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[princetorn]

Murmur, Cameron Barnett

[princetorn]

Rebel Without a Cause (1955) dir. Nicholas Ray

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Marilyn Monroe had nothing on this girl, leaning against the gleaming flank of her Porsche with perfect poise, not a golden hair out of place. As with any celebrity – even one limited to a backwater township like this – Sawyer’s reputation preceded her. Royce knew the names of at least three boys who claimed to have slipped her their fingers, if their jockish locker room banter was to be believed. She was a sweetheart by all accounts, just one quick to push her panties to the side.

No wonder the boys of their school hounded her, like beagle dogs following the scent of a vixen. Sawyer was old money beautiful, old money elegant, old money wealthy – perhaps that peculiar breed of old money lonely too, despite the attention that was showered on her. Many looked at the cheerleader and called her a conquest.

“Thank ya kindly, Miss Sawyer.”

Royce clutched a chamois cloth in hand, his Little Sweetheart parked behind him, at the tail end of her valeting. He wished he was more polished, better able to match Sawyer’s silver screen shine. Instead, he wore sparkling soap suds on the rims of his engineer boots, his white vest damp with sweat and hose spray, the translucent material sticking to his skin.

“But if you’ll pardon my saying so, your wheels are nicer than mine.”

He looked past her then, to a car he might say was the one of his dreams – one synonymous with darling James Dean. One day, when he was finally signed and had the taste of stardom champagne-sweet on his tongue, he would buy a sports car like that. That glittering future was coming, he was sure of it.

Having been caught off-guard, distracted first by the appearance of the ineffable Sawyer and then by her ride, it took longer than it should have for him to process her words. The moment penny dropped, the cheerleader held the reins of Royce’s attention. He strode closer, gliding a hand over his styled hair as he went, making sure it was still swept back from his face. With that, he was ready to get into the business of making wishes come true.

“I’m tellin’ you, if you were my girl, I’d never take my eyes off you. You’re a cherry, Miss Sawyer.”

@princetorn ＨＩＴ  ＴＨＥ  ＨＥＡＲＴ  ＦＯＲ  Ａ  ＳＴＡＲＴＥＲ．

❝  that's  a  nice  car  you  got  there.  ❞

cliche?  perhaps.  but  sawyer  could  tell  the  ride  before  her  was  royce's  pride  and  joy.  leaning  against  her  own  porshe  spyder,  arms  folded  across  her  chest  with  blonde  hair  seemingly  perfectly  quaffed,  she  tilts  her  head  as  her  brows  lift,  ❝  sure'd  be  nice  to  have  a  man  pay  attention  to  me  like  that.  ❞

[princetorn]

♡ ♡ ♡

[princetorn]

Never had the night seemed so short – a handful of hours, and a celebration that must be shared with the other spooks. While Wesley turned over the sketchbook, a case of artist grade pencils clutched in his other fist, Royce felt the time trickling away from them, this moment alone already in its death throes. It compelled him to seize his chance , while Wes was distracted, when he wasn’t being pulled into the dark well of those soulful eyes.

“Hey, so, I wanted to ask…” Royce teetered on the edge of what would have been unspeakable in life. He would have been beaten for this, he would have been made to swallow his own teeth by those he called friends. Now, on the other side of the veil, he found himself emboldened by what he had learned from those who had lived and died in more open-hearted times. “Would ya like to go on a date sometime?”

As if he hadn’t already thought about it. As if he hadn’t earmarked the melamine table they would sit at. As if he hadn’t sussed from Violetta – subtly, he thought – if she would be able to source him sweetcorn fritters served with heaps of fries and tall glasses of iced tea. He and Wesley had talked about the food they craved, from their respective times and places, and he made sure to remember what his quiet, midwestern companion missed most. It wouldn’t be the same as taking Wesley to an actual diner, commandeering the jukebox until it was time for a drive-in movie, but he would do the best with what they had within the perimeter of the park.

“You don’t have to decide right now. Just… think about it, okay?”

The small handful of seconds seemed to stretch, and Royce panicked inwardly, a rising siren that said he was spoiling the friendship they had, that he had outed himself for nothing. Worse, that he might have just tarnished what was supposed to be a day of celebration – bittersweet thought it might be. With uncharacteristic nerves, he scuffed a hand along the back of his head, then gestured vaguely at the gift in Wesley’s hands.

“Happy birthday, bud. I can’t wait to see what ya do with it.”

Wesley's birthday had never really meant all that much to him in life. He hadn't celebrated since he was a child, but even then, the festivities had been minimal — a slice of cake bought from the grocery store at the last minute, wax dripping from a candle that had been reused a few times already, fading blue half-burned and doomed to collect dust in the cabinet. All of it swept away before his dad could get home, and all of it abandoned by the time he reached eighth grade. Sometimes, if he was lucky, Jacob would remember to make him a card out of scratch paper; most of the time, though, the day passed quietly by like any other. What was the point in trying to change any of that after he was already gone?

