#cw being hunted

[ant1quar1an]

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:

[archiepelago]

You’re on a path—

Hey wait that’s not a princess.

[robo-milky]

May you enjoy listening to Neige’ radio 🏹🎊

[pixiefeatherkw3]

The Narrator is so MEAN to Hunted specifically in his routes.

that echo needs to sit the hell down and away from el animal de monte if he knows what's good for him(?

“Don't be a coward” he says after Hunted suggested they should find a little hole and rest there.

“It's too late to scramble for freedom now, little voice” he says and mocks him directly for even thinking he can get the princess out. Then proceeds to extend the whole description of starvation and lack of body movement when Hunted (the one moving the body fast enough with a single thought)is the one more panicked about having no way out.

Also Hunted's reaction to the way the Narrator says that you have to stab the Princess' heart from the inside and it doesn't matter what really happens to you. WE CAN HEAR HE FEELS TERRIBLE ABOUT IT TOO: "This is not about survival. This is spite." Hunted is not by any means the most confrontational against The Narrator. That can be applied to the other voices as well, because as we remember "The pack is better than the lone hunter" so he doesn't seem to have a real reason to bicker with them most of the time. The Narrator, whoever, doesn't apply to this, since he is an 'Other' as Hunted accurately calls him. But it seems that with his survival instinct being just focused on TLQ(and with enough trust, The Princess) it rattles the Narrator enough in the wrong way that your survival; and by consequense Hunted's whole existence; becomes a problem for him. So he pins Hunted in the same cruel dehumanizing way he does to the Princess, wich I see more uncalled for by comparison but makes total sense given the context.

Hunted wants you alive. The Narrator just wants the Princess dead.

[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.

[ant1quar1an]

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

[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

[xmintpiex]

today’s thoughts are of chigiri having a crush on his sister’s friend

[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.

[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 💥💥💥)

[szilverer]

some unkind futures

[dollya-robinprotector]

I mentioned this on my pin post, but it won't hurt to emphasize again:

I'm very, very, VERY into INCEST, particularly adopted siblings, siblings, cousins with similar appearances, and especially twin.

Yes, you heard me right.

No, it doesn't mean I'm in love with my irl siblings or cousins, in fact my sister and I share incest fanfics together and squeal together.

No, it doesn't mean I see a pair of twin when I walk outside and immediately think they should fuck. My liking stays on fictional world only.

Yes, this is your sign to unfollow or re-check your blocked-tags list. I will use the tag cw incest, so look out for your own good.

Love ya~✨

[habitual-creatures]

I made a stupid thing because I finally posted the weird ass draft thing that was THIS post.

(( ps. here have a template if you want to make one, I guess...? ))

(( and also, lol. thank you firefox-official and i-am-the-plagu3 for making this chaotic string of posts. I am giggling. ))

[19catsncounting]

Admittedly, I don’t know very much at all about the Vietnam War, active military, and I’m particularly bad with math. But I Don’t Think I Understand John Winchester’s Military Service And Timeline. (If you do Please Help)

US military involvement with Vietnam ends on March 29th, 1973, the same year that the events of ‘In The Beginning’ takes place. John Winchester is born in April of 1954, he is a month shy of being 19 at the end of the war. The Winchesters apparently clarified that John illegally enlisted while underage, which I can buy up to a point. But military contracts are 4/6/8 year contracts. Additionally, I believe the line in the Winchesters says that he forged his father’s signature specifically, meaning he enlisted with parental approval, which only 17 year olds could do. (He also had a fiance at this time…)

If John is a free man in 1973 after, at best, a four year contract, then a 15 year old John Winchester fooled an admittedly desperate military apparatus and spent his high school years not just in Vietnam, but also at least briefly as a POW. (It did happen, at least one 15 year old was killed in action and five 16 year olds were as well.)

Now, Dean Winchester is born in 1979, so it is understandable that John has to be able to meet Mary before that point. John also has to have at least a 12 month tour in Vietnam, so being deployed at the latest in 1972.

But I’m not sure that John and Mary really need six years of not doing much between the events of In The Beginning and Dean’s birth? Is it just so Mary making the demon deal to save John when she can’t save either of her parents can be a twisted parallel to the biblical ‘leave the house of your parents and cleave unto your husband’ notion of commitment?

As I understand canon, John is born in 1954, at the start of the Vietnam war, Henry Winchester goes missing in 1958, John forges documentation to enlist at 15 in 1969, serves a 4 year contract and is a 19 year old war vet who spent time as a POW buying his first car in ‘In the Beginning.’ And his girlfriend, Mary Winchester, survives her parents being brutally murdered in a single night, and then we check in five years later and John’s a mechanic and Mary is pregnant.