#cw being hunted

[ant1quarian]

I have a very detailed, very unnerving mental picture of Killer nearly collapsing from exhaustion against a wall, bones aching and SOUL flickering rapidly. Only to look behind him and Murder...

Murder is ten fucking meters away.

And he's not even out of breath. His hands haven't removed themselves from his pockets. He's just been trailing behind while Killer runs for his life- unbothered but so, so fixated.

There's an unnerving, stone-cold glint to those vibrant eyelights of his.

Ones Killer doesn't recognise.

[laughroditee]

🟡 "Hither, Hither / Do Not Come Near"

Hither, hither, love!       Let us feed and feed! –John Keats, “Hither, Hither, Love”

Characters: cryptid!König, gender neutral!reader Location: a (fictional) mountain with forest and caves in Austria. Inspired by the "lamp eyes" in this (second) image by toxooz CW: you are being hunted, pissing (non-kinky) as intimidation, luring, fear, anxiety, dread, inaccurate battery drainage, inaccurate forestry regulations (don’t leave your fire burning while you sleep), inaccurate camping regulations for Austria (basically don't do anything Reader does), profanity Word Count: 2276 AO3 link Mood Music:

The sunlight filters through the trees as you hike the trail up the mountain, taking in all the natural beauty that Austria has to offer.  The rich, woodsy scents of earth, spruce, and pine surround you, the evergreen needles muffling your footfalls as you walk.  Green carpets of rolling grass are dotted with blue and purple, yellow and white, and even little trumpets lining the trail to herald your arrival.  

It’s like The Sound of Fucking Music over here, the sheer splendor of your surroundings making you feel like you made the best decision of your life to do this hike.  You'd researched what trail to pick and what to take with you.  You’d planned on this for months, and honestly, you couldn't have picked a better day for it: three days, two nights, just you and Mother Nature.  Everything was perfect.  

Pulling out your instant film camera, you take a selfie to remember this perfect day by.  Maybe you'll even take selfies all the way up the mountain just to document your journey.  You had enough film packs for it, and this felt like the kind of thing that needed documentation, so why not?

You pose and aim the camera at yourself, looking in the little mirror attachment you'd bought for this purpose, and take your picture, the flash going off in your face.  The camera's motor whirs as it spits out your first instant exposure, and after collecting it, you continue on your hike.

You repeat this pattern every half hour or so or any time you find something particularly interesting or lovely, stopping to take pictures and/or selfies and reloading your camera's film pack every ten exposures.  Soon enough, you notice the sky changing colors and decide you’d be wise to find a good place to make camp for the night.

Under a small copse of trees, you set up your tent on a bed of pine needles, driving the tent spikes into the ground with a stone you find at the site.  After building a small fire a safe distance from your tent and any trees, you start cooking your dinner, taking out your instant camera and the stack of photos from your hike.  

You take one more selfie before you lose the light completely, snapping the picture with a blinding flash that leaves you blinking. You take your newest photo and lay it on your knee, leaning over to stir your dinner in the pot as it's heating, waiting for the shot to develop.  

After collecting your dinner, you look at the developing selfie and notice something strange in the background: two bright dots to the right of your head set in a swath of darkness.  You squint, rubbing the exposure with your thumb despite knowing you’re not supposed to touch it.  Maybe something was wrong with it, something on the exposure itself that kept the light from hitting the paper in those spots, resulting in blank areas.

As the photo develops further and the image takes form, you look closer at those two bright dots — a yellow-green now — and your first thought is that they are very much like eyes, staring at you from the shadows of the forest.

A chill runs through you.  You turn, sweeping the trail with your flashlight, but you see nothing, just bushes and trees; hear nothing but crickets and other small creatures.  Your flashlight flickers slightly, and you turn back to your dinner and your warm, cozy fire, unable to get quite as cozy as you were a moment ago.

How absurd.  It was probably nothing; just a weird fluke.  You continue your meal and look through the stack of photos from the day, carding through pictures of beautiful landscapes and flowers, stopping when you come to your next-most-recent selfie.  You’d found a few edible berries on the trail and decided to take a picture of yourself, your mouth stained red by their juices.  

You’re about to move on to the next photo when you see them: those two dots — those eyes — in the shadows again, further away than in your most recent selfie.  

