[OPEN] Who put me in your way to find?

[hadnoright]

Who: Daisy Tonner (hadnoright) & you!
What: Catch-All for Daisy
When: August
Where: The forest, the hot springs, downtown, etc.
Warnings: Violence, animal death/hunting, intrusive thoughts, nudity, others added as needed



1. What right had you not to let me die? [the forest]

Those who travel out into the forest during the day may find themselves running into a short, relatively petite human-looking woman bodily slamming into a deer or boar that's almost as big as she is. The creature hits the ground with surprising force and when the woman rises, it's whilst wiping the blood from her mouth and rolling her shoulders.

Most of the time, she already knows someone's there before they say a word. So, the animal-like energy to her posture melts away like it was never there at all and she turns toward her audience and says something like, "Don't mind me. Working."

Unless, that is, you've managed to actually sneak up on her. It's not an easy thing to do, but when she's in the heat of a Hunt tunnel vision can take its hold and it's in those moments where a sudden noise might make the Hunter's gaze snap towards it like a beast startled. And it's in those moments where Daisy is most distinctly inhuman, the odd yellow eyes and the teeth and the animal way she holds herself.

And it's in those moments that it takes all of Daisy's restraint not to give into the sound of blood pounding in her ears, telling her to attack. With a growl, she shakes her head and takes a step back. "Jesus fucking christ. Don't sneak around!"

2. Ooh but did I even know what I was asking for? [hot springs]

She doesn't get aches and pains like most people in her profession would after a while, but that doesn't mean the hot springs aren't relaxing in their own right. So, occasionally Daisy makes the trip up to the springs, strips down and slips into the water with zero modesty nor shame about the nudity.

There are scars all over her body, many in places that should've killed her if she hadn't already been long on the way to inhumanity by the time she took the damage that caused them. The biggest, a starburst-like scar marring the back of her shoulder, is only visible if you're looking when she sits up.

3. If I had my way, I'd have missed you more [downtown]

There is a large blonde wolf lying in the yard of Daisy and Erin's house. The wolf may appear at first glance to be asleep, but in reality if you look closer she's a little too visibly tuned into her surroundings for that. Still, she is relaxing. Sunbathing, even.

Occasionally, a Mawhile appears from another part of the garden to try and bite her tail. She seems completely unfazed by this.

Wildcard

Hit me up to plot something or just throw something at me.

Comments

[abhorrently]

She knows Daisy's tracking her, which is why she doesn't let up. Zigzags, doubles back on her own trail, takes a quick diversion on trees with low enough branches. Pretend. Let your mind slip back into something like being pursued, the agitation of it, giving yourself over to the experience. Something that plays with the edges, like a knife pressing just enough into her skin.

She could cast a haste spell, she knows, but it would leave traces. The light in her eyes, the scent of her magic being utilized, and it's all for nothing if she loses concentration. To not use it requires more focus than to use it at all.

When she pauses to take a breath, she's still on the edge, listening for sounds that could be Daisy.

[hadnoright]

Intelligent prey is so much more satisfying than the relative simplicity of the same animal instincts time and again. Daisy never truly loses her trail, but she has to think, she has to stay quick, and it's already a better Hunt than she's had in weeks.

She's quiet, as she chases. Unnaturally so. It's that odd dream logic of the Fears that plays around the edges of even their most physical extensions of will. The Hunter is nigh upon silent, until it's most threatening for her not to be silent, then there are little things—footsteps and breathing where there wasn't before, hints of movement in the near distance.

[abhorrently]

The little things that are enough to send Fever darting off again, resolved to keep it confusing, to vary her speed, to decide where she's going at the last moment. She's almost felled by a stray tree root, but catches herself, nothing worse than a hesitation. She's aware of how loud she is, in the relative stillness - so loud. Every motion feels like it's calling attention to itself.

Her back feels exposed. But it's her throat she worries about more, some muted recollection of having claws tear through it. She touches it, reassures herself that she's intact, eyes darting around for any sign. Oh, but she knows Daisy isn't that sloppy. Anything there, that's intentional.

What if she was a stranger? Made to bleed fear into the air, Fever trying to dig into her own head to let it out enough to be satisfying. And then she hits it, an idea that makes her squirm a little in discomfort but a strange unsettled delight. It's not her that says when this ends, right? It's over only when it's over. Imaginary as it is, it works - just enough, and she wonders if the hunter can taste it.

[hadnoright]

Daisy could drag this out for as long as she pleases. It's a game she's played many times, letting the prey keep thinking they've got a chance—it didn't always pay off, not when she was less experienced, but these days?

If she wanted to, she could've cut this short three twists and turns through the trees ago. Instead, she gives Fever enough rope to tie herself in knots with and draws it out a little longer, really takes the time to indulge in the feeling, in what fear does touch the air.

But, eventually, something shifts. And Daisy lunges.

[abhorrently]

She lunges, and Fever tries to move out of the way of what she anticipates, but it doesn't quite work. She's unbalanced by what of Daisy does hit her, and down she goes, the ground the only place to end up. Her mind screams so as to not lash out with instinctual magic, and she grips onto the little fantasy in her mind, trying to scramble back with the eyes and the look of someone seeing a stranger, an unknown, just like she promised.

(And in a different part of her head, she sighs, burning the sight into her memory. Gods, but Daisy looks beautiful like this.)