Bright strands of confetti strike a sharp contrast to Wesley's characteristic blank expression, dangling in ribbons from short-cropped hair and the newly-painted fabric of his old t-shirt. They hadn't been fired from tiny plastic cannons or dumped on him from above, but instead placed gently on his shoulders and thrown over his head in eager fistfuls by the other ghosts in the park; it was probably the most thoughtful, kind thing that anyone had ever done for him.

At least, it was until Royce pulled him aside to give him his presents.

Wesley can't help but stare at the sketchbook in his hands, holding in shaky breaths and clutching the tin of pencils like his afterlife depends on it. He barely even remembers mentioning the fact that he used to draw — but Royce had listened, and he'd cared enough to ask their living friends for the supplies Wesley lacked. Nice ones, too, or at least more expensive than the little notebooks and number 2 pencils he used to buy for himself. What do you even say to a gift like that? Every heartfelt 'thank you' he can think of pales in comparison to such a meaningful gesture.

He's still trying to figure it out when Royce speaks up again, breaking the loaded stretch of silence with a question that sets Wesley's head to spinning. Wide eyes finally tear themselves away from the precious gifts to stare dumbly back at the man in front of him because surely, Wesley must've misheard something. There's no way a guy like Royce would waste his time on a nobody like him; even stuck in a haunted park with the same twenty people for eternity, he could do a lot better than Wes. It was surprising enough that he wanted to be friends, let alone anything more.

But in those few moments where Wesley tries to wrap his head around what's happening, he sees Royce starting to get nervous — nervous, like the answer really means something to him, enough to unsettle the cool he wears as second skin — and it would just be cruel to make him wait any longer, to let him brush it all off and second-guess things like Wesley hasn't been quietly pining for longer than he knew how to recognize the feeling.

"Hang on a second, now," he blurts, trying to swallow the nervous flutter in his belly, telling himself not to hope too much. After everything else that's happened tonight, asking for one more good thing might be getting greedy. "D'you mean that? You really wanna go on a date... with me?" He's never been on a date before. Definitely not with someone so out of his league.

"I don't have to think about it. Of course I wanna. If you're serious, anyway."

[princetorn]

roycecore

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❛ i want you to fuck me so badly. ❜

Girls didn’t speak like that, not where he had come from. Back there – back then – they had plucked demurely at the hems of knee-length skirts, keeping them pulled down, told him no even as they leaned into his touch. It was important that they seemed chaste in the retelling, lest they be branded hussies. Good girls, Royce would say, but Persephone was a good girl too – she just happened to have a mouth like a pistol. It thrilled him, her words running through him like a bullet.

An exhale seemed to thrum in his throat, though he had no breath. Beneath the cage of his arms she lay, nestled naked on the rumpled bed sheet, blankets peeled back and spewing onto the floor. Soft and full-figured, all parted lips, pillowy breasts and rounded hips. Perfect, perfect, perfect. For her, Royce manifested fiercely, pushing outward, bearing down, making a conscious and constant effort to be solid, to have a form she could touch and kiss and hold.

With grave-cold hands he explored her, distantly aware of the poke of a nipple against his palm as he licked the inside of her teeth, his skeletal fingers sinking into her flesh like blunt knife tips. He was a horror show, but still Persephone kissed his mouth, still she held his half-flayed face in her hands and wanted him. Royce wanted her too, wanted to give as much as his hellish half-existence would allow.

“You want me to fuck you?”

The question was asked with jockish confidence, despite the vulgarity lying foreign and strange on his tongue. Drawing away – as though he intended to deny her – he widened his kneeling stance, deliberately nudging alabaster thighs further apart. Sitting back on his heels, Royce then feasted on the sight of Persephone unabashed, devouring her with his haemorrhaged gaze. He liked her like this, spread open, wide-eyed and wanton. Lips dressed in a wicked smirk, he captured one of her hands, leading it to the bulging pitch beneath the fly-shield of his jeans, coaxing her into rubbing his cock through the denim that suffocated and strangled. Whether he was hard because he willed it, or because ghosts were not immune to arousal, he could not say – only that it did not matter, not when the desire was as real as the heart that pulsed and squeezed in her pretty chest. If he wasn’t already dead, this girl might have been the death of him.

From his shoulders he shrugged his tattered letterman jacket. It fell soundless onto the bed, rapidly melting away into the shadows, as though it had never existed. Beneath it, a white t-shirt soaked in blood, half hanging off his frame in ribbons, a ruin of road-rash flesh and exposed ribs peeking through the rips and tears. It swiftly went the way of the jacket, stripped away and swallowed by the preternatural dark. Persephone watched him, he could see the catch of distant moonlight glinting in her eyes. Still she ground the heel of her hand against him, where he ached with need. It was enough to make the hot-rodder feel that he was built of flesh and blood and bone once more.

“Say please.”