Your heart stutters.  What is this?

As you arrange your pictures chronologically, you are struck by a chilling discovery.  In each selfie, two bright lights — two glowing eyes — can be seen somewhere in the background behind you, hidden in a large, dark shape or the shadows of the trees.  You card through the photos, heart beating hard, thumb sliding over each one frantically, and they're there in each one, down to your first at the base of the mountain, watching.  Following.  Getting closer and closer to you each time you take a selfie.

It's probably just an animal.  A bear or something, judging by how tall it seems as it peeks around trees and through the thick brush.  Its form is never clear, just a silhouette with those bright eyes looming in the darkness, staring at you. 

You shiver.

Well, if it is an animal, you should probably keep the fire going to drive it away tonight.  Granted, you know you shouldn't leave the fire burning all night unattended, but the idea of being left in the dark makes your skin crawl, and everyone knows animals hate light, right?  Remember our ancestors, the cavemen?  Yeah.  Just an animal.  It'll be fine. 

So you throw some more logs on the fire, wash your dishes, and bury the water in a hole you dug to cover the smell of food.  Then you get into your tent, zipping it up all the way.  So much for a fresh breeze, but at least in this shelter, you feel some sort of safety, some separation between you and the unknown.

Your flashlight still flickers, and you decide to change the batteries now instead of later because you intend to leave it on all night.  Not that you're scared or anything; it's just that extra light means extra animal deterrent, right?  That's how that works, right?

Sleep does not come easily, and you toss and turn in your sleeping bag, eyes jolting open at the slightest sound of nature outside (which, surprisingly, is everywhere — why did you think this was a good idea?). 

It isn't until just after midnight that you hear it: a whistle. You try to convince yourself that it's only something that sounds like a whistle, like the wind or a bird, and you nearly make your case until the next one sounds with a little bend in it.  A little wheee-oooo in the pitch black of the forest, as if someone were pursing their lips, beckoning, just for you.

You hate it.  Instantly, your heart pounds, your ears straining for voices or footsteps; maybe it's another camper hiking this trail, too, and needs shelter. But if that were the case, did they have to be so fucking creepy about it?  You try to control your breathing, listening for anything other than the creak of the trees above you, but still, you hear nothing.  It isn't until the sky starts to turn grey that you feel safe enough to sleep; dawn is on its way.

When morning arrives – too quickly – you're more than happy to get up and break down your camp despite your lack of sleep, deciding that you'll eat your breakfast on the trail instead of at a leisurely pace like you'd planned.  No. The time for leisure has gone.  Judging by the map, you are now closer to the exit of the trail than you are to the entrance, so you decide, uneasily, to keep going forward.

As you hike, you don't dare waste time with selfies; you're too scared you’ll find more of those glowing yellow-green eyes in the background.  Or worse, find the owner of said eyes.  Thinking back to your childhood cat, you know a lot of animals have eyeshine, which helps them to see better in the dark.  They reflect light and make it look like the eyes glow or some shit, especially in photos, making them look like little demons.  You recall that many predators seem to have them and then quickly wipe that little factoid from your mind.

You busy yourself with nature facts for a while, reciting aloud the names of the plants and forageable berries you see along the way.  By the time you find your next spot for camp, you are completely exhausted, not only from the hike or your poor sleep the night before but from the anxiety of constantly looking over your shoulder.  

Instead of pitching your tent right away, you spend most of the time before sunset looking for firewood and building an even bigger fire than the night before.  No whistling bears or campers or whatever the fuck were going to come near your tent tonight.

The fire blazes hot and high as you sit before it, huddled in a blanket with your flashlight and cup of dried food — no smells of cooking tonight to lure hungry animals or hikers, for that matter.  

Immediately, your mind goes back to the whistle, its testing, beckoning nature making the inside of your skull itch with unease.  Maybe it was one of those birds that mimic human sounds that happened to be around at night.  Surely, there were birds like that, right?  It's probably a bunch of things together and not just one thing.  Just a coincidence.  That's the only conclusion you can come to.  Because the alternative — the one that claws at the inside of your head and tells you that something, or someone, is out there — that just can't be.

