ℳ𝘐𝘚𝘚 𝘈𝘔𝘌𝘙𝘐𝘊𝘈𝘕𝘈 @camelotcurse - Tumblr Blog

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IF I DIE YOUNG, BURY ME IN SATIN. LAY ME DOWN ON A BED OF ROSES. SINK ME IN THE RIVER AT DAWN. SEND ME AWAY WITH THE WORDS OF A LOVE SONG. ━━━━ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘵, as penned for briarbend.

¹ UNAUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY. ² BRIAR BEND. ³ PINTEREST.

precident

" mm, tried. elizabeth's tricky. " around a swallow, he adds, " tried to marry my brother. " there's a pique in his brows, a perk at the corner of his mouth. he's looking at her, really looking, despite the shooting pain at his solarplexus, intimately jealous of her sunglasses.

kit palms at the back of his neck, a nervous gesture he's never rid himself of. it's not her. it's not not her. it's all of it. this house, these people. the tie is getting tighter, somehow, threatening to choke him out.

at the corner of his eye, lorelai turner hale works the room. he can feel it before he sees it, the eyes on him. hot on his skin. under his breath, he makes a plea, " air. " and it's swift, almost nostalgic, the way he leans back, swipes a bottle of something brown, loops her arm into his, nice to see you mrs. summers, yes lovely ceremony, we just had to see the gardens, and disappears them to the nearest terrace.

a blindspot. if a flimsy, fleeting one. he sets down his bottle, lights a cigarette, finds a pillar to support his weight. breathes deep. allows himself to look her up and down. " y'look nice. "

camelotcurse

the ring was twenty-odd karats. beautiful. big enough to see from space, which is another way to say visible on the front pages of the newspaper stand across the way. it was so heavy, it took birdie about two weeks to figure out how to lift her hand properly. for over a fortnight after she got engaged, she found her arm would sink downward at every opportunity, falling until it hit the screen of her phone. it stayed like that for hours at a time, her one thumb repetitively typing out an email to the family pilot, or the phone number of the federal correction institute of atlanta, or a text to a number already disconnected. her wrist, more often than not, took to hurting. and most often, never not, that pain radiated up and over the medial line of the body, landing somewhere more central. even so, sometimes god gives you a rock ( emerald cut ) you just can't put down. cain knows this. so does birdie. he's not wrong. elizabeth is tricky. and she damn sure did have to try. each and every day. she settles far enough away that the smoke won't nestle in the folds of hair or dress, a precise distance that birdie has had mapped out since age fifteen. back then, being near kit wasn't the part she considered dangerous— only the things that stayed behind once he left: hickeys, smoke, scattered branches under her bedroom window. loitering tattle-tales. now birdie's grown-up, like all wendy-birds will be one day, and she's been forced to accept the reality of it all: it's not the ghosts, or the lingering cologne of one, that will hurt you. the truth is that there's none of that without a body to begin with, and that's where the damage comes from. and kit turner, all six-something of him, got just about the largest one around. her arms tuck behind her back. NOW THAT THEY'RE OUTSIDE OF THE ATRIUM AND IN THE OPEN AIR, it's a wonder she doesn't light up translucent like one of the decorative, currently defunct hanging lanterns— because in kit looking at her, birdie's skin proves to be as thin as tracing paper and just as functional. she can feel a hard line of heat flaring in the track of his gaze. "mh." birdie holds his gaze, the familiar undertow of it. after a lingering beat it lifts demonstratively upward; up, up, into the arrangement woven in her hair, before it comes down again with pollen in her lashes. "not quite the right flowers."

