❛ take your dress off and come in ! ❜ he calls to her across the small pond, whipping back wet strands of hair with a quick turn of his head. he'd dived beneath the water's surface already, now fully covered by nature's droplets that glisten in the pale light of the almost full moon. siegfried returns to the shallow edge of the pond where madonna is standing in the grass, still seeming hesitant. drawing closer, he extends a hand to beckon her over. ❛ it's warm . . . enough. ❜

HE IS HOLDING OUT A BLOOD - SOAKED BOX TOWARDS @0fbabylon , the contents are human bones. he thinks that she will make great use of them. his own little personal gift to the witch. she is fond of such macabre things, he is positive that she would find interest in them. they weren't large bones. no, they were carefully plucked from the fingers of a victim. the perfect size for an altar.

starter call !

OH !!! sobs — i could write a whole thesis !!

so cecily's base scents are pretty much all spiced vanilla — this only including things like body wash, hair products, deodorant. she thinks it provides a sweet, even foundation for her preferred form of fragrance; perfume. she has a small precious collection of different body mists, a lot of them imported. there's a heavy preference for savory herbal scents ( cardamom, sage, rosemary, thyme — as well as bergamot and peppercorn — all with an undercut of spiced vanilla, if one gets close enough. ) some examples of her favorite perfumes include: terre d'hermes parfum, st. clare's gardener's glove, parfum d’empire mal-aimé, coriander by ds&durga.

A LIST OF CASUAL YET INTIMATE INTERACTIONS

@0fbabylon : [ cheer ] !

↳ [ CHEER ] seeing that receiver is scowling, sender rubs their thumb over the furrow between receiver's brows

somber eyes are set on an empty spot outside the cabin window. siegfried's head is tilted slightly to the side, his mind lost elsewhere. but he himself does not even truly know where it has wandered off to. a day in the past perhaps, or a memory that never happened. locked in his thoughts he does not notice the grinding of his teeth, or the crease that forms between his tense brows. only when he feels the touch of fingers in that very place upon his forehead is he slowly pulled out of his reverie. right in front of his face a hand comes into view, then its wrist, a forearm, and finally then does he focus on the dark - haired woman's face.

Like any feral thing that scorns humanity, they have a knack to find secluded places to curl into for spells of unnourishing sleep. The attic a collapsed farmhouse, the mildew-choked bathroom of a roadside gas station, the rooftop of an apartment building, beaten by the night wind. They haunt these places, not as a ghost, as even ghosts seem to yearn for people, but like some unnamed cryptid only whispered about around a campfire. They long to disappear, to be forgotten by anything human.

It used to be they could trust their instincts to keep that safety intact, sniff the rust of a stranger's intent catched in the changing wind, the scrape of their shoes on the concrete, the sound of their throat as the swallowed their thrill. This time however, be it exhaustion or some repressed and —as always, misguided loneliness, it’s too little too late before they feel fingers on their throat. They are trying to kill you!

WAKE UP.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” It comes out like a primal snarl, tainted with the high pitch of terror. In the midst of sleep, instinct kicks in, slapping away the hand that, they would swear, was trying to choke the life out of them. “Don’t—” a pile of moldy old magazines is knocked into the dusty floor as they gracelessly scramble back, trying to gain some distance, hands frantically tapping their pockets in search of their knife. “I’ll cut you.”

@0fbabylon said: ❛ You could be so powerful. ❛

          embracing the monster

               "Who is to say I'm not already?" And she knew she was. She wouldn't have been able to fulfil her journey of self-righteous vengeance and reclamation if she didn't have the power to back herself. That, amongst the magical feats she had become known for post all of that. So, woman known as a beacon of vengeance wouldn't take other's words to heart.

A CITY OF TREES. sender lays their head in receiver's lap and closes their eyes.

THE NIGHT IS DARK. FIRELIGHT dances on the silhouettes of two women, one wrapped in fur and steel, the other in satin. It is quiet but for the campfire’s crackling, the song of nightbirds, insects and frogs. The sound of the woods surrounds them, peaceful, slumbering. Above, through the canopy, the stars are brighter for the absence of the moon.

Peace is so rare between these women. It struggles to find a place between all that separates them. All opposites, this incogruous pair, if not in appearance alone. The younger one towers, broad, stoic; her elder, thespian in her disposition, could disappear in her shadow. Together they are all the more striking to look upon; a sword and a candle’s flame; an executioner and a seducer. A hunter and a witch.

If only that was the end of their odds. 

But for now, by the fire, in the quiet of the wilderness, there is no bickering or arguing. There is only silence as the witch’s head comes to rest upon the furs in Alizebeth’s lap. Luscious hair wreathes her in night, falls upon the hunter’s leg like a roll of black satin. Her eyes briefly drink in the flame’s light before closing. 

The monster slayer’s posture stiffens just as Madonna’s breathing steadies. She opens her mouth to speak, but hesitates. The closeness is unexpected, but the reprieve from the witch’s nagging is much welcomed. What is there even to say that would not be met with sharp retort, snapping wit? Perhaps it is better to say nothing, and not be answered. Curiosity, it is said, killed the cat.

It nags at her, the uncertainty. More often than not, the mind of others escapes her. Madonna’s is a slippery one, prone to dramatics, fickle as a snake. Alizebeth can never seem to predict her moods, often stormy, can never tell whether her plush mouth will try to kiss or bite. Such were her ways, and the hunter has given up on ever grasping them. 

She’s never liked witches anyway.

So why is she here, dark head laid dutifully in her lap, calm and quiet? Alizebeth finds, with surprise, that she doesn’t mind. Yes, surely it’s better to say nothing, but… A gauntleted hand hesitantly lays on the witch’s shoulder.