After dinner, you stoke the fire, load it up with a couple more logs, and retreat to your tent, burrowing into the sleeping bag with your flashlight propped up in the center to illuminate your sleeping area.  Exhausted from the lack of sleep the night before, you drift off thankfully quickly, only to be awakened sometime later.  

The night seems hauntingly quiet, as if nature itself senses something is wrong.  Leaves rustle from a distance away, and you hear the movement of a creature outside, the fire and your flimsy fabric shelter the only things between it and you.  Your flashlight, stalwart watchman of the tent, starts to flicker, the set of batteries you'd put in it reaching the end of their lifespan, and that's when you hear it.  

Wheee-oooo.

Your heart stops at the sound of the whistle, and you hold your breath, hoping that if you’re just quiet enough, just pretend that you’re sleeping, that whatever — whoever it is will just go away and leave you alone.

Thud, thud, thud, thud…. 

Are those footsteps?  

The sound comes closer, twigs snapping under the weight of this person, this creature, and you scramble for your flashlight, slapping it, begging the light to stay on, to stay steady.  A third thwack, and it's clear that your attempts at resuscitation are failing, and the batteries finally die, leaving you and your tent protected only by the dancing light of the fire outside.  You curse under your breath, diving for your old set of batteries that you’d removed yesterday.  Screwing off the top of your flashlight, you fling the dead batteries out and, with shaky hands, slide the old batteries in as, in the background, you hear the sound of water pouring and a sudden hissing.

This gives you enough pause to look at the silhouettes projected on the fabric of your tent: at how the flames of your fire — your precious sentinel — quiver, cower, and die. 

The smell hits you then, the stench alerting you to the fact that this was not water putting out your fire, but in fact, someone was pissing on it to put it out.  The heavy, acrid smell of boiling urine invades your nostrils, making you gag.

You refocus your efforts on threading the cap of your flashlight back on the barrel, your shaking, frantic hands making the threads skip until marvelously, mercifully, you screw the cap on, and the flashlight flickers to life just as your fire dies.

The growl that sounds from outside and the heavy thud-thud of footfalls that draw closer to your tent sound much closer to something human than animal, and you have to wonder who in the world you managed to piss off to make them stalk you so far up a mountain and into the woods at this hour of the night.

Suddenly, the tent lurches, and you scream as whoever is outside rips the stakes from the ground and yanks the entire thing toward them.  You are engulfed in a polyester death shroud, scrambling for your pack and waving your flashlight around blindly.

You need your knife — anything to protect yourself at this point, but as the creature rips the tent open like it was made of paper, all you can grab is your camera.  You point it at him and press the button, the flash lighting up the night like an atom bomb, and he snarls, stumbling back, blinded.

A split second is all you get to see him.  The man is bigger than any person you've ever seen in your life, dressed in black and wearing a black cloth over his head.  

You run.  You don't have time to look for shoes.  You don't have time to look for your knife.  You just clutch your camera and run, hoping that you can find a place to hide.

They don't tell you that the forest floor is not good for running barefoot on. They don't tell you how modern human feet just aren't made for it anymore.  But you know from all the twigs and branches cutting into the soles of your feet that you are fighting a losing battle.  That you are prey and your hunter is going to get you.

You can hear him running after you, those heavy footfalls sounding like the thunder of ten thousand angry gods, and despite your head start, you know he'll catch up to you on those long legs of his.

When you spot a cave, your prehistoric animal brain cries, "safe!", "home!" and like a fool, you listen, running inside, losing all light as you slip into the pitch black of Mother Earth.

Feeling blindly for the wall, you move slowly and hear him enter the cave, a low growl sounding out like echolocation.

You know he hates the light.  Your camera has nine exposures left.  A sound to your left has you pointing the camera in that direction and pressing the button.  Light floods the cave, burning its landscape into your retinas, his dark shape a retreating blur.

Eight.

You have to find the way back out.  Coming in here was a bad idea.  He clearly has an advantage over you, being able to see in the dark.  You’ll have to burn through your exposures to get back out.  Gravel grates to your right, and you take another picture, blinding both him and yourself, the exposure falling uselessly to the cave floor. Absently, you wonder if people will ever find them.

Seven.

Will people even find your body?  

Light blazes through the cave again, and you can move toward the exit, cursing as pain lances into your sole from stepping on a sharp rock.

