somewhereinkissland

[somewhereinkissland]

BOTH OF HIS BLOODIED PALMS cradle your cheeks. you have no control over how your head lowers weakly against his efforts to lift it back up.

his hands are warm and slippery. you’ve never felt this type of warmth before. it’s comforting, but it shouldn’t be.

he had first cradled your body from behind, after you found yourself heaving as you inched yourself backward against an ottoman in the living room

he soothed your startled reaction with the familiar reassurance of his voice

and you gripped his forearm as you sobbed into it, shivering, “where were you?”

you had just witnessed your friends picked off one by one, yet you never saw josh

you see him now though, and everything makes sense

when you finally came down from your tears, and the blurriness dissipated, you knew you recognized that color

the crimson on his hands as he pulled his arm back from around you, to turn you around

and briefly you spotted it trailing under his flannel. a different one from when you first arrived, too.

he turned you around. and a slither of moonshine glistened on the mask discarded upon the surface behind him. you shivered.

and with the absence of tears you watched your fingers quietly roll up his sleeves, all-knowing.

and he knew too, that you knew. all this time. maybe that’s why he didn’t even bother to scrub the evidence because,

“you wouldn’t have stopped me,”

he says, as he holds your face in his hands. and you bite your quivering lip with all the sadness in your sweet wilting face

and you shake your head lulling forward, falling and falling into the void

your head falls into his chest, and he holds you there with his face buried into your hair

palms and nails and skin evident of what he’s done

eyes blown and distant you just couldn’t bare to face any longer

and the lump in your throat nestles a permanent spot, as the night replays over and over in your mind

the room vibrates with a grim ghostly feeling, dawn is to rise soon.

“don’t be mad at me, please.” you can hear the sincere pout in his soft words

“i’m sorry,” he begins to whisper over, and over.

uh huh yes this is like if he seriously just went batshit crazy with a fat vendetta and genuinely murked everyone…right

listening to crazy sexy by the weeknd and it channeled in me the urge to spit out whatever this is…don’t let the name of the song fool you LMFAO it’s the instrumental

[somewhereinkissland]

“IT’S FILTHY, DISGUSTING, SO UGLY, I’M SURE

I'm ugly, disgusting, and filthy for sure”

You once questioned him on why he was so fond of the dark. He answered with something along the lines of the fact that he’s not able to see his own shadow.

Shaggy tufts of brown, nearly draped over his shoulders. The muzzle that hides the gash running from the corner of his lip along his cheek. He thinks it's so gross that it only proves worth when he emphasizes it with a sinister grin before he’s to kill. Because that’s what he is, made to kill.

But you see the beautiful grotesqueness in it all. The sound of an angel's choir, the deep harmonizing hums, is what he drags around with his hatchet and its blood. Along with his eyebags and bushy eyebrows. Along with the saliva strings and exposed bone and gums.

And it’s too what plays when he’s so rough with you, as nothing gets you higher than the taboo adrenaline.

[somewhereinkissland]

writing is fun yes but i often get upset when i realize i probably won’t ever be able to perfectly embody in writing a certain part of a songs instrumental like i do in my imagination

like the instrumental of pretty by the weeknd, 4:35 and onwards

or loft musics beautifully eerie outro

and an honorable mention: the intro to desire by meg myers

my favorite favorite thing about the weeknds music is how cinematic his instrumentals are

[somewhereinkissland]

🪩 🗡️࿐࿔༻⊰ eighteen, black, she/her, lover of fictional characters, cringe & free, x reader warrior

⊰ i love sharing random spur of the moment writing here ( ᐛ )و stuff w multiple chapters (rare) i post on my ao3. mayhaps one day i’ll form a masterlist on here...gulp

⊰ occasionally i’ll get an itch and write and post about a character from one of the millions of fandoms im in

[somewhereinkissland]

THINKING ABOUT…being either of the brothers equally as insane housewife(?), yet more levelheaded than the two of them combined. no matter who you’re with they’re both obsessed with you. the brooding william in his own stern way or the giddy jackson, evident in his constant thanking of the lord for your presence

william and his prominent biceps on display due to his cut crimson flannel, the edges on his shoulders frayed. deep blue and black jeans is all he ever wears with his boots that’ve been holding up for who knows how long. black strands frame his olive skin and the spread freckles and marks on his face. from his forehead constantly putting pressure on his furrowed brows, to his sharp jaw.

jackson and his semi-greasy black locks, always in a middle part. his fully sleeved flannels with jeans or overalls, and his boots. similar in appearance to his brother. except with less stress visible in his eager expression, and the southern twang in his voice. eager to kill, to tease, to taunt. his twisted playful tone must be what makes his shadowy figure all the more terrifying to unlucky pig chow!

you remember him once asking, actually. crouched at eye level with a quivering guest under red lighting in the makeshift procedure room, and the rotting scent of everything macabre,

“who’s the scariest? be honest now!”

when someone lost shows up on the door step, you play all smiles. welcoming them into your shared home…buttering them up before giving them up to william and jackson

sometimes you’ll even play along until the last second, playing unfamiliarity and fear towards the brothers, running away with the fresh meat, not letting them get too far of course!

you don’t flinch when he cleaves his hatchet into the creaking wall just beside your head, before kissing you. his hatchet with your creative carvings in its handle.

