#princetorn

[bloodykneestm]

@princetorn liked this for a starter!

she lurks in the shadows, unseen and unheard, watching as the young man wanders the house, feeling anxiety, fear and rage bubbling inside her as she notes that he seems confused by his surroundings. ( an intruder in her house and he didn't even realize he was trespassing, putting his life on the line — poor fool. ) she should kill him now or someone else in the house would certainly get to him first. and well, he's her type... ( he's probably even more popular than ellis was, even more cocky. )

she lies in wait only a short while before she gets bored, appearing with no ceremony or flourish before him in all the abruptness and brevity of a heavy blink. "you're not supposed to be here."

#princetorn #eden. #ooowooee

[spiritdreamt]

❛ we could have been beautiful together. ❜ @princetorn

something sharp slips under her ribs, pierces her lung, steals her breath. she wants to believe in it, this fantasy he's imagined, but she can't. she's too self-aware, too... maybe jaded isn't the right word, but it's close.

"i don't know," she confesses quietly. "if things were any different, i don't..." it feels awful to even say it—feels like she's doubting him, but she's not. she doesn't doubt him the way they are now. how could she? "i'm not the kind of girl who ends up with a boy like you." she's the kind of girl who fades into the background—unless she's on stage, which doesn't actually help her case any. she's not cool, is her point. "i wouldn't have stood a chance, royce. you and your friends would've thought i was weird, and a nerd. and if you'd ever tried to ask me out, i would've assumed it was a joke."

it's not to say that she doesn't wish they could be normal; of course she does. but she doesn't think there's a world where she is normal. even if royce was alive, she'd still be exactly as she is now: a strange, haunted girl. she swallows hard. "but... i don't think there's anything stopping us from being beautiful together now."

#princetorn #ic. #answered. #dyn ; in your arms i am a wild creature (royce clayton).

[inpiink]

[edge] - to edge my muse/deny them orgasm @princetorn

too often, percy gets caught up in her own mind during these moments: am i pretty enough? am i being too quiet? too loud? it happens less with royce—she knows down to her soul that he wants her, wants her just as badly as she wants him, a wanting that should and nearly does frighten her with its intensity. but less isn't never, and it's been a bad week in a bad year and even kissing him until her lips were bruised hadn't been able to silence the little voice saying you aren't pretty enough, you aren't pleasant enough, you aren't easy enough to be around.

so she'd asked can you make me stop thinking? can you help me forget?

maybe it's not healthy. she'd certainly felt guilty enough earlier, a small intrusive thought that she was using him.

but she doesn't feel guilty now. it's hard to like this. bare beneath him, stripped of her clothes and her shyness and her pretense, her skin littered with the marks she begged him to leave, she feels nothing but desperate desire. his fingers are inside her, his thumb on her clit, each movement stoking her higher and higher, pulling wordless sighs and whines and soft little ah, ah, ah's from her throat. she's clinging to him and royce is looking at her like he wants to eat her whole and all she can do is stare back, luminous green eyes taking in every inch of him. handsome and horrifying. her macabre prince. she's never needed anybody this badly.

his fingers press just right and her cunt clenches hard around the digits. lashes flutter closed, and her voice is high & breathy, chest heaving as she babbles out: "oh my god, royce, i'm gonna—i'm so close—"

he removes his hand. her orgasm slips away from her for the third time tonight, and her eyes fly open as a frustrated near-sob slips from her lips. percy writhes beneath him without really meaning to, driven by primal need, searching for nonexistent friction to bring her over the edge he left her on. but royce pins her hips to the mattress with the hand he just had inside her, and she has no choice but to still. his fingers smear her own arousal across her skin, and the sensation feels so deliciously filthy that she actually moans.

"oh my god," she repeats, voice wrecked. glassy-eyed, cheeks splotchy pink, she looks feverish and feels feral with need. she reaches down to cover his hand with her own, her fingers twitching. she could finish herself off, is so keyed up that it would hardly take anything at all, but she doesn't want to. she wants to be at his mercy. the seconds pass. the pleasure ebbs slightly. it still won't take much to work her to the edge again, but she's not about to come from a light touch anymore.

"please, i need—how many more times are you going to make me wait?" wanton curiosity colors the words; she wants to know how mean he'll get. she'll gladly take whatever he tells her to.

#princetorn #dyn ; royce. #ic. #answered.

