eyeshone

[eyeshone]

you can TURN ON post notifications for specific posts now???!!!!! oh I’m about to be a creep.

[eyeshone]

Dmitri voice: “‘So’.” Joey likes the wiggle room that… vvvverbjjjjective? implies. The lower pitch of Dmitri’s voice thrums in the pit of Joey’s throat, where his moans dwell and swell. That cohabitation fuzzes his mind. (People’s voices are easier-ish, now, when it’s an exact, short quote.)

“Big red button, you don’t have the urge to push it?”

[eyeshone]

“Big red button, you don’t have the urge to push it?”

Fist cough to cover his mouth: Mostly-convincing-Fallon-voice thrown across the warehouse: “It isn’t.”

He hikes a thumb over his shoulder where the spoken words came from, Joey voice: “You heard it.”

[eyeshone]

Fist cough to cover his mouth: Mostly-convincing-Fallon-voice thrown across the warehouse: “It isn’t.”

He hikes a thumb over his shoulder where the spoken words came from, Joey voice: “You heard it.”

It’s maybe his fault, but:

“Why’s-it gotta be my fault?”

[eyeshone]

It’s maybe his fault, but:

“Why’s-it gotta be my fault?”

“You sound sexist.” Joey almost said sexy. Like his high school biology teacher accidentally saying orgasm instead of organism.

[eyeshone]

“You sound sexist.” Joey almost said sexy. Like his high school biology teacher accidentally saying orgasm instead of organism.

@eyeshone // joey

"She forgot the coffee."

"What did you do to her?"

[eyeshone]

Kilgrave looks—eyy, only one word for it—grave.

The Spark Notes translation of his question has Joey smiling, slanted, cool and casual, like a cocked hip. As bemused as he is amused:

“Are you askin’ me what are we?”

Joey has carefully and adamantly avoided this subject. He thinks if he thinks on it, he’d think he is occupationally cheating on Dmitri—at best.

“I dunno.” Whew. What a relief. He honestly thinks that because he honestly said it. He doesn’t believe he’s two timing Dmitri. That is what that means, right? He says it again for the oxymoronic surety of uncertainty: “I dunno.”

Bail out: “You call the shots.”

Joey’s never closer to a Muppet than moments such as this. All he’s capable of doing—all he wants to do—is answer Kilgrave.

The command matches, perfect pitch, with Joey’s own authentic desire. Congruous instances are euphoric. Better than a full body workout pump or that time Fallon went to Smoothie King and accidentally grabbed another customer’s triple chocolate milkshake from the pick up counter instead of his usual sad, sallow protein shake and he slurped down his entire week’s worth of sugar from that one styrofoam cup.

A guy—not Joey—could get addicted to this. Passenger seat relief in his own mind. Unable to fuck up.

His eyes are wide, near manic.

“You’re helpin’ me with my power. I wanna return the favor.”

[eyeshone]

Jordy……..your ocs are so cool and so creative like how do you even THINKK of this stuff….you wow me bc damn the writing and the creativeness… 🙌🙌🙌 oc legend honestlyyyyh

thank you noel! for the last several months, most of my writing has been on my multi and of that selection, mostly ocs (as compared to the canons also written here). so it’s always a welcome and exciting relief when I hear someone is enjoying the writing of an oc (the stigma being that ppl care more about canons).

we have followed each other for upwards of a decade. and I think of your and august’s ocs frequently and the arcs/developments they’ve gone through with great interest!

[eyeshone]

16 barks dick

on the dance floor during a wedding.

Dick—who has existed in her scientific periphery for some time (unseen but felt like a burst blood vessel in her eye)—dominates her current view. Dancing in saccharine tandem with his wife too near the open bar to cut around.

He smiles as though it is he who Barks is approaching. An abhorrent, offensive assumption. Every smile from a man ought to be considered harassment. Should they wiggle out of that charge—tack on disturbance of the peace, too.

With deliberate but cloaked aim, Barks steps on the back of his shoe. His heel pops out: masterful silence—uncorked, like that bottle of champagne she is trying to get to.

She will have the bottle—

“Dick.” (name and name calling)

—crowd not permitting, then a dance with Dick’s wife.

[eyeshone]

set the scene setting prompts (but a little more specific) from yours truly.