[princetorn]

"And you've got your demons and darling, they all look like me."

[princetorn]

SIMPLE SHIPPING MEME!!

Send 👌 if you would like to explore a PLATONIC relationship between our muses!

Send 😎 if you would like to explore a FAMILIAL relationship between our muses!

Send ❤️ if you would like to explore a ROMANTIC relationship between our muses!

Send 💋 if you would like to explore a SEXUAL relationship between our muses!

Send 💥 if you would like to explore a ANTAGONISTIC relationship between our muses!

Send ❓ for a different dynamic - and tell me more about it!

[princetorn]

why are you as a man wearing a suit? so other men can pull on your tie to bring you in for a kiss? so you can take off your jacket and loosen your tie and unbutton your shirt like a whore? so the process of undressing is an intricate ritual for you and other men to undergo? gayass.

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Royce was raised to have a strong work ethic, taking on casual and part-time jobs outside of school – though never anything too intense, and never anything that might detract from his chances of baseball stardom. As a kid, he had a paper round, while in his mid-teens he endured a brief stint as a carhop before moving on to occasionally helping out at his father’s dental practice. In the last few years of his short life, he assisted with the Little League and did some off-the-books mechanic work, mostly for the friends of his parents or the parents of his friends. In his final summer, he worked at a car wash.

[princetorn]

Ama Codjoe, from Bluest Nude: Poems; “Bluest Nude”

[Text ID: “I crave. I want to be seen clearly or not at all.”]

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I knew the first moment I saw him that it was going to be raw, it was going to be ugly, and I was going to enjoy every damn minute of it.

She stands with her arms crossed tightly. It's some crossbreed between protecting her organs and hugging herself. Comfort and security, that was all she ever asked for. Wasn't it? Someone to keep her safe. Someone to be kind to her. And in exchange she would have loved and loved and loved until her heart gave out. Miriam did not think it was too much to ask, or an unfair bargain. Yes, she thought she'd be loved in return, but that was what Royce once promised her.

Now she is staring at him, at his handsome profile, as he sits on their couch and doesn't look at her. He snarls and snaps, as if each confessed word were burning on his tongue. She hopes it does. She hopes he chokes. Miriam stares at him, her husband. Her beautiful, successful husband who once promised her diamonds and pearls over a milkshake. The locket he gave her for her eighteenth birthday burns coldly against her collarbone. In that heart-shaped locket they are still safe, shiny and young and dumb. It was already rotten then, but in the picture they're smiling.

She doesn't think she'll ever smile again.

He says it with such vitriol, as if to hurt her. It was him, it was always him. That's what Royce is saying. It was him before Miriam even existed in Royce's world, before he bothered to look at her. He asked her out on a dare, she remembers. Someone wanted to see if he could crack the preacher's daughter, get her on her knees. Turned out he could. Bile rises in her throat as she thinks that she should have broken up with him then, gotten out while she could. Now she was married and trapped and he enjoyed every damn minute.

Miriam thought her heart couldn't be more broken but amid all his begging and apologies, he managed to find that last screw to tighten. Stuck somewhere between a wounded animal screaming and choking fury, her gaze grows so cold she gets freezer burn.

A hundred different impulses shoot through her head and electrocute her synapses. Slap, punch, hit, claw. Violence. Raw and simple. Forward. It shocks her how quickly the desire arrives, how unbidden. She's not like that, is she? Never. But this is a time of many new discoveries. The tendons in her hand poke through her skin like piano wire. She twists the locket around her neck, feeling for the give. She could yank it off and break it. She could throw it at him. It frightens her, this sudden, primal desire for a weapon. Her teeth chatter; an embarrassing symptom of her rage. They've always done that when she's worked up. Like her nerves are trembling all over. She rattles like a pot about to boil over.

Finally she scrapes her voice out of the well of her throat and she can barely recognize it for the shaking anger that fills her mouth like lead: "Oh, don't you worry, Royce. It'll stay ugly." She whispers to him, her voice a reptile hiss as she bends over the couch to get closer to him. She'd crawl into his chest and eat his heart if she could. Like a fucking peach.

She hates how her eyes well up, how they hurt and burn with tears. She can barely breathe. "You'll never enjoy anything ever again. You hear me? Never. I will never let you forget what you did to us. What you did to me. I hope he was worth it, darling. I really, truly hope he made you happy. Because now it's my turn." Her heart splinters and cracks, horrified at her words. Tears drip on the cushions as she trembles, as she stares at his gorgeous face. She loves him, she loves him, she loves him. How can she say this? How could he say that?!

"Move your things out of the bedroom. Now."

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SPLENDOR IN THE GRASS (1961) “We took them to lunch at a place on East Fifty-eighth street, and my dear, we shouldn’t have been there. They were entwined, lots of hugs and kisses. The restaurant was rather crowded. But that didn’t deter the lovers. They went at it all through lunch. I loved it!” - Eleanor Kilgallen