[luminarot]

The language of their sex was strange and coded, spoken around workshop benches and in changing rooms.  Love was never mentioned, touches were brief and purposeful.  Bonds were often proximistic or loosely transactional in their foundations – who had a trailer that could be borrowed, an electric hedge trimmer, a car ramp, an extending ladder. This was what Royce understood, what he had seen play out a hundred times on the silver screen.

It was easier for him when there was no need to speak, when he was out of Wesley’s line of sight.  Hidden beneath a tent of flannel fabric, Royce mantled his companion’s supine form, kissing that expanse of skin, feeling the way his belly tightened at the touch of lips.  No womanly swells here, no narrow slip of a waist blooming into rounded hips.  Wesley was straight lines and sinew – and he was beautiful.

Royce knew this without seeing, dimensions mapped by his mouth and trailing, exploratory fingertips.  Eyes closed, hidden though he was. As if self-imposed dark would save him from the sin he imagined must have damned him.  Being blinkered did not mean he was not curious, that he did not wonder what expression Wes wore on his face. Somewhere beyond his closed lids, somewhere on the other side of that flannel divide.  

It wasn’t until he felt the warm callus of careful fingers dipping beneath his t-shirt, pressing encouragement into his shoulders, that Royce dared to look.  He found himself in a safe and holy place, drenched in the resinous scent of cedar and fresh sweat.  Death had robbed them of the amber touch of sunlight, and so the illumination filtered through to him was artificial and flickering. His next thought was of peeling away their shirts so they could lie belly to belly, to work on each other’s mouths in the way dogs nursed wounds – all tongues and teeth.

Except –

His focus narrowed on what he first mistook to be the mottling of early decay, the pooling of newly stagnant blood.  A reminder that they were both dead and buried, their mould-eaten bones half a world apart.  Tracing the edges of the splotches, Royce began to understand their shape and significance.  Bruising in violent shades, in multiple places, each mapping the strike of a boot.

Royce sat up suddenly, sliding out from under Wes’ shirt.  Dark hair was ruffled, displaced from its slick-back style, the winter of his eyes etched with concern, burning in anticipation of the answer.

“Wes… what the hell happened? Who did this to you?”

The grass housing the Kamikaze's remains could hardly be called romantic, if Wesley even had a concept of such a thing — but it was a good place to be alone in the quiet, which was why he sometimes lingered there in those few dwindling hours before morning. The ride hardly saw any visitors beyond the one doomed to wake each night tangled in its clutches; at least, not until Royce started seeking him out like this. With the hot-rodder's persistence, moments of solitude had slipped to new conversations, to uncertain touches, to stolen minutes away from prying eyes. Still, none of them were ever as bold as this.

There was no need for a heart to go on beating long after it had been buried, but Wesley felt the worn muscle tripping over itself to meet each curious touch, surging new life against his ribs like the time was never lost to earthly decay. The rest of him burned sweetly, too, under Royce's attention: breath stuttering with each kiss pressed to hidden skin, intimate and vulnerable, his cheeks flushed hot with a blush that would never again see the light of day. Royce's wandering hands spoke reverence to a body so long neglected and abused that it nearly trembled, if Wesley would allow himself the impulse. He had not known that touch could be like this.

It made him ache, staring unseen at the shroud of faded flannel and longing to reach for the man beneath it. His hands twitched in the grass, uncertainty at war with foreign want, hesitating for an agonizing beat until a kiss gave him the courage to cross that boundary; even still, he was cautious in his movements, fingers slipping just beyond Royce's collar to press at the muscle beneath.

He wanted to pull Royce closer. He wanted to hold and be held, but he was too afraid of doing something wrong, terrified of ruining it, that maybe his gentle touch would give way to more bruises. What he should have been worried about was hiding the ones he already had; instead, he let himself get caught up in the moment, hoping it'd be too dark to see anything ugly under his clothes.

What a stupid thing to think.

The moment those wandering touches began to focus, Wesley let Royce go, already anticipating what was about to happen; feather-light caress reduced to nothing in a matter of moments, affection perverted to the disgust he'd probably deserved all along. He felt a chill creep into the space left behind, turning everything Royce had touched to unfeeling ice — except for the angry marks on ribs, which burned with the memory of his last punishment. Most of the time, they didn’t bother him anymore, but even the oldest of aches blister when held up to the light.

He had to turn away from the intensity of Royce's gaze, twisting until he had withdrawn completely. No weight left above him but the dread sitting on his chest, Wesley found himself adrift in the absence; being questioned felt like a kick in the stomach, anxiety clawing through the husk shame had made of him.