001, a convenience store past midnight.

002, a hospital waiting room at 3 in the morning.

003, a photoshoot outdoors in the middle of winter.

004, an indoor filming set of a detective's office.

005, a new house/apartment filled with unopened cardboard boxes.

006, a swing set in an empty playground at night.

007, on stage in an empty theatre.

008, inside an old abandoned house.

009, an empty cemetery at night.

010, the arrival hall at an airport.

011, the last train compartment that's not full.

012, the roulette table in a casino.

013, on the deck of a cruise ship.

014, a kitchen during a black out, surrounded by candles.

015, a treehouse in the middle of the woods.

016, on the dance floor during a wedding.

017, behind the chapel before the wedding ceremony starts.

018, backstage during the middle of a concert.

019, a crowded club during a bachelorette party.

020, standing in front of a painting at a museum.

021, a small, intimate family barbecue.

022, a gazebo while it's raining.

023, the back of an empty bus.

024, a hotel room with only one bed.

025, an empty balcony while a party goes on inside.

026, a bar just after closing.

027, an empty sports stadium.

028, lakeside while the sun is setting.

030, an empty stretch of road beside a broken down car.

031, in front of a suspicious pool of blood in an empty parking lot.

032, in the crowd of spectators during an underground fight.

033, a plane during a bout of turbulence.

034, on kiss cam at a sports game.

035, at a table during a charity gala.

036, a masquerade ball.

037, a halloween party in a suburban house.

038, the beach in the late afternoon.

039, a dressing room after a big performance.

040, exploring the depths of a mysterious cave.

[eyeshone]

JOEY HELLBERG: POKÉMON TEAM.

not making an au or anything. purely for fun. he wouldn’t be a gym boss. he’s a grunt who works for team rocket. the kind you run into while playing a pokémon game and are forced to battle and their lineup is mostly basic so you smoke them easily. haunter because he’s a lil freaky. female eevee because she represents his childhood self. shiny sylveon because he’s a trans man. jigglypuff because it uses its mimic-ish singing ability for mischief and because it’s the first main evolution stage and represents how joey’s not fully harnessed the potential of his sound ability. gurdurr because it’s a muscle-y show off and a second of three evolutions (showing he is strong and capable but has more combat to master). darumaka because it’s the closest one in appearance and essence to elmo.

tagged by: yoinked from @lifeforms tagging: whoever wants to catch ‘em all

[eyeshone]

They rise together, two perfectly pair-of-Ls lines—yeah, that’s a geometry term. Yeah, he never got his GED. What’s the point (really, what is it, he doesn’t know what a geometric point is either)?

Joey’s eyelids tuck down to appraise Adrian’s torso—as salaciously tangible as folding a Hamilton into a stripper’s waistband. Respect. Except—fuck! no!—no he doesn’t. Overcompensating opposite: Joey jabs Adrian’s navel with his index finger.

“Prove it.”

Joey slaps the hand that slapped his hand like a catty game of pat-a-cake.

He can’t lose gay chicken, but he’s tired of spit misting his face. His ankle hooks around Adrian’s calf and yanks, toppling Adrian backwards. Joey lunges and catches him in a tango dip before he hits the ground; he fantasizes about dropping him but doesn’t. His sturdy arm cradles the drawn arc of Adrian’s spine. Jaunty retort puppeteered from above: “We were in disguise. No costumes.” Man, is Adrian heavy; Joey’s supporting his entire weight. “You shouldn’t skip core days.”

[eyeshone]

hi! been having a lot of fun here lately & i would love to expand my circle a bit (i'm sure i've also lost track of some of my beloved former oomfs) soooo

i'm opening this blog up to any new follows for the next twenty-four hours

if you want to write let me know! again this is a very sporadic, low-key, low-effort blog focused mostly on dialogue heavy short threads. if that sounds up your alley i'm around <3

[eyeshone]

Joey slaps the hand that slapped his hand like a catty game of pat-a-cake.

