#mamalullaby

[suffocationpitarchive]

my aesthetic is evan m.acmillan being dominated by the boss ass ladies in his life *will smith hands @ the e.ntity & anna*

[suffocationpitarchive]

—   🖤  @mamalullaby​ . ❜  

                   “ANNA?” MACMILLAN’S VOICE RASPS in the back of his throat, hoarse and dry and ultimately lost to the vast foggy expanse of the Red Forest. He calls her name again, striding through the tall grass and towering trees, mask thumping against his thigh with each step, tied to the waist of his black overalls by the leather strap that usually fits over his head. The redness of his vision sweeps over his surroundings, noting the rocks, the handmade hooks; in his calloused, scarlet stained hands, covered in scars and grime, the heir to misery and misfortune brings a gift to the other prominent hunter of the fog. Evan’s head lifts a fraction, eyes widening as the sound of the Huntress’ humming captures the edge of his hearing. Instantly, leather boot encased feet make to carry the hulking shape of the mask-less Trapper towards the centrepiece of this particular map: the house overgrown in foliage, door-less, harbouring the stench of fresh blood and death. 

                  “Anna?” He stands in the doorway, awaiting for her to either appear from one of the rooms holding bloodied meat and butchering implements, or to descend from candle-strewn staircase ( least, these are the places in the house he expects her to be, if he cannot see her right now --- but truth is, with how her humming sounds closer than she truly is, she could be anywhere. ) He remains frozen on spot, eyes drifting to look at the stray bones and chipped skull beneath the stairs, the years-old dried crimson soaked into the floorboards and a sad looking, hand forged rocking horse, a child’s play thing. A sharp, sudden ache finds his chest ( A KNIFE TO THE HEART! --- that age old reminder of what he can’t have, what she can’t have, but what they both desperately WANT ) and the wooden box in his hands suddenly feels heavy, as does his tongue in his mouth, dry. Macmillan turns his body away from the makeshift holding cell, urges his legs forward and his body into the hatchet hunter’s home, as he awaits the arrival of the woman he has developed a certain fondness for. “It’s Evan, Anna. I have ...a gift for you.”