#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.

[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.

[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.

[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

[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.

[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.

[cicada-candy]

if anyones wondering what the vibes in the archives in this au are in my head:

This random guy swans into the institute:

1) marked by so many of the fears you'd think he was collecting them,

2) Sneaks up on an Omniscient Avatar Of A God Of Fear, and

3) Baffles a harbinger of death because he Cannot See This One What

and he somehow walks out with a job because the afformentioned god of fear wants to know What His Fucking Deal Is.

Chaos Ensues.

[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^^

[sluttyhenley]

Come away with me.

MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE - ROGUE NATION dir. Christopher McQuarrie

[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

[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. ))

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Adorned by stars | Changing States

When he hits the I-70, Jeremiah slots George Michael’s Faith into his ’98 Accord and drives with the windows down. His mother would chide him for two reasons: a) he’s wasting fuel and b) it’s begun to storm. But he likes the way the wind shears through his hair like a nail breaking drywall and he likes the way spats of rain settle on his skin like constellations because on the road, he isn’t just a hand for someone else to hold, a body to handle, a man who looks at another man and fears how much of himself he’s lost in his reflection. No. On the road he is the sky, adorned by stars of his own making, relentless in his abundance, blinking in the absence of any other light.

A little Changing States aesthetic & excerpt!

i'm so normal about him i'm so normal i'm so normal i'm so-

[wolfpackmuses-a]

Closed starter for @blxestar​

Crookedstar paced back and forth outside the nursery, glancing up at every sound and movement that occurred inside. He had been nervous all morning since Bluefur had begun to come down with kits just on the edge of the ThunderClan and RiverClan border and he cursed at himself for having had met her tonight, just for this to happen. He was annoyed, but he knew she was in good paws with Brambleberry and Mudfur, who was quickly becoming a very knowledgeable medicine cat, would help ease her pain and help with the kitting.

Brambleberry had basically been inside the nursery with Bluefur since she arrived with Crookedstar to RiverClan’s camp a few hours prior, with Mudfur running to and from the medicine cat den with herbs, sticks, and whatever else was needed. When Mudfur was busy, Crookedstar was more than happy to help, having gathered fresh moss and water for his mate, and of course better materials for her nest to make her more comfortable.

It had been a while since he had heard anything from inside the den and Mudfur had sent him away, so he could stop pacing back and forth worrying himself,

❝She’ll be fine, she’s in good paws, just trust me Crookedstar,❞ Mudfur had told him with a genuine smile,  ❝She’ll be fine, don’t worry.❞

And he had kept the medicine cat apprentice and Brambleberry to that. He had also kept to himself, trying to preoccupy himself with other things, meaning he had organized the dawn patrols, gotten the hunting parties together, and helped the mentors with what they should train their apprentices on for that day.

Cedarpelt had let him do so, knowing that Crookedstar wanted to keep busy, but the deputy padded up to Crookedstar after he was done, sitting beside him. He looked to the young leader, seeing his fur being spiked with worry, and a look of worry still plastered to his face.

Cedarpelt used his tail to smooth out his leader’s fur and to reassure his old apprentice,

❝Everything will be alright. . It’s green-leaf, she couldn’t have asked for a better time to have kits,❞ he whispered and Crookedstar nodded, giving a small sigh.

❝I know, I know, but after the other issues we’ve had, I j-❞ he was stopped mid-sentence by Cedarpelt, who had slapped his tail over Crookedstar’s muzzle,

❝She’ll. Be. Fine,❞ he said again, much more stern, to which Crookedstar nodded again, this time fully understanding. Cedarpelt dropped his tail and Crookedstar looked back across the clearing as Mudfur exited the nursery to fetch a bit more damp moss and quickly returned only a few minutes later into the den.

Crookedstar could only sit impatiently and wait. His nerves were getting the better of him and he was thinking of worse case scenarios the entire time. He didn’t know what to do or say, before a yowl broke his thoughts,

❝Crookedstar!❞ Brambleberry yowled from the nursery to him across the clearing.

Crookedstar scampered to his feet and sprinted across the clearing, being met by Brambleberry outside the nursery, Crookedstar giving her a worried look that quickly melted when he saw the prideful look on her face and the happiness that shone in her eyes,

❝Have a look,❞ she whispered to the leader,  ❝Two kits. One tom, one she-cat. I won’t spoil anything else, but Bluefur absolutely wants you to help name them.❞

Crookedstar smiled from one side of his crooked jaw to the other and dipped his head to Brambleberry, who returned the head dip with her own,

❝Thank you, Brambleberry,❞ he breathed and quickly moved his way into the den to meet his mate,

❝Well? How are they? What do they look lie? Are they already warriors?❞ Crookedstar asked excitedly as he moved over to his mate. He moved around the back side of her body, lying down, and then curling around her body with his own. He stuck his crooked right leg out, that still wasn’t healed fully, and looked at her with joy filling his heart and his body swimming with nervous feelings.

Mudfur looked on at the scene, giving a small purr of amusement,

❝I guess not even the strongest of leaders can hide their excitement about kits,❞ he commented with a chuckle, to which Crookedstar shot him a glance that was of slight annoyance with him, but it wasn’t mean spirited and Mudfur knew that.

❝Come on! I want to see them!❞ he breathed to Bluefur, excitement glittering in his eyes.

[robo-milky]

SHOEHORNING MY BELOVED NICHE CLASSICS INTO TWST ONCE AGAIN— HELLO!! …may or may not elaborate if asked-