then she rounds her pillar the way a child does— slow, one palm flat on the curve, weight all slanted out. birdie can't read kit's mind, but she knows that boy well enough. she knows he's thinking of this privacy as a blind spot, as a way to hide from his mama and ( secondarily ) everybody else's mama. and birdie, arguably the better student, is thinking of it in similar terms. well. the same term, applied differently: BLINDSPOT. 𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙽. A SUBJECT ABOUT WHICH YOU ARE IGNORANT OR PREJUDICED AND FAIL TO EXERCISE GOOD JUDGMENT. so she turns. away. comes around the mountain the way the girl in the song does, going and going and never getting anywhere. it's only at the far side of the pillar, when there's a whole white marble world between them, that she pauses and leans back. the column is hard and sun-warm, almost comforting; like resting the back of her head against somebody else's. birdie lifts her gaze up— onto the speckled ceiling, the clear sky. "y'look like you're too big for your jacket." she smiles, if only a little. the view is far too obstructed to look at kit from this position, which is half- or whole- of the-point, but her head still turns over her shoulder as though she might. could. on the ground next to her his shadow stretches as long as he does, creeping past the castle rampart. one arm curls backward where she can't see, her hand extending into open air before spreading the palm open, a five-fingered blink of morse code.

#𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 ⟳ interactions .#𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 ⟳ kit turner .#long post /#dont. Dont

luvhards

⌗ 𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 , a balcony of magnolia noire .

⎯⎯ feels like this is the first time today she's found herself at a standstill in all sense of the word . to the naked eye , she looks pristine , not a wrinkle on her dress or a hair out of place despite the fact that today has bore such a harsh weight on her shoulders . everything had to be perfect , the silverware , the linens , each menu item thoughtfully curated to reflect the kind of indisputable prestige the quill name carried ⸺ an unmistakable image she had been entrusted to uphold on one of their most special of days . " sorry , i'll be back in just a second . . . i was just stepping out for some air , " assumes the steps behind her are those of one of her staff , whom she'd asked to bring any issues to her attention discreetly , and to take care of them just the same . tightness in her chest just barely loosens its grip when she turns to find that the person behind her wasn't the bearer of bad news she'd been awaiting ever since she woke this morning . " oh , thank god . . . " relief in her voice is audible , shoulders dropping just as features soften . " i think by the end of the tonight i'll have sprouted enough grey hairs to qualify for an early bird special at the diner , " teases , though sure her mirror will show it's rooted in truth . " did you just come from inside ? do the happy couple seem . . . happy ? " ( accepting )

camelotcurse

"darlin'," birdie stands in the precise-middle of the open french doors, a geographical ability allotted almost exclusively to those of her particularly kind: women who grew up in debutante balls and coming-outs, who are used to being stood in the center of a grand entrance. "i have seen you do all kinds of wonders," she strides forward to take amara's elbows in her palms. it is in itself it's very own short, though no less meaningful, kind of wedding march. "but let's leave miracles to the big man, huh?" her hands wind round the delicate jut of bones. it'll take more than a beautiful wedding to make two people happy. birdie should know. "breathe for me, sweetheart."

#𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 ⟳ interactions .#𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 ⟳ amara rhodes .#im sorry but i fear i had 2

fallnsangel

she'd been used to stares all her life . and with best friend in tow , it came naturally . the two of them plastered with signs lately that said ' feel sorry for me ' or maybe ' don't feel sorry for me ' . neither of which they asked for . reaches above her head towards the open windowsill and flicks ashes before bringing cigarette back between her lips , dragging smoke into her lungs and letting it sit there . one ... two ... three seconds until she can't hold it any longer , letting it create a cloud , "you'd think they'd be scared enough to leave us alone then ." she balances the stick to the corner of her mouth , lifting her half-finished glass of merlot and clinking it to hers filled with champagne , "may they find their happily ever after and leave us out of it ." though femme would be a liar if she said she didn't think she'd want the glass shoe to fit one day , a day that'll never come . knows it , accepted it a long time ago . should have remembered that , too , before saying ' i do ' . lip purses , "how early do you think is acceptable to leave -- eight o'clock , nine ?"