"It doesn't matter," he muttered, pressing his tongue against a rotting molar and reminding himself to breathe. Somewhere in the back of a cemetery, the rest of him was decaying, too; he hoped his skin had fallen away completely, so that some version of him existed without his father. "They’re old. It happened before I got here."

#(( the audible gasp i let out when i saw this... an entire beautiful NOVEL left For Free in my inbox!!! what the hell!! )) #(( actually going insane over this oh my God the intensity of their emotion!! the reveal!! ugh ugh my heart )) #princetorn #muse: wes. #( arc ) . . . there is no coming back.

[metalsiren]

@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.  ❞

#° 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 ; ♡ royce clayton. #° 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢 ; ✞ mid-century. #princetorn #listen i found a photo set and i am inspired

[rcjoice]

[ cum ] ― what does it take to make them come? can they come multiple times in one sitting or do they need longer breaks?

s*xual headcanons

ashton isn't hard to get off, he's just really glad someone is touching him LOL. he CAN go multiple rounds pretty easily and quickly, he'll just get off quicker and quicker until the end

@princetorn

#princetorn #{ i wish i may i wish i might } ☠➥ { asks } #{ cursed forever } ☠➥ { headcanon } #usfw

[princetorn]

PRINCETORN  ⋆ a heavily headcanon-based , highly selective & private interpretation of ROYCE CLAYTON from THIR13EN GHOSTS as summoned by Puffin .

themes ↠ the adolescent perception of invincibility , adrenaline addiction , small-town blues , dying in the first act , heteronormativity and bi-erasure in the 1950s , death of the prom king , unfulfilled potential , haunting your own story, spectral rage .

bio | lore | prompts | verses | thread tracker | inbox : 16 rules beneath the cut :

01 . Puffin. 30s. Ireland. Slow-paced writer.

02 . l only engage with folks aged 21 and over. Don’t follow unless you plan to interact.

03 . OC and crossover friendly. Multiverse and multiship.

04 . Common roleplay courtesy applies. Be kind, be patient, it’s that simple.

05 . Mun ≠ muse. I curate my own online space and I expect you to do the same.

06 . Potentially upsetting and mature themes include but are not limited to : homicide, character death, horror, gore, violence, automobile accidents, internalised homophobia.

07 . PSD, icon and textures from cavalierfou.

#⋆ pinned

[spiritdreamt]

❝ i don’t need your help, and i don’t need your pity. ❞ @princetorn

"then what do you need?" she challenges, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice. she tries to be patient, tries to be kind, but even she has her limits. she's belittled enough by others—her stepmother, at times her peers—and she won't let herself be pushed around by the dead. "what do you want? why are you here?"

#ic. #answered. #princetorn

[inpiink]

[ inner ] in a heated moment, sender trails kisses along receiver's inner thigh @princetorn

percy doesn't remember when she went from perched in his lap to laying on her back, but she's not complaining. beneath his touch, his mouth, she burns. she sighs against his cheek at the press of his fingers between her thighs, murmurs a little higher—yes, right there, just like that, thank you, thank you, angles her hips further into his hand. all too soon he's drawing away; she whines softly, helplessly, at the loss of friction, but quiets as he parts her thighs with icy hands and kisses his way down her body. as he does, she tries to imagine what she must look like through his eyes: flushed all over, lips swollen, hair an inky puddle around her head. as for royce... she props herself up on her forearms to get a better look at him.

he cuts a striking figure—death sneaking into the maiden's bower, bringing her to her doom. she should flinch away, scream in fright, or at the very least be frozen in place, a prey animal hoping that if it stays still, no harm will come to it. maybe she would have, were she normal. but she is persephone in the underworld, gorged on pomegranate, stained red with the juice of it. his ruined cheek, his hemorrhaged gaze, every inch of ragged flesh, none of it deters her. she's met plenty of boys with unspoiled features hiding monsters beneath, boys who know nothing of devotion and nothing of her.

royce presses his mouth to the flesh of her inner thigh, his eyes never leaving hers. she shivers and shifts her weight just enough to thread the fingers of her right hand through his hair. another kiss; an ache twists in her core like a knife. like this, there's no way to hide what he does to her—the evidence of her arousal glistens in the curls between her legs, and she knows he must have seen it. the thought makes her clench around nothing, a hitching breath, her grip in his hair tightening minutely.

"please," she says, her voice high and small. she wants his mouth on her; she'll gladly talk him through it, guide him with her hand that loosens its grip as she begs: "i need it. i need you."

