#onhunt

@onhunt​   said   :   god,  it’s  brutal  out  here.

when  she’d  asked  him  to  come  by  the  shop,  𝚜𝚑𝚎  𝚑𝚊𝚍  𝚗𝚘  𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊  𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝  𝚜𝚑𝚎  𝚠𝚊𝚜  𝚒𝚗  𝚏𝚘𝚛  𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗  𝚑𝚎  𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢  𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍  𝚞𝚙.  from  behind  the  counter,  she  watches  like  hawk  ;  the  tips  of  nails  grinding  against  the  varnished  wood  that  separates.  𝑆𝐻𝐸’𝐿𝐿  𝐸𝐴𝑇  𝐻𝐼𝑀  𝑊𝐻𝑂𝐿𝐸  𝐼𝐹  𝐻𝐸  𝐷𝑂𝐸𝑆𝑁’𝑇  𝐵𝐸𝐴𝑇  𝐻𝐸𝑅  𝑇𝑂  𝐼𝑇  ,  and  the  way  he’s  looking  at  her  now  suggests  he  just  might.  tension  is  tangible  as  she  pours  his  espresso.  𝑊𝑂𝑈𝐿𝐷  𝐵𝐸  𝐴  𝑆𝐻𝐴𝑀𝐸  𝐼𝐹  𝑆𝐻𝐸  𝑊𝐸𝑅𝐸  𝑇𝑂  𝑀𝐴𝐾𝐸  𝐴  𝑀𝐸𝑆𝑆.  but  it’s  when  the  conversation  leans  into  the  subject  of  rule  breaking  that  she’s  offering  a  smile  that  can  only  be  described  as  impish.  hues  lift,  thick  lashes  curved  long  and  black  to  rest  in  wisps  under  brows.            “𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎  𝚒𝚝.”

With  the  holidays  mostly  over, Willow has nothing left to propel her towards the coming weeks. Floating aimlessly from one hour to the next, losing track of the days until the last tick of the year comes and goes and she can declare herself fresh. Clean. Another year wont make a difference to her, she doesn’t think, but it’s nice to imagine it will. Attempting to recharge from all the socialising of the season, Willow has found herself a nice quiet spot to sit in the quiet, enjoy the icy weather while it’s not so slippery and dangerous. In the quiet she can think clearly, she can read if she likes, and most importantly, she’s undisturbed. 

MORTICIA LAUGHS.     a sound of blue - tinged fondness,    a hand flat against the great expanse of her pale chest,    the tentative shaking of shoulders       (          there is a family album spread upon her lap   :        an invitation into her past,    given under the jurisdiction of her bleeding heart          ...           there is enough kindness inside morticia to fill a black hole        ).        ‘   that’s good to hear.   you’d be surprised how squeamish people are today   :       a black plague or two might be beneficial.   ’        absent musings upon chalky features,     she speaks for the sake of noise,    filling the room with a voice that is black - clouded and desperate to fog up the world        (       she speaks like a choir of dying children       ).         ‘   people usually blanch a little when they see lurch.    as if a zombie is any stranger than a car!   ’

@onhunt said,   that’s…a lot of blood. :-)

how  soon  she’s  made  a  shipwreck  of  the  night.     her  friday  is  watered  down,     already  tasteless  at  ten          —          mara  would  hardly  recognize  herself  in  her  phone’s  screen,     if  not  for  how  often  she  takes  to  pouting  like  this.     the  blame  becomes  her,     any  pinpointed  feelings  swarming  into  a  single  mass  of  melancholy     (     she  thinks  of  broken  bones,     of  launching  herself  from  the  nearest  balcony  and  counting  the  seconds  down,     onetwothreefourdone.     it’s  theatric.     it’s  mara.     pay  no  mind,     she  thrives  off  of  reactions.     ).     igor  is  met  with  silence     :     one  red  flag  of  many,     wildfire  tongue  tied  down  by  her  frail  despair.     she  eyes  the  glass  as  he  does,     lime  -  fizzed  and  sitting  in  its  own  condensation.     brows  raise  for  a  beat,     and  she  takes  it  in  her  palm,     cool  to  the  touch.     she  doesn’t  know  if  she’s  finishing  it.     she  doesn’t  think  about  it,     doesn’t  answer  it,     only  holds  her  stare  as  she  lifts  the  drink  to  her  mouth  and  spits  into  it.     it’s  mara.     pay  no  mind.     a  curt  clear  of  her  throat,     the  glass  offered  outward.          ❝     sorry,     this  one?     all  yours.     ❞