Six.

You can tell you're bleeding from how the dirt sticks to your foot and from the snarl you hear behind you: the predator scenting his prey.  The next flash exposes his dark shape behind a stalagmite, and you rush in the opposite direction.

Five.

The click of the shutter echoes in the cave as the camera flashes again, your brain trying to memorize the location of obstacles.

Four.

His roar reverberates in the cave, shaking the very air around you and has you screaming, snapping your camera beside you.

Three.

You hear him stumble in frustration and are convinced you actually got him good that time, and you snap again for good measure.

Two.

You move faster toward the exit.  You can actually see the outside world now, so close, but still so far.  You blow an exposure behind you to stall him further.

One.

A breeze from outside blows across the cave mouth, and you can almost taste it if not for the wall you just ran into.

Zero.

Only it’s not a wall.  

His reflective eyes blaze as he looks down at you. The hood-like structure on his face parts down the middle like a pair of bat wings, the exposed red maw lined with dozens of razor-sharp teeth.  His jaw opens far wider than anything you've ever seen or ever will, and then your light goes out.

author's note- this was on loop as I was writing:

[tarabyte3]

🍁🕯️🎃 Happy Halfoween! 🎃🕯️🍁

To celebrate it being both halfway to my favorite day of the year AND National Poetry Month, here is my last poetry post: Horror Edition!

(Please mind the content warning tags! Also there are more collages below the cut to really get you in the mood)

The Harvest

When the night falls

and the harvest comes

we huddle in our beds,

covers pulled tight

to our trembling chins,

and wait. Every creak

or moan of wood

catches our breath.

A struggle for silence. A hope

our blood-soaked offerings

and fires were enough

to satiate their endless

ancient hunger.

Our rituals used to be joyous

occasions of mead and meat

and congregation,

before the things came

and then by morning light

we found splintered doors,

gore splattered beds,

and trails of ichor

winding into the forest.

In those first few years

we dared not look out

our curtains for fear

of catching their eye,

but some saw upright shadows

pass their windows

with a shambling gait

and spindly limbs.

Not beasts, but worse

than men. No weapons,

no charm or barricade,

no prayers to God

could save our souls,

and we dreaded the dying

light—their coming.

We left the pigs out first,

tied to posts in the town square,

huddled and confused.

It helped. Lessened the hunt,

but didn't end it.

Not by half.

Then we tried the cows

as well, and still we heard

the screams and pleas

and grinding growls.

We had no choice

except to choose.

The harvesters were coming

and it was better to prepare,

to know how the night

would go than to leave

our loved to slaughter. A mercy

to die by the blade

before the tearing started.

Our rituals now are solemn,

lotteries and funerals,

towering pyres, sacrifice

and chanting to appease

these old gods of the long dark

and death. We are our own

shepherds and farmers,

our own flock and crops,

and so we must tend our own.

Every night I awaken—

before dawn with the notion

that I am not alone.

There is a shadow with me.

Its eyes peek from

a dark corner crack,

beckoning with a wispy

curl of a finger.

Yet it is not temptation

I feel, but terror,

bone itching

and bile roiling

with a ringing in my ears

like the scream

of a tea kettle

This blackness creeps

ever closer.

Yesterday it brushed

the fringe of my rug.

Tonight it's reached

my curtains.

I know it hunts me,

ever patient,

to blanket me in nothing.

I would run,

you see,

If I didn't know

this shroud is a distraction.

A dare to rouse me

to my feet.

For in my full length mirror

by the hall door,

fading in the moonlight,

I see the face under my bed

and how it smiles.

Not a Tree

There is a branch outside

my window where no tree

grows. Yet its twig fingers

scrape and probe the screen

for a weakness,

an opening

to pry ajar

like an oyster.

Inside I am meat.

I am prey

to this ash, this bark

crusted limb

that covets skin—

seeks to know

my bare limbed flesh

and crush my bones.

It creaks. It yearns, aches,

to slip its muddied roots

throughout my ribcage,

twine its way between

my fingers and toes.

To feel how I writhe

beneath it as my

sinews decompose.

It cannot help

but consume me

to feel alive and grow

from my absence.

It must be a tree

that knocks, that sways

palm shaped shadows

upon my bedroom wall.

