the cambion

  sext: *an endless grinding and cracking of teeth on bone*  

[robinshcerbatsky]

[ccmbion]

@graveyardisms

[carisi-rollins]

[wrenkingtson]

Visit Original Link

[astronomoon-deactivated20160411]

[ccmbion]

        (      for brooke   /   @graveyardisms​   )          Spring cleaning was not exclusive to the season  --  Eve ,  for the past eight months now ,  had been organizing the StPaul house with all the diligence due a demon who's one and only point of sentimentality lay here ,  stacked and stored under roof where she'd grown. Where she'd shed her childhood the way a snake shuks its skin. Where mother's memory still lingered in clothes to be donated and books to be sorted and mementos to be preserved. She'd worked her way to the attic that afternoon and in the process come across a cardboard box whose lid was scrawled with what had recently become a very familiar name.  She carried it down to the kitchen where her brother was hunched over the breakfast bar with his Nintendo Switch. A heft to display Brooke's name written in their mother's calligraphic hand.          ❝  What is this?  ❞

Recognition lit him up, made him sit a little straighter with attention paid out.     " Mom put that together. She was gonna give it to Brooke. "

    ❝ Oh ... Great ! ... I know just where to move it. ❞         And it's light her tone, but Grayson had learned to guess at the meaning behind that saccharine lilt well enough that he's snatching the bin from her hands almost before she's tilted it towards the trash. Knows her well enough, too, to pin point the impetus as he sets it down safely on the kitchen counter.

    " What is your deal with her? She's great. “

Eve wrinkled her nose petulantly, met baby brother's expectant stare for a long moment before sighing.            ❝ I didn't want to have to tell you this... ❞             Gone the bonhomie and in it's place is a grim sobriety that sends her leaning across the counter tops with knit brow and deep frown lilting around the corners of her mouth. Grayson reflected her expression back ,  tinged it with an anticipatory tension all his own ,  caught up in her gravitas despite himself.             ❝ She's a furry. ❞

    " I'm gonna text her about picking the box up. "           He's already digging phone from pocket as he strides out of the kitchen ,  not dignify her accusation with a response.

     ❝ You'd better tell her it's full of glittery dragon dildos or she's not gonna come.  ❞       Eve shouted as his retreating back. If he hears her he doesn't answer and Eve is left to lean against the breakfast bar ,  nails drumming a short irritated staccato against the formica.        ❝  Now I'm also annoyed no ones around to appreciate that accidental entendre. ❞

THE DAY IS IN ITS DREGS by the time she hears the sound of a car pulling into the drive. The sun has shimmered down to nothing, is the liquid remnants of itself spread out across the houses and glinting off screen door as Eve stepped out onto the porch to watch Brooke climb out of her car.

    ❝ Hi. Welcome to the StPaul Storage Unit.  ❞

[insaneindabrain17]

[ccmbion]

 DRABBLE. FALL 2019. 6 months after the death of the stpauls

                   Eve woke by degrees to a hangover hovering like a promise and the sensation of someone's hand on her ass. Neither thing was precisely unfamiliar, but that didn't mean either was especially welcome on this morning. The boneless ease of sleep transmuted slowly into the stillness of a potentially cornered cat. The cambion was quiet as a held breath, a speechless indrawn miasma at the back of her thoughts that left her alone to take stock of her situation. she was on her stomach, and her clothes were gone.    There was someone to her left.    There was someone to her right.    She was warm and half of her wanted very badly to just roll back to sleep and this felt nothing at all like the edgy aftermath of being rolled. Steady inhalation, almost slow enough to deceive a watcher into thinking she still slept, and then she deliberately settled herself mentally in front of the fog that was obscuring most of last night, pursed her lips, and blew.      Cigarette smoke and liquor burn. Air cool all down the length of her exposed back. A drink with an umbrella in it. The plainness of her red polished nails and white hand vivid against the bar. Music throbbing more than being played, bass-heavy and loud, loud, loud. Pills small, round, bright colored ground down to dust for quicker consumption. A man laughing so hard his head was tilted back, low light playing over the line of his throat and catching the brightness of his teeth. A woman with jewelry glinting from the well of a navel exposed by a high cropped top, dark hair soft, touchable. No names, just hands in the dark. Fuck. Fuck.     It had been a long time since she'd gone on a bender and this one, this one had been waiting in the wings like a predator ready to pounce from that moment she'd gotten that call about the car accident. She'd held it together so well at the time. Responsible EveMarie was suppose to be her persona now and wouldn't mom be proud of the wayward daughter who organized parents’ funeral and filed post-mortum paperwork and picked up big city life and sweeping the lot of it back to hometown for the sake of orphaned baby brother. All that hard work to quash the fact that you're actually still just a selfish trashcan. As soon as something hard hits you run away from reality. You're Usain fucking Bolt.

    It wasn't as though one night stands had suddenly become athema to her lifestyle but, frankly, she'd left all the debauchery and substance abuse behind her after coming face to literal fucking face with the Ghost of Christmas Future. For a moment, her father, sleek and gorgeous, floats before her eyes and she remembers that what had disgusted her most about him hadn't been his self absorbed narcissism or his sharp-toothed greed, it was that look he'd given her. Pride. The expression on his face had been this knowing, expectant pride that colonized everything she'd done and took effortless ownership of it. Darkened any early morality or future integrity of hers with the shadow of his satisfaction. Labelled her 'daddy's girl' -- an apple fallen straight down from the tree. Slammed a copyright claim over her life and put his name in the 'director' credits of her story.     The fresh wave of disgust working it's way up is undercut by the sound of her phone. Her hands have to slither beneath the ass of the brunette on her right and yes, she cops a feel; why not, wasn't she embracing the reality of her trashbag status? Eve leaned back against the headboard and lifted the phone to her ear.         "Hello?"     Grayson's voice was a quick draw from the other end. "Hey -- can I borrow your car?"     That piece of fuckery comes to close on the heels of post-narcotic hangover and pre-coffee identity crisis, for her to produce a more eloquent response than, "Are you out of your fucking mind?"         "Hear me out. Our QB is really into antique cars and I think if he sees your Mustang I could really be like...in you know."     She's having trouble keeping up through the aftermath of her fugue, but vaguely comprehends that her little brother wants to use her car, her baby, to impress some boy. Vague impression of a tawny haired teenager with a kind of unfamous Hemsworth look going for him and a very pretentious name on his letter jacket.         "Are you talking about that esquire kid?"         "Henry Aaron II."     Eve snorted, small crisis of faith and self clearing in the face of usually staid younger sibling's teenage egoism and raging hormones.     "Boy, he has roman numerals in his name. Next."         "You are the worst."     Almost. But maybe not quite.

[voidsexts]

sext: *an endless grinding and cracking of teeth on bone*

[jeanphilippelebee-deactivated20]

[starfoozle]

Melancholy Stations, James A. Reeves.

[frxideur-deactivated20170521]

                                                      Do not                                                               hurt                                                            him

                                                                      I will                                                                          rip                                                                             you                                                                                 apart.

[bob-belcher]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

She appears frail and small, but sharp and incisive bodily too, with a presence full of nervous energy and nervous fire like a bird. As she talks her focus is impeccable, her language subtle. Quick-witted and graceful.

Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947-1955 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[stileslovesderek]

[askyfullofwinterstarsss-deactiv]

[septembergloom]

[rileymatthews]