blood hungry;

𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕠𝕣 𝕘𝕠𝕝𝕕.

[ledgerous]

whinedarksea‌:

  There’s no particular reason he ends up at this burger joint so often.

  That is, he likes the menu well enough. He supposes. It’s the grilled onion rings, mostly. ( As for main courses, he wouldn’t say the long-ago incident with the sun god’s zombie cattle put him off beef forever; still, perhaps it’s understandable if he tends toward veggie burgers. ) But this evening he hasn’t touched his food, his mind and eyes and heart all occupied with the rain glazing the window.

  Watching. And watching. And watching.

  He is not, in truth, expecting anything to come of his labor, and at first glance, she isn’t much. Slight, neat clothes at odds with mismatched socks, almost more hair and eyes than anything else. But there’s presence in the way she speaks, and it almost makes him want to laugh. ( A bitter, tired thing. It gets caught in his chest long before it can reach his lips. You have no idea. ) Instead, leaving the question unanswered, he echoes her tone back to her:

     “Why? Are you searching for someone?”

    “Someones can be quite difficult to find,” Luna says. “Even if they want very much to be found.”

    It’s in the way that he replies to her, tone near exact to hers, that tilts her chin one direction over the other. The wizards of America are much better at blending in than most others -- the booth doesn’t tell her a definite answer, radiating nothing other than familiarity -- and though she doesn’t look, she feels certain that she would find a wand hidden away at his hips or under his sleeve if she did.

     “It’s the glimpies, I suspect.” Perhaps her father should run an article on them -- when they stop their meddling. Luna looks through the window.  “I’m looking for a market.”

[ledgerous]

@whinedarksea

     Matthew does not like burger joints. 

     Nor, she supposes, does Luna; the burgers are not very pleasant to eat, and the booths creak with agony and thus untold wear in such a way that makes her think that Americans care perhaps even less for the world than Europeans -- however unlikely that is.

      Yet that is where the sidewalk takes her, talking of seafoam and old wine and exhaustion. At first she thinks it her father might have carried the scents with it -- but when she stops at the edge of the table of a man with a guitar, there is a little candle in her heart that dims.

      “Hello,” she says, the blue of her eyes pleasant and open. “Are you waiting for someone?”

[ledgerous]

withlwolves‌:

          he’s got his headphones in,  a couple drinks going lightly to his head,  and is enjoying the way the cold air hits his face.  it’s only when he sees something from the corner of his eye that he pulls his headphones out,  startled.  

          “  hey  —  “  his concern is instant,  and he moves closer to her.  “  what’s wrong?  are you okay?  “

     “tell me --”

     most certainly she isn’t! there’s a gnawing, all the time, at the tip of her spine. a hunger -- the woman steps closer and closer still, nearly falls into him, and lays a nail-painted hand on his forearm, if he lets her. it’s light, and unassuming, and her voice is near breathless as she stares into his eyes. 

    “how do you make the shadows dance?”

[ledgerous]

@withlwolves

    “excuse me.”

    for all intents and purposes, she looks the part of harmless (or so men tend to think): rich chestnut hair, long curls turned disheveled over the course of the day, glimmering under the flickering lamplight even still. amber eyes look the part of innocent doe, framed under dense lashes. she’s short, demure -- it could easily take three strides to one of his, and it shows in how she hurries to catch up, even though he seems slower in his intoxication. the wrist she waves him closer with is small. she’s perhaps mid, late twenties.

     he left a party. she can still hear the sounds of it, two blocks down. 

     “please, if you could help me? just -- slow down?”