#onhunt

[unpossession]

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. 

For the most part. 

@onhunt​ said:    ❛ did you know that icicles make the perfect murder weapon? ❜

Willow’s shoulders tense, but she forces the fear out of her voice when she turns to see who’s speaking to her. It was probably a joke. Probably. There’s no need to tuck tail and run yet. Probably. 

                       “That’s a very cool and non-threatening thing to say to a girl you don’t know,”         A little more hostile than she meant to be. Willow looks almost immediately apologetic.       “--I mean... That’s a really bad ice-breaker.” 

See? See what she did there? Ice-breaker? Poor puns cure everything, right? 

[morticane]

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            ...           my tolerance for being freaked out is pretty high.

[deputystakes-moved]

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

of course it’s a lot.   there are two bodies, two vampires, two corpses in a heap.   and their blood now covers ashley’s shoes, his hands, his clothes, the stake he’s holstered.   holding his cigarette in a fist, blowing smoke out the corner of his lips, tired eyes move up toward igor, then back down to his chest, to his shirt covered in a spray of blood, gray cotton now stained black in the moonlight.   the reply is quiet.   dismissive.   ‘ it’s not mine. ’   or most of it wasn’t, at least.

[childactress-a]

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.     ❞

@onhunt     ...     “are you finishing that or…?”

[slashre]

ASSESS   :        a situation that rots.         UNKNOWNS   :       a stranger with a face that is anything but affable       (       junho has not seen a friendly face in quite some time        --        his gun warms his palm,    a bullet etched away in the chamber,    heavy with the weight of his choice          ).         something about this night seems far too dark.          ‘   who do you think you are?   ’       he forces his tone into english,   though he doesn’t bother to lift his gun.    he taps it against his thigh,   drawing the other’s attention        ...         the boy is a weapon contained in human skin.    flesh is stretched over a metallic heart,   ripe across the past - wound that whirlpooled across his shaking shoulders.         ‘   i don’t need your help.    i’m not looking for a partner.   ’        @onhunt

[metamorphosd]

( ❛   hunger .   give  my  muse  something  to  eat  /  drink ) ​

after,    she turned all the mirrors in her bedroom backwards.     the contamination of the stranger she housed in the heart-shaped concave of her knees,   her elbows,   the perpendicular bevel of her neck,   has tainted the memory of her.     before,    she could recognize the topography of her body blindfolded.     now,    she only makes love in the dark after she has diluted the vision of them with vodka cranberry.    if she were to look at them,   she fears the reflection of her old boyfriend would stare back at her,    with a river of blood for a mouth.     why didn’t her mother ever warn her about falling in love with a killer ?

the morning is crisp and grey,    a silhouette of an approaching storm.   she approaches igor sat under a tree in the quad,    a butter croissant flaking against the edges of a saturated napkin clasped between her fingers,    she perches delicately like a bird beside him and waves the pastry under his nose.   ‘   you left the pub quite suddenly last night,    where’d you disappear to ?  ‘    she slides the croissant his way after snagging a bite of the crumpling corner. ‘   you want ?   ‘   / @onhunt​

[dianeworms]

‘ are  you  lost  too? ’                /   @onhunt​

[mostlymoved]

@onhunt asked : hc + home! [ ... ]

it’s a concept he’s still learning to be familiar with. he’s never had a physical space that’s felt safe enough to be called a "home.”  and he’s still wrapping his head around the idea of people being “home,” since having folks in his life who he actually cares about, and people who care about him, is relatively new to him. he does feel safe around the new people in his life. but he doesn’t really know what the concept of “home” is supposed to feel like. maybe people are home, since he doesn’t have a space. he’s still learning.