He can’t lose gay chicken, but he’s tired of spit misting his face. His ankle hooks around Adrian’s calf and yanks, toppling Adrian backwards. Joey lunges and catches him in a tango dip before he hits the ground; he fantasizes about dropping him but doesn’t. His sturdy arm cradles the drawn arc of Adrian’s spine. Jaunty retort puppeteered from above: “We were in disguise. No costumes.” Man, is Adrian heavy; Joey’s supporting his entire weight. “You shouldn’t skip core days.”

Every arm wrestling match has a slanted precipice when you know you’ll win—at a certain point, gravity is tag teaming for you. Joey’s almost there.

Adrian’s spittle putters Joey’s face. He lets it. Just as mouthy: “He doesn’t need a helmet with me ‘cus he knows I’d take a floggin’ for his noggin.” Adrian’s glasses shield most of his face. Fogged by Joey’s breath. Joey’s index finger coochie-coos the nubby end of his glasses’ arm, lever-wobbling the spectacles up and down the bridge of his nose. “Viagralante.”

[eyeshone]

Joey’s never closer to a Muppet than moments such as this. All he’s capable of doing—all he wants to do—is answer Kilgrave.

The command matches, perfect pitch, with Joey’s own authentic desire. Congruous instances are euphoric. Better than a full body workout pump or that time Fallon went to Smoothie King and accidentally grabbed another customer’s triple chocolate milkshake from the pick up counter instead of his usual sad, sallow protein shake and he slurped down his entire week’s worth of sugar from that one styrofoam cup.

A guy—not Joey—could get addicted to this. Passenger seat relief in his own mind. Unable to fuck up.

His eyes are wide, near manic.

“You’re helpin’ me with my power. I wanna return the favor.”

Dmitri, his voice—very, very literally in Joey’s head—sometimes tinges Joey’s thoughts. Makes him think things like Can Kilgrave transfer who has to be listened to over to someone else? or You’re too open or Good boy, Joey—heeeey, that’s a bedroom one. Pay attention: no—fuck!—that’s another Dmitri line. Joey’s sweating. He licks his cupid’s bow dry. He’s kept Dmitri out of all of this for this exact reason. A dog with two masters, who does it listen to when both come calling?

Joey shakes his head, curt and jerky, to clear his thoughts. Then keeps shaking it, dogged: no. “You’re not weak, Lord.” What is this, the renaissance? If Kilgrave listens closely, he can hear Joey’s mind twisting and turning like a Rubik’s cube—increasingly less solved with each fumble: “Sith Lord. Sith? Vader? Sir.” Nothing is landing today. Give him a voice and tell him what to blabber. He’s literally incapable of messing those demands up—it can feel good, really good, that is, when it doesn’t feel humiliating. He has to try. “You got it all wrong. Finding your limit is a strength. Everyone has their one rep max. Nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

“Don’t you wanna know yours?”

“C’mon.” He taps his own chest with his palm. “Tell me not to lie. Same answer.”

Probably.

[eyeshone]

Every arm wrestling match has a slanted precipice when you know you’ll win—at a certain point, gravity is tag teaming for you. Joey’s almost there.

Adrian’s spittle putters Joey’s face. He lets it. Just as mouthy: “He doesn’t need a helmet with me ‘cus he knows I’d take a floggin’ for his noggin.” Adrian’s glasses shield most of his face. Fogged by Joey’s breath. Joey’s index finger coochie-coos the nubby end of his glasses’ arm, lever-wobbling the spectacles up and down the bridge of his nose. “Viagralante.”

Joey feels like a steaming tea kettle. Looks like one, too, but defective: arms like two handles, no spout, all that whistling hot stuck and bubbling within him. His face is reddening. The first marker of a wereelmo transformation.

Dmitri’s work is dedicated to this city. It’s the whole point. Why is he leaving—and without Joey?

His eyelashes bird-beak-dip down to Adrian’s waist where his guns and shit would be stashed. Nothing. He could knock Adrian out. Take his suit. Put it on. No. Capital BO doesn’t do the stink justice. He’d go to the laundromat first.

Said as though it’s a gotcha and not a self burn, leaning into Adrian’s space, face to face, head bobbling, Elmo voice-crack like a third (yes, third) puberty: “The mailperson skips my apartment! My mailbox gave her tetanus.”

[eyeshone]

"danny devito. i love that guy." house to dr. barks

Her face crumples like a used tissue, disgusted at the thought. “Men can’t love or be loved.”