#jacksonhendry

𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 on the pencil mustache he’d sprouted just for the occasion,  august scans the grounds for his runaway bride,  path lit only by crescent moon and the soft glow of orange string lights.  his fingertips run along the hay bales as he wanders towards the entrance,  cane dragging in the dirt behind him,  and when recognition flashes across his features,  it’s not for morticia but the familiar sight of denim overalls and  --  nothing else.  “  glad to see sexy farmer’s making a comeback for  . . .  is it the tenth year in a row ?  ”  while august liked to mix it up  (  mad hatter last year,  zombie bob ross the year before  ),  jack’s fit was tried and true,  a scantily-clad beacon at halloween parties across town.  but there was something new this year.  his gaze falls upon the bunch of flowers clutched in his grasp and he grins,  bemused.  “  for me ?  i don’t think the wife’s gonna be too happy about that,  but i guess what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.  ”