camelotcurse

birdie tilts her glass until they clink, the festive, flippant equivalent of pressing ones foreheads together and making an oath. despite the levity of the whole thing, something about the phrasing makes her stomach turn. she puts the glass down on the counter, the toast left unconsummated, and turns to the mirror. her fingers re-tuck hair that does not need to be tucked, straighten a pendant that is already only one chain-link from straight. she expects the corrections to soothe her. instead, by the end, birdie finds herself looking in the mirror at something which feels imperfect, with nothing in particular to blame. she swallows. "about a half hour after the cake cutting." it's the kind of applied science socials the wells-fairchilds specialize in. "whenever that is. now frances," a sudden turn. "i mean this— you raise your right hand and swear to the virgin that you ain't gonna bail on out at the first opportunity and leave me here alone."

#𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 ⟳ interactions .#𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 ⟳ frankie stevens .

precident

@camelotcurse.

sherry is a decent lady. she's a lawyer at the firm, and she's maybe got a couple screws loose. she handles his mother with the deft hand of years experience and takes sizeable pity on kit. thinks he's lonely. he could see why. " there's someone here i want you to meet, sourpuss. " she flashes a conspiratorial smile over her pinot grigio, tweaks his cheek, mouths : she's peeeerfect. the thing about sherry is she lives here, she's not from here. and there's a big fucking difference.

how he envies that. envies the naïveté. and when she finds him, somehow, again, in a drawing room that really pushes the limits of the approved cocktail hour zone, he would give anything to see himself from that faraway perspective. to know him, and think, this is a girl he deserves to meet.

it's a matter of seconds: he extends a polite hand, christopher turner. she plays along, elizabeth. her palm in his, that's wells fairchild ? she smiles, it is. he smirks, any relation to the miss birdie wells fairchild ? " ── awwh, " sherry kisses her teeth, " so you already know each other. you're just playing a little game with sherry. oooookay. well i . . . will be at the bar. you kids play nice. "

he lets go of her. only just lingering, bridging their fingers, sliding the hand back into his pocket. he puts rocks crystal to lips, nods back at sherry. " y'just pick up groupies everywhere you go, huh ? "

camelotcurse

of course it isn't miss sherry's fault. she hasn't been here long enough to know. they are playing a game, just not with her. they're playing a game because they're always playing games, because birdie knew kit when she was five and he was six and that's what children do, and because most importantly not a things changed since then. not, at least, in any way birdie can size up right now, with her thoughts all dry-honey stuck. not when he's still the only thing blocking the sun from hitting her eyes. he used to do that. stand there, in the exact right place, just to keep the things that were a little too much from finding her. she'd find his neck hot from sunstroke later, the skin pink under her flat palm.

"thought she was yours." she keeps her sunglasses on anyway, the way she was taught as a little girl at her first funeral. monty wasn't open casket, unlike this. unlike being forced to look kit in the face in a room full of people. "figured she must've had one of those— bobble heads a'you on her desk." from behind her lenses birdie avoids his eyes, following sherry's exit instead. she's tempted to call the woman back and ask what prompted her to lead him over. she's just as irrationally compelled to ask kit why he followed. instead she raises her own flute, drinks. her shoulders are back and square the like top of a picture frame. that leaves in the center, inadvisably, one particular organ. "shoulda stuck with elizabeth." you should know how not to give it away.

#pleasepleasep please to the yappiest bitch alive is crazy #𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 ⟳ interactions .#𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 ⟳ kit turner .#so anyway . shorten it

fallnsangel

could you get high off of nicotine ? femme leans back , ass pressed to the cool surface of the bathroom counter , heels kicked off to the corner somewhere with the window opened at the top to lead the smoke out . when the door swings shut , laughter bellows past her mouth , "it's the eyes , chica , and it was definitely yours ." wiggles her fingers in her face , mimicking earlier stance all of five seconds ago when the door swung shot , leaving them both in their conjoined solitude . "or maybe it was me . they don't want the bad luck of a divorcee ."