each calloused finger moving slow with just the right amount of pressure on your burning cheeks. or it’s his fingers that burn, you don’t know. maybe you’re both on fire. the crazed, pleasured look constantly lit in the hearths of both of your eyes

footsteps thick on creaking wood. his brother approaches and monotonously tells you two to quit it, and to help assess the latest victim.

one thing the brothers have taken a great liking to is how you play so well at being such an innocent sweet talker. when underneath that act, retorts and solutions are always quick on your tongue. scarily methodical and domineering you can be, whether or not an axe is steady in your grip.

easing in stressed and stranded travelers. effortlessly soothing their anxiety. definitely a perk of being a woman in the mostly deserted area. less and less visitors would choose to stay when it was the brusque william answering the door, or jackson whose overly kind manner seemed eerie to hesitant outsiders.

“one hell of a woman.” william has muttered under his breath.

[somewhereinkissland]

nobody has been there for me like the ‘x reader’ tag has been there for me

[somewhereinkissland]

︎THE WIND USHERS BY softly with a gentle whistle, and the trees lie at peace under the sun which nurtures the leaves as they sway. Glistening is the water in the lake below, pierced by the sun, showcasing a glittering effect. Flowers and plants of all kinds, such as petunias and bundles of velvet celosias that if one looks at for too long, may begin to make the skin crawl, sit beautifully.

Body soft as she runs fingers along the skin exposed from the various sheer cloths that make her lover’s dripping dress, from where she lay on the furry skin atop the edge of the marble balcony overlooking the green field. Vines crawl up the not-too-tall walls, ready to be snipped to once again prevent them from blocking the lancet windows. Where her woman sits upright is not far as it’d be much to her dismay, of course.

With her arm that hangs off of the ledge, she raises it to bite into a bright red apple, then looks over to her, and offers up to her a bite. When she speaks, with words soft from her plump lips like a sweet myrrh, and as mellifluous as those of a lever harp’s strings. 

She bites into the apple a little over from hers, bites overlapping a little. Juicy would act as an understatement. Sweet juice trickles from her bottom lip onto her chin, before she can clean it herself, her lover rises with grace. With supple fingers she transfers the drop onto her index, and smiles before placing the point of it in her mouth with a hum.

Entangled on the balcony, one of her arms rests bent over her head, the other closeby as she lay sprawled, one leg atop the other. Faintly does someone hum over the romantic playing of a lyre. The smell of the outdoors and coconut lingers in the warm air.

Doves coo faintly as well…somewhere in the trees they flutter, under the azure painted skies, and over the lovers.

[somewhereinkissland]

LIKE ONE SIMPLY DESIRES tea in a particular moment, or to act on wanderlust, yours came at you barreling, like a train.

Desire can have a dark saccharine, serpent-like quality to it, rather than the basic want for tea. When you say it, there’s something so satisfying about it on your tongue, and humanly erotic in subtext. Romantic desire, specifically. It can be suffocating, twisting, and primal. Made apparent in oneself when elicited by one’s conscious soul. The all-consuming feeling, gnaws bit by bit.

Consumes your heart, your mind, body, and soul. It can be fascinating and natural, like the tearing of meat by the primal desire of a brute predator—or beautifully rugged and erratic like rapid guitar chords on the teasing peak of a building crescendo.

That desire is in every light breath and sigh you exhale when she’s around you. Engulfing you desperately—feeling you. Feeling all the ways you too, want her, and it’s like the crashing of beastly waves against rocks. The aforementioned crescendo finally reaching its peak.

The breathy twirls of air that leave your lips—the soft exhales drawn as they connect with those belonging to the object of your transcendental desire. Transcendental even of all five of Maslow’s, hedonistic in nature. You remember the panging feeling of your beastly beating heart as it plummeted when she first kissed you.

And she’s so smart, she knows you. She knows how to feel you, and it’s second nature to do so. She knows how you want her, and how she wants you. And she was exuberant enough to act on it first. No, this covet isn’t one-sided.

The gritting of teeth and biting of the plump flesh on your lips, and she breathed into your mouth and soul, as you skinned her with your hungry tongue.

When she held you in her hands and softly turned you over on top of her, the waves overtook the stones, and the predator licked its lips satisfyingly clean of the prey. Bodies enveloped by one another, you nipped at her skin, from her satiated lips to shoulder blades.

Both equally hungry, and desperate to combine—desperate to latch onto each other eternally. Like something of the chivalrous naked Greeks or Romans, admiring of the true human body—yours. She would hoist your body into a sculpture for everlasting remembrance and admiration. Everlasting like her utmost devotion, and over all shared transcendental desire for you.

Unspoken in between the two of you, but so obvious in the clawing of your fingernails in her tousled hair. Tacit is the sempiternal desire to ascend together, bare and entangled. Always tacit in the gaze shared upon each other. Either when half-lidden with lust or light with innocent doting.

Desire, when you’re in her arms. Desire, when you’re underneath her. An incessant feeling that’ll never cease the visceral fluttering inside the both of you.

No recollection of the life you led before your consumption by desire. You believe what’s shared between you two is something more—something newfound and even better, than lust, trust, and love.

[somewhereinkissland]

maybe this is just me idk

[somewhereinkissland]

“me time” and it’s just lay in bed reading fanfiction for hours