What else can reach

a second story window?

That is not the question

that lashes through my mind,

but rather: did I remember

to turn the lock?

[archiepelago]

You’re on a path—

Hey wait that’s not a princess.

[robo-milky]

May you enjoy listening to Neige’ radio 🏹🎊

[marypsue]

Man, it's cool and all if you see a metaphor for marginalisation in the monstrous, and if you want the power fantasy of 'what if you could just eat anybody who threatened you/pissed you off'. Me too.

However, as soon as you start saying 'no, these monsters are a 1:1 on Specific Marginalised Group, and you have to treat them in the fiction like they are directly representative of real human members of the marginalised group', BUT you also, in the fiction, make them hurt/kill/eat humans? And then try to shame me, your audience, for noticing or engaging with the bit where they kill people, because you made them directly representative of a real-world marginalised group? You have lost me, and also, I think, the plot.

[mayasaura]

The way The Locked Tomb uses cannibalism is so interesting, because while it does serve as a metaphor for intimacy, the series only uses it that way when it's cannibalism of the soul. Cannibalism of the flesh is either extremely limited, or straight up horrific.

Like step six of the Eightfold Word. It's literally presented as "consume the flesh," but Ianthe goes out of her way to specify that a single drop of blood is sufficient. The most unhinged act of intimacy in the series, and it's explictly the soul and only the soul being digested.

Human flesh is only consumed in any volume twice: John's post-apocalyptic survival cannibalism, and Harrow's delicious murder soup. Both those scenes are exactly the opposite of intimate, and about as far from erotic as you can get.

John and Alecto gorging themselves on anonymous strangers was debasing to everyone involved, and not something John ever wanted to be reminded of. Harrow's soup was a desperate attempt at self-defense, like an animal in a trap gnawing through her own leg. It horrified and disgusted everyone at the table, even Ianthe, the number one suspect at making it weird.

I love the overall effect of the layered symbolism, because it allows cannibalism to be explored both ways. Seperately, without one connotation implicating the other. Except for Babs, of course, who gets to be both.

[starry-bi-sky]

What would a mother not do for her child What lengths would a mother not go There's a bond that exists between mother and child With no end to how strong it can grow It's a promise for life between mother and child It begins from the moment of birth.

================

She is six years old, and standing on the porch at her Auntie Alicia’s cabin. She is six years old, and holding an old rifle in her hands, standing at the railing and pointing the nozzle at a large target a couple feet away. There’s a pair of old ear muffs covering her ears. Behind her is her daddy and her sister, and Auntie Alicia. She can’t see them. 

Danielle Martha Fenton is six years old, and her momma has her arms wrapped warmly around her, keeping the gun steady for her. It’s heavy and the butt digs into her shoulder uncomfortably, and she feels nothing but determined. And nervous. 

Her momma was teaching her and Jazzy how to shoot, and they’re down in Arkansas to visit Auntie Alicia for her second “Divorce-iversary” as Auntie calls it. She keeps a hunting rifle in her gun safe for the rabbits that like to nibble on her garden. She mostly grows rhubarb, which goes untouched. But her carrots and greens and other veggies like to be tempting snacks for the game. 

Regardless, she is six years old and learning how to shoot. Her momma and her daddy (mostly her daddy) have been banned from every shooting range outside of Amity Park in a hundred mile radius. So Auntie is the best place to learn, or so momma says. 

Danny thinks it's just an excuse to see her sister, not that she's complaining. She loves visiting Auntie.  

She’s already seen Jazzy do this, her momma told her before the muffs went on to shoot when ready. No use trying to fire when you’re not; you can’t afford to miss when shooting ghosts. 

Danny breathes out steady, just like momma taught her, and quells her trembling little fingers. She focuses down the barrel, and pulls the trigger. 

Immediately, the recoil throws her off, the side of the gun that her cheek was resting on knocks against her skin, harsh enough to bruise if it weren’t for her momma’s steady hands holding onto her. The bang of the gun startles her more than she thought it would, and her heart leaps up and runs a jackrabbit through her chest. 

The gun is carefully slipped out of her hands, and Danny lets it go easily, her cheek smarting in pain and her eyes wide and following up to momma. Momma turns the safety on, and with a gentle hand, pushes against her chest. Danny takes a few steps back, and slips the ear muffs off her head. 

