishbrained maniacs like they deserve if that useless freaking lifeguard didn’t kick us out of the smoothie shack! I’ll kick him halfway across the Atlantic too, see how he likes it.”

“They...they called me stupid.” Carlos wavered, desperately-fighting whispers almost lost to the splashing of the lulled ocean waves. “And a pansy. And a giant baby. Is that what I am?”

“No, of course not—they’re the stupid giant pansy babies for picking fights and acting like they’re better than everyone else, when all they’re better at is at being total garbage human beings! They’re no one. So forget about them.”

“Okay...I will. Ken-ken?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you so much.”

“And I love you, Carlos. I love you with everything that I’ve got and more, because you’re you, and you’re sweet, and amazing, and so full of love, and just so incredibly wonderful...and you deserve to be happy more than anyone else in the world. And there’s not a single day of my life where I don’t think about just how much I’m so impossibly blessed to get to love you forever. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Kendall drew his arms and knees closer to his boyfriend and nestled him in an ensconcing embrace, washing away every fickle worry and holding him warm with the silent promise to keep each other safe from the world. Carlos closed his eyes and felt water droplets tenderly dripping on the crown of his head, though the tides were low and it hadn’t rained in Los Angeles for a thousand years.

a/n: I KNOW THIS IS SUCH A MAJOR TONAL WHIPLASH BUT I'M BE HONEST WITH YOU CHIEF,, THIS IS MY MOST FAVOURITE DRABBLE OUT OF ALL OF THEM right next to the james/jett one mainly bc they're my rarepair brainworm and no one else will love them NJFNJDKF WHY AM I SO EXCRUCIATINGLY SOMFT FOR KENLOS NOT MANY PPL LIKE IT BUT I REALLY LOVE THEM OKAY THEY'RE JUST TOO CUTE TOGETHER AND MAKE FOR LIKE THE BEST HURT/COMFORT WAX LYRICAL PROSE AND IT MAKES MY IDIOT HEART DO A BIG CRYYY .·´¯`(>Д<)´¯`·.

anyway yeah brb losing my shiz some more to their pet names for each other here being ‘babybear’ and ‘teddybear’ (but ~en español~)...and if anyone somehow made it this far, thanks for sticking around!! 💕 and i apologise for the mess i have become in the notes,,

#bls have kenlos hurt/comfort fluffiness;; and if anyone asks i'm hiding under my blankets with my cat and unicorn plushie thx ( T v T )#this took flippin forever for me to edit and ended up way longer than i expected (it's the longest drabble so far) but oh well #this ship needs all the love it can get and i shall provide even if only for my own fickle indulgences as always sfdjjbskr #anyway this is just another excuse for me to be needlessly extra so if the prosing makes zero sense......yeah me too #i have another vague kenlos draft after this don't look at me 👀#btr #big time rush #kendall knight #carlos garcia #fanfic #fanfiction #drabble #ficlet #fluff #hurt/comfort #summer #slice of life #boyfriends #kenlos #writeblr #writing #stop it forever #the line that starts the whole story #kendall knight x carlos garcia #good luck loverboy

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