camelotcurse

"mmh." her eyes skim the counter. "definitely us, than." she mutters, tapping along the shaft of her flute absently. the half-pearls of her nails chime against the glass like so many miniature wedding bells. alarm bells. whatever. "we're barely an hour in, and i've already had three people take my arm like i was gonna need escortin' past the damn guest book." poor unfortunate birdie, say the looks, who never made it to the altar. poor wicked frankie, speaks the posture, who drove right through it and left the arch in pieces. dryly, birdie raises a brow. "guess she might be onto something. we're like the witches of briarwick at this thing." cursed, damned, doomed. she lifts the flute to her mouth, then pauses. on second thought— "cheers," to that.

#𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 ⟳ interactions .#𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 ⟳ frankie stevens .

cocosugars

› 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗌 : open [ 0/5 ] 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 : cocktail hour.

𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ beau langford had been raised to believe that hatred was a sin. good christian men forgave. they turned the other cheek. they prayed on it and let the lord sort the rest. but lord have mercy , beau langford hated silas quill. it sat bitter on his tongue, rotted at the back of his teeth every time that man’s name came up. he’d spent the better part of an hour pacing his suite , whining into the phone to his mother like a boy half his age , cataloguing every offense real or imagined. she’d told him to behave.

and still — he showed up. because that’s what men like beau langford did. they smiled pretty , wore something tailored and expensive , and stood in rooms they couldn’t stand just to prove they belonged there more than anyone else. tonight was no different. pressed suit , champagne in hand , looking every bit the brooding heir — even if the expression on his face was less mystery and more poorly disguised disdain.

“ old fuck gettin’ married , ” he muttered into the rim of his champagne flute before taking a slow sip. “ viagra prescriptions probably spiked clean through the roof in briar bend this week. ” he scoffed under his breath , shaking his head as if the whole affair personally offended him. then he turned slightly , catching someone beside him in his peripheral. “ oh , c’mon , ” beau drawled , one brow lifting as a crooked grin pulled at his mouth. “ don’t look at me like that. we’re all thinkin’ the same thing. ”

camelotcurse

"beau langford." if there's one thing a southern woman can do, it's reprimand a southern man. "shame on you for lumpin' me in with your crude — and cynical — outlook." if there's one thing the daughter of an olivier-award winning actress ( with nothing better to do than bring her melodramatics to the family parlor rather than the theatre stage ) can do, it's lean into a performance. she makes an affected face that resembles something like my heavens, which is either a remark on a remark, or the fact that she looks a little bit like an angel with her hair pinned up like that. "this is a wedding, bobo. you can take that skepticism and tuck it in with your shirt. show a little regard for our lovely couple." all that sugar in her voice, and there's a beat. a pause for it to settle. stir in. birdie takes a sip of her drink; something to make the bullshit go down easier. "'sides—" finally, birdie loops a hand through the crook of beau's elbow and winds her voice, hushed and coy, into his ear as she steers them into motion. "—i was thinkin' the premium on life insurance policies."

#𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 ⟳ interactions .#𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 ⟳ beau langford .#i'll be honest wit u this was all just to call him bobo

#ㅤㅤ𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿.ㅤㅤ››ㅤㅤ𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘴,ㅤㅤ@fallnsangel

briar bend is a place rife with, if not built on, property ownership. you can't walk by a single table at the magnolia room without overhearing somebody talk about their newly acquired greek revival summer home. with how prevalent a thing it is in this town to own the very ground you're standing on, it shouldn't be any surprise the way the two girls at the mirror look up at the guest opening the bathroom door: like she's intruded on private property. it's not intentional. that's just how they are. anywhere birdie and frank meet automatically becomes their own. the woman stops, stares, and flees, and birdie folds into the laugh that comes in its wake. "well bye, honey," she waggles figures at the still-swinging door, then turns back. "you think it was you— or us?"

#pov u walk into a public bathroom and find a blonde 2 headed hydra #𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 ⟳ interactions .#𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 ⟳ frankie stevens .