Mommy is smiling big at her, something that Danny can’t help but replicate on her own face as her heart swells. “Did I get it, momma?” She asks, watching as she passes the gun off to Auntie Alicia, who steps over to take it.

“I’m going to go see, sweetie, but I think you did.” Momma coos, before planting both her hands on the porch railing and, in a single leap, vaults over the side and onto the grass. She’s dressed all comfortable for the summer heat, with her hair all tied back and in shorts and a tank top and nice boots. Danny’s ribs swell hopefully, and she stands on her tiptoes to watch her walk over.

“I’ll be hard-pressed to believe if you didn’t, Martha Mae,” Auntie tells her, grinning like a cat, “that was a damn good shot.” 

‘Martha Mae Knight’ was Danny’s granny’s name. Auntie Alicia calls her that because of her middle name — and because, by her words, she has her momma’s weird-shaped eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. The kind that could scare a hawk into singing like a robin. It was Danny’s favorite nickname ever.

Daddy laughs brightly, the sound painful on her ears but twice as nice, and despite the distance, Momma whirls her head around to shoot Auntie a glare; “Language, Alicia. Not around my girls.” She warns. Her accent always comes through when they’re around Auntie. It’s Danny’s favorite thing to listen to. 

“Do you think so, auntie?” Danny says, bright-eyed and ever-optimistic. Auntie Alicia nods fiercely as Momma finally reaches the target and searches for the bullet hole. Daddy then comes up behind her, still laughing, and claps a hand onto her shoulder so hard that it makes her knees hurt.

“Of course she did!” Dad boasts, as bright as the sun and twice as warm. He shakes Danny affectionately, wobbling her on her feet and pulling her straight into his side. She goes so willingly with a burble of giggles. “She’s got the eyes of a Fenton! And our family are darn good shots.”

Auntie eyes him up and down, her smile immediately fading off into a pressed line. “I’m sure you mean she’s got the eyes of a Knight. You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at twenty paces, Jack Fenton.” 

Jazzy holds back giggles from where she’s standing by the door, her ear muffs in hand, and Danny watches her Daddy’s dark eyes immediately narrow. Just like Auntie’s, his smile tapers off into a frown. 

Before he can say anything, there’s a cheer from the yard, and they all turn to Momma clapping her hands in delight. 

Danny immediately pricks her ears up, and would’ve darn near rushed over to the railing if it weren’t for her Daddy’s hand on her shoulder. She yells instead, excitement thrumming like a hummingbird against her ribs, “Did I hit it, momma?!” 

Momma beams at her with all the pride in the world, “You sure did, Danny!” And she turns to press her finger against the target, right on the inside red ring of the battered old bag. “Right here, sweet girl!” 

There are cheers from all around, and Danny’s heart bursts inside her lungs with shiny, sunshine glee. She puffs her chest out big, and smiles so wide it hurts the cheek where the gun smacked her. Her Daddy shakes again, squeezing her tight against his side in a hug that Danny happily reciprocates. 

“What’d I tell you, Martha Mae?” Auntie tells with a big wink and a wide grin, the gun still gripped tight in her hands as Momma makes her way back over. “You got a Knight’s eye.” 

When Momma makes it back over the railing, she hugs Danny tight and praises her shot. Danny looks her in the eyes and chases the feeling, and asks to shoot again.

[lil-lemon-snails]

"I can't ignore what's under dancefloor boards, The rhythm of my heart a dead-as-disco beat, But I still move my feet, to slip out of this groove, I'm free" ~ 2econd 2ight 2eer, Will Wood, The Normal Album

I have been plagued with visions of LDR Sun every time I listen to this song and I NEEDED to get this out of my system @spadillelicious when do we get to smooch the boy pLEASE

v textless version and close ups under cut!! v

[very-gay-poet]

people wonder why we still need feminism when boys in my class were comparing what the suffragettes (/womans right to vote movement in the uk) did to get the right to vote (hunger strikes, arson attacks, destroyed property where the majority of people would notice, leaving behind notes to say that they did it, etc, etc) to Hitler. They were comparing woman who just wanted to be fucking equal to men and get the right to vote for all woman (not just rich white woman like the suffragists did) to HITLER.