#princetorn #ic. #answered. #dyn ; royce. #OKAY I WROTE THIS AND NOW I NEED TO GO TO BED LMAO

[spiritdreamt]

[ fingertips ] sender places light kisses to each of reciever's fingertips @princetorn

there isn't much space in her room for anything other than her bed, her dresser, and her bookshelves, so she and royce have nowhere to sit but atop her covers. percy has spent most of her youth tucked away in here, a fragile bubble of security in the face of her stepmother's tempests. safe, or as safe as she could get... but awfully, horribly lonely. in her idle musings, she's conceived of herself as a tragic figure, the princess in the tower, a girl keeping quiet for so long that her tongue forgets its speech. flights of fancy, desperate attempts to cope with both her illogical upbringing and the sharp edge of solitude.

but she's not alone anymore, not since royce slipped into her life, let her lean against him while she reads her book, take quiet comfort in his presence. he's not some knight come to save her—she stopped waiting for one long ago—but he wants her. she doesn't understand it, worries in her lowest moments that his desire for her is borne of a lack of other options (it wouldn't be the first time someone's pursued her because she was convenient). a part of her can recognize the ridiculousness of her thoughts; his appearance would frighten and repulse most people, so it hardly matters that in life he would have glanced past her as if she were a ghost. he's here now; he wants her now; he's never going to leave her. it should be something out of a horror movie, out of a nightmare—that dark, sweet promise of forever actually a curse, the poor heroine never free.

percy wants to be free, but she doesn't want to be free of him. who else could look at her, see every rotten inch of her insides, and want her still? who else could see her rage and wail like a spoiled child and not leave? he's not the monster lurking over her shoulder. no, the monster is her stepmother, hiding in plain sight, painting percy as the villain.

the slam of a cupboard downstairs makes her flinch, and she closes her book with an irritated sigh. she'll never be able to focus on the pages if janice is about to start screaming about... who knows what. did i forget to take out the trash? did i leave a dish in the sink? did i eat something i shouldn't have? she thinks the answer to each question is no, but she can't be sure. percy sighs again, leaning her head to rest against royce's shoulder. he's cold in the stifling heat of her room, but she'd seek comfort in him even if she was shivering. he's all she has.

she's thinking about his offer—the one he presented on the swingset, want me to kill her for you? in the moment she'd smiled and shrugged, unable or unwilling to voice any real answer. no would have been a lie. yes is closer to the ugly truth of percy's heart, the vindictive creature in her chest that wants janice to hurt as much as she's hurt percy. she thinks royce would do it, if she brought it up again, but she's frightened. of what, she doesn't know, but the fear is a tangible thing. in the midst of her wondering, her lips half-parted about to say remember the playground?—skeletal fingers close around her wrist.

it's a touch as gentle as a prayer. her breath catches. his fingers slide up and close around her hand, thumb pressed into her palm. dark brows furrow as she lets him guide her hand to his mouth. their eyes meet. he presses a tender kiss to the pad of her index finger, and she shivers, and her mind goes spinning, but he's not done. his lips brush against her middle finger—ring finger—pinky. each kiss is more reverent than the last. percy blinks. through the floor, she can hear janice beginning to yell, but she just slides her hand to cup his ruined cheek and turns his face towards her. she manages to grant him a chaste kiss before the tenderness overwhelms her and tears begin to slide down her cheeks.

"sorry," she whispers. her parents can't hear royce, but if she talks too loudly they'll definitely hear her—though maybe not, with janice's raging. "i just... i love you."

#princetorn #oh my god this got SO LONG oops #dyn ; pending royce tag. #ic. #answered. #i HAVE to finish their playlist so i can pick a tag for them!! screams

[inpiink]

❛  carnal .   to  [ scratch / bite ]  my  muse  during  intimacy . @princetorn

it's not that she doesn't like his tenderness—she loves it, even when it catches her off-guard or leaves her off-kilter. she loves how he treats her, like she's something precious and beautiful. but she also loves when he teases, when he flashes a wicked smile her way. she loves his sharp edges—loves them as much as his sweetness. percy's more grateful for his gentle handling of her than he'll ever be able to know, but when she's bare before him there's a part of her that aches for him to be mean. it's not something she's ever explored beyond the confines of her fantasies, but royce makes her brave. brave enough to whisper what she wants into his ear, even as her heart pounds: be a little rough with me?

she just wants to be his. and she already is, of course, but she wants to feel it. they'll never be a normal couple, never be able to be seen together, never be able to hold hands in public or go out for dinner or see a movie. royce is dead; nobody but her can see him. but percy knows well that, at least when it comes to her, the dead can make their mark. he can leave his mark, leave undeniable proof that he wants her.

hands fisted in his jacket for stability, she cranes her neck for a kiss as they stumble towards her bed. the mattress bumps against the backs of her knees, and percy reluctantly breaks away from him to sit and tug her sweater off over her head, revealing the intricate black lace of her bra. then, with a wicked smirk of her own, she reaches between them to cup him through his pants. if she's asking for it rough, she figures, she might as well push some buttons—that's the fun of it, isn't it?

