#* eden inwood

[heartrendcrs]

send me 💬, and i’ll use a line from a sentence meme i’ve reblogged to make a starter for you. @hollowedchest​

“This, is Dorothy.” His studio is open, he must of just stepped out to talk to the boss. Ace is never too far when she’s here. Their Bob Ross tutorial abandoned as they sit cross legged next to two unopened canvas’. “Your dad’s got good taste, I’ll admit. But we can fill some gaps.” 

Dark Nights fills the room, she’d probably been napping when he left. She doesn’t even hear him come back in. Lost in her company and the lyrics to a song she’d begun to associate with him. Did he even trust her with his kid yet? She’d been in the apartment. But not while she was there. Well, if he didn’t: he could file his complaints later. 

“And we’re gonna ignore Marci Mason’s mom because she listens to Shawn Mendez.” When she received the correct response asking who that was, Eden offered her an approving fist bump. “Some wannabe Z-lister.” 

“You are the coolest person I’ve ever met, kid. Marci’s doomed.” 

[heartrendcrs]

[ hickey ] — sender gives receiver a hickey aceden

oddly specific sensual touches.

They need to stop doing this in the studio. She doesn't know what it is about this place and them ending up just like this. But it's almost routine at this point. Which would make them both shudder to think they had a routine at this point. She should have come by the apartment instead. Thoughts that were fading into white noise as rough hands slid under the hem of her shirt. But it's not the soft hum of the rainforest or the crash of waves rattling around in her head. No, with the grasp of shorthairs and a yack backward: that white noises is crackling embers. It's her father's warnings of hellfire, and holy light.

It's the sound of the pyres, and every time they left ashes in their wake. Eden had never found the salvation they promised her in the blades they forced into her hand. Only cruelty, masquerading as righteousness.

The righteous don't ruin their children. They don't turn their girls into broodmares when they fail to perform. Her feet carried her as far as they could before the holy fire of the ladder could scorch her skin. But she had been ruined long before she ever knew fire this intimately.

What they didn't tell her about salvation was that it would hurt, but not like fists to the stomach. It would hurt like your back meeting the wall and the air knocking out of your lungs until he forces it back into them.

It would hurt not like blade against skin, but teeth instead. A mark, instead of a scar. A claim made in want and possession, instead of disgrace and rejection. Air falls from her lips in a dreamy sigh as pain mixes pleasure under his lips.

And hellfire feels more home than danger. That's the other thing she was never told about Salvation: she would never get it from the ones who always promised it to her. Never their righteous girl. Never enough to earn it.

With him, she is all of her worsts parts. Laced with sin and wreckage, and he bites down anyway.