[casdeans-pie]

It's just truly baffling how through a combination of accidentally writing the most queer coded character you've ever seen and Jackles' micro expressions they made Dean Winchester so multi layered and complex

[ant1quarian]

More Dust System Things

Murder actually has a cap he likes to wear pretty often.

All of them wear the same clothes and if they ever do switch, it's usually pretty difficult to figure out since they'll just hide their face further (unless it's classic)

Mussan can and will front if Killer ever decides he wants to properly fuck around and find out.

They all have different fighting styles, too, actually

Dust is more of an ambush predator. He's like a leopard slinking silently through the trees, gaze fixed on his prey, waiting for the right time to fuck shit up. He'll chase after a little while but he usually won't attack if you make it clear you know he's around

Classic has a very... well. He dodges- like a rabbit zig-zagging and sprinting back and forth. He's good at getting out of the way from attacks and launching his own in the process- but seeing him fight is very, very rare.

Mussan has prey animal fear when he fights. Someone who has been backed into a corner one too many times and knows that, if he doesn't go all in, he's dead. So he fights like he's planning to die and take you with him.

Murder is, in fact, an endurance predator. In the off chance where you've messed up enough to get this guy pissed at you, he's going to hunt you down. He doesn't care how long it takes. He's hunted Killer, once.

Killer ran. Murder just... slowly followed along behind, up until the point where Killer collapsed to the ground, incapable of continuing due to the heaviness of his limbs. The exhaustion forcing his body to stop- magic sluggish...

... and the only thing that saved him was Nightmare.

They also have different kinds of anger, too. And affection.

Feel free to ask about these guys pfft

[joifee]

Fish fear me, men fear me, fishmen fear me

Heyo I joined @mcyt-halloweens gift exchange and my trad partner was @iicarussea!!! fellow fwhip enjoyer we love to seeeee I just had to go a little overboard and make it really spooky :D hope you like! happy halloween^^

[tropicalcontinental]

Still thinking about that CL16 +TMA crossover thing (spurred by @blinkycravesviolence's post and the discussion that happened on the discord 💥💥💥)

[sluttyhenley]

Come away with me.

MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE - ROGUE NATION dir. Christopher McQuarrie

[robo-milky]

ROOKLOCHE NATION YOU GET TO EAT! I present Rook and Cloche’ very first time meeting face-to-face- Hehe, unofficial sequel of the Rook’s Dove comic (except it’s been way too long and screw it- we’re rolling with the regular school uniform-) What the hell is making a longer comic? I’ll state things as they are at this point 😔

[Notes]

- As a refresher, Rook met feral! Cloche first and is very disappointed that Cloche isn’t as wild as he wanted her to be.

- Feral! Cloche is so much stealthier, agile, and stronger than Cloche. Since regular Cloche is conscious of her movements, her overthinking impedes her body— making her clumsier than feral! Cloche (in terms of mobility.)

- Feral! Cloche definitely adopts a more cat-like behaviour. She can still walk on two legs, but she’ll feel more comfortable running and pouncing on all fours. Cloche’ wildness scales with how strong her emotions are. (Typically running around the forest for an hour should revert her back to her usual mentality, but that feral side may linger if there’s leftover resentment/excitement/any particularly strong feeling.)

- Despite feral! Cloche’ vigour, regular Cloche will suffer the consequences of whatever her other side overworked- Outrunning a threat or doing heavy lifting? Sore muscles afterwards. Ate a wild bird out of stress? Yeah no- Cloche is still gonna get a stomachache or possibly contract whatever disease is in it- 💀

- Intrusive thoughts? Adrenaline? Id? That’s her-

- It’s not common for feral! Cloche to manifest out of negative emotions- more bits of her will pop out when Cloche is particularly happy or pleased.

- Whenever Rook sees Cloche afterwards, he almost never gets to see feral! Cloche again, UNLESS he’s observing as an outsider or Cloche is in that much of an emotional wreck.

- Since Cloche never really did “love” Rook (deluded herself into having a crush on him as a motivation), feral! Cloche is actually indifferent to Rook’s presence. She doesn’t really pop out, and it’s usually regular Cloche conditioning herself to be all giddy/shy about Rook.