"you won't break me," she murmurs, just in case he needs the reassurance. she scoots backward, giving him space to follow, and props herself up on her forearms. "at least, not in any way i won't enjoy."

when he kisses her this time, his leg pressed firmly between her thighs, she cups his face and nips playfully at his lower lip. "want you to mark me up," she says against his mouth, and then, with another wicked smile: "please?"

she bares her throat to him and gasps as he leaves burning kisses down her neck. he pauses, just long enough that she opens her mouth to beg. but before she can get a word out, he sinks his teeth into her. with her lips parted, she can't swallow the sound that he elicits: half-surprised, half-delighted. a flutter of dark lashes, a twitch of her hips, a self-satisfied grin. her fingers tangle in his hair. she hopes the mark lingers.

"feels good," she breathes, then: "you can give me more, if you want."

#princetorn #answered. #ic. #dyn ; royce. #.

[luminarot]

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 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 completely 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 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. It was surprising enough that he wanted to be friends, let alone something 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."

#(( i am Late with this sorry wes but. birthday lives on sdfds )) #princetorn #muse: wes. #( arc ) . . . there is no coming back.

[spiritdreamt]

[ soothe ] sender kisses receiver to stop them from shaking @princetorn

percy always swears she'll stick up for herself. that this time, she won't let janice throw her weight around. that she'll get angry, raise her voice, fight back, do something. but she always ends up running to her room with her tail between her legs, trying not to cry too loud. her muffled hopeless panic was awful enough when she was alone—but now that royce is around, he's an ever-present witness to the most horrid, most disgusting parts of her. she keeps waiting for him to turn away, to have enough of her drama and ignore her, but inexplicably, he doesn't.

she's a bird in a snare, or maybe a cage—her heart is certainly beating fast enough to be mistaken for the flutter of wings. or maybe she's a dog, trying to be good but failing to suppress her natural instincts, denied dinner and kicked and left in the yard. she's not human, that's for certain; a human would be clever enough or strong enough to get out of this fucking house.

maybe, she thinks wildly, knees to her chest on her bed, maybe i'm just dead. a ghost pretending to be alive, a vampire, something. it would explain the hollowness beneath her ribs, her hunger. she has no future. she'll haunt this house forever, and janice will torment her. i'll never be free. it's not a helpful thought, but it hits her like a punch to the gut. her breath leaves her entirely, a sob that she chokes off with a hand pressed to her mouth. she can't let them hear, or it'll be all you're so sensitive, you have nothing to cry over, or worse empty promises that janice will do better, if you only did what little i asked of you i wouldn't be so stressed all the time.

"fuck," she whispers. royce is sitting across from her—she doesn't know how long he's been there. she can't look at him, can't face whatever his expression might be. if he were alive, she'd ask him to take her away from here. she'd beg. but if he were alive, he wouldn't give her the time of day. she fists her hands in her hair and tugs harshly, every muscle in her body trembling. "i can't, i can't—i can't do it anymore—"

she doesn't see him move—her eyes are squeezed shut, stinging from her tears—but he must, because she feels him tug her wrists away from her head. she looks at him, eyes wide and reddened from tears, shaking and sniffling. she doesn't flinch. it's only when he leans forward that her eyes flutter closed, sighing into his mouth as he kisses her. it releases a valve somewhere within her. the tide retreats. she presses forward, cheeks still damp, to deepen the kiss.

"i'm sorry," she mumbles against his mouth. she doesn't know what she's sorry for, only that she is. "i'm sorry."

#ic. #answered. #princetorn #THIS GOT SO LONG OOPS

[luminarot]

Don’t you dare.

Royce could not say whether the thought was spoken in his own voice, or in that of his father. Either way, he paid it no heed, his hand rising from the place at his side to brush fingertips against unguarded nape. Wesley’s skin carried no discernible heat, although looked warm, long ago baked brown by the Midwestern sun. Through it, Royce traced the column of vertebrae.

Had his neck been broken when he died? Better not to ask. Better not to know – or be known. If he had sense, he would grip Wes’ scruff, pinch it in a jockish gesture that would read as platonic or fraternal. His hand did not obey the impulse, instead climbing higher, fingers nudging over his hairline, stroking shallow and uncertain through dark roots.

The careful trace of digits over Wesley's skin makes useless breath still, held hopeful in static lungs, and everything else seems to stutter to a stop right along with it. Though his muscles tense on instinct, jumping under Royce's careful touch, he doesn't move away; this, too, means something, though he'd never be able to say it aloud. He doesn't want to say anything, too afraid of ruining the moment, that it like every other good thing he's known will turn to dust.

But then Royce starts running his fingers his hair, and Wesley can't help the soft sigh that escapes, his eyes falling shut with a helpless little shiver. Immediately, he tenses up for another reason entirely; mortified, cheeks burning bright enough to ignite even the tips of his ears, he waits for condemnation. "Pretend I didn't do that," he mumbles. He can't look away from the paper now, afraid of what he might see. "Nobody's ever..."

He doesn't want to finish the sentence. He doesn't want to admit that he's starved, doesn't want to admit to the weakness, terrified to want. Even if he trusts Royce more than anyone else. "Sorry." It felt real nice.

#(( SCREAMINGGGGGGG OVER THIS!!! oh my GOD the tenderness the uncertainty.... im obsessed )) #princetorn #muse: wes. #( arc ) . . . there is no coming back. #I Only Stay Dead Til I see You Again ( ♠ Wesley + Royce / princetorn. )

[spiritdreamt]

❝ i want to know what the world sees when it looks at me. what you see. ❞ @princetorn

once, he'd said not many see me. she knows, in a strange twist of fate, exactly what that feels like. it doesn't make sense, she knows; she's alive, after all. but she's had one foot planted firmly in the grave since she saw her first ghost, and that half of her remains ever-hidden from the living. even when she tells people, it's not as though they can understand. not unless they, too, can see the dead. so yes, people can see her—some even notice her, find her interesting or clever or, inexplicably to her, pretty—but nobody sees all of her. nobody knows her. royce has gotten closer than most, just by virtue of his proximity to the dumpster fire that is her life. maybe he does know her. the idea terrifies her. she hopes desperately that it's true.

"i can't speak for the world," she says. but what does she see when she looks at him? a friend? someone who's grown on her, after their rocky beginning? others might be scared of him. she's not; she wasn't even at the start. surprised when he appeared, sure. uncertain of him—his motives, his personality—definitely. but afraid? never. percy's afraid of a lot of things, but only very rarely are the dead counted among them. she sits on her bed and tucks her legs beneath herself, brow furrowed in concentration. a poet she may be, but she's far more articulate on paper than she is in person. he'll just have to forgive her if she stumbles or puts her foot in her mouth.

"you're..." percy bites her lip, tries to find the words. she likes him, in both the simple way any girl likes any boy & her own incredibly convoluted, insecurity-ridden way. "i see you," she says finally. "you're just a boy. that's what i see. you're... you're the only person who knows what it's like, here. what my life is like. and you haven't left." god knows why he hasn't, but she's not going to complain. she doesn't want him to go. "so i guess i also see a—a friend. somebody i care about." it sounds lame, she thinks. but the thought of trying to say anything more makes her face go hot; she sniffs and looks down at her sweatpants, picks at a loose thread. "sorry if that's not what you wanted to hear."

#princetorn #ic. #answered. #dyn ; pending royce.

[inpiink]

❛  that's it, darlin’, keep going just like that.  ❜ @princetorn

her breath comes in quick little pants, lips parted and brow furrowed as if in deep thought. in reality, though, it's the least self-conscious she's ever been. for once, she's not overthinking and agonizing; for once, she just is. in the past, she's fucked people who didn't care about her, boys from parties who call her babe, if they call her anything at all. she'd known it wasn't what she really needed, but she'd thought it had been enough. a meal, if not a filling one. but here, with royce—royce, who she likes, who likes her back—it's clear that all this time she's been on the verge of starving, and now she's at a feast.

darlin', he calls her. keep going, he says. she grinds down, buries her helpless whine into his shoulder, slips her hand between her thighs. her fingers circle her clit, her rhythm faltering as she tries simultaneously to chase her pleasure and stifle the sounds that slip out of her. "royce," she breathes, "i'm gonna—i need—" she doesn't know what to ask for, she just knows that she's close. "please, please, please."

#princetorn #ic. #answered.