[hadnoright]

Daisy catches herself in a low, animalistic crouch. There is a wildness to her, now—in her posture, in her eyes—and yet she clings to control of herself with a vice grip. There is a balance, here. Letting enough of the beast leak through, listening just enough to the blood, to be what she needs to be and yet to not snap. To look at Fever like a stranger, like an attractive bit of prey, and not the dangerous woman and friend she is.

The advance is slower, now. She draws up to her feet to follow Fever's scrambling with a confident ease, to loom over her as if twice the meagre height she really is.

[abhorrently]

It's her presence that does it, the confidence and ease that makes Daisy seem like she encompasses all the space around. She's a stranger, she's not her friend - Fever keeps telling herself that. Holding back, because being in this position usually would not mean she was even close to defenseless. But right now, what Daisy needs is someone in that space. Vulnerable, even though it runs counter to every one of Fever's instincts. The sort who might beg prettily for her life.

She could ask what she wants. Could skip to asking please, don't hurt me, but rejects it as ultimately too pathetic to be believed. Instead, she slows down with moving back, still trying to catch her breath from her flight, and looks at her. Limbs in the metaphorical trap. Like she's trying to find an opening to get up and start running again, to escape, and seeing nothing yet.

(She won't escape. That's not how this game needs to go.)

[hadnoright]

"Nice try."

She advances even as Fever slows, stepping into the space between Fever's lower legs with one foot, the other planted firmly on the outside. Quite literally stepping up into her space, gaze never straying.

[abhorrently]

"What do you want from me?"

Big eyes, uncertain tone. She doesn't know why she was pursued so. Facing down the predator on the losing side, aware of her lacking strength.

[hadnoright]

"Still deciding."

She crouches down, looking Fever in the face with a near unblinking scrutiny, like she's looking for something below the surface. A finger comes up under Fever's chin.

[abhorrently]

"Don't kill me. Please."

Aware of her heartbeat. Of the blood pumping in her veins, under the skin. How fragile it is, easily split under the hunter's claws, and how all prey wants so desperately to live, even when caught.

[hadnoright]

"Mm. Think that'd be a waste."

The tip of the claw on her thumb brushes against Fever's lower lip. Her eyes are darker, now, where her pupils have blown wide with interest where they were once dagger-sharp slivers.

[abhorrently]

Her lips part ever so slightly, an unconscious action. Looking at Daisy, she wonders. What does she see? Can she hear her heartbeat? Did all of this give her anything, even the barest hint of a taste? Does she know that like this, her presence is enormous, squeezing out the air in a room until there's nothing else?

Right, right. The imagined other. Who'd wonder what in the hells she meant, a waste, and be desperate to survive. There are many, many things to do to a person other than kill them, after all. Waiting, the edge of tension as sharp as the claws against her skin.

[hadnoright]

"Your heart's racing." She tilts her head another way. Watching. Studying. Examining. "What do you want me to want?"

The claw presses a little firmer into the skin.

[abhorrently]

Fever swallows, keeps looking up at Daisy. Probably should still play along. But what would someone who's been hunted down to such a point say? Something about I want you to want to let me go, something boring and tearful to try and save their own skin. Something to fight towards life, whatever it means. The terror of losing it must be so potent, to a Hunter's senses. Sensible of their prey to keep pleading, to try and look for the human in the beast. The thing that isn't there.

"To do whatever you want with me."

That's all Fever whispering into the space between them, the role dissolved like mist.

[hadnoright]

The predator in Daisy never really goes away, but the almost cold, blank, studying face gives way to a more genuine, crooked smirk and a glint in her eye.

"Good," she says, then surges forward, catching her in a kiss in the same motion as she pushes her to the ground.

[abhorrently]

The ground being solid against her back is barely even a thought as she sinks into the kiss. Daisy might be the hunter, but this feels like Fever's own prize, able to pour her enthusiasm into it until she's breathless. Really, if she had any idea of shame, she might feel a little to be so into the idea of being caught.

Instead, she'll test how much she's allowed to reach up and touch, hands up aiming to cradle Daisy's face, sink into her hair.

[hadnoright]

Daisy allows it, for now—that's been known to change, for hands to be redirected, held or prompted to stay down. For now, Daisy's own hands are elsewhere, one at Fever's hip and the other against the dirt beneath them. And, all the while, the devouring kiss never breaks.

There's no shyness to the teeth or claws, just a very practiced control.

[abhorrently]

When Daisy asks for a change, it will be heeded, as it always has been. As long as she knows Daisy's enjoying herself, Fever's pliable, willing to try or do nearly anything, including doing as she's told. What she's allowed, then, is a gift to be savored, not yet needing to take her hands off the other woman. Only this, until her chest minorly complains and she has to turn her face to the side, take in air before her head gets dizzy with it all.

"Daisy..."

She really can't pretend to be a stranger for this.

[hadnoright]

There's barely half a breath between Fever turning her head and Daisy's teeth finding her throat instead, grazing lightly along the well-known trail of all the vital structures beneath the skin. Her breathing barely falters, her physicality ever-defined by that supernatural ideal.

Fever's heartbeat pulses in her ears in place of her own. The only response to her name is a low, rumbling growl against skin.

[abhorrently]

The minuscule shudder that runs through her has nothing to do with fear - the thought that Daisy could if she truly, truly wanted to is a pleasure, not a terror. A little further, and that's her life in Daisy's jaws. Though that's not to say she's ever complained about someone deciding to sink their teeth into her, no matter where they choose to bite. But it'd be impossible to lie to Daisy's senses, and there's even more of a little thrill about being known so directly.

Her heart kicks up a little in the familiar pattern of excitement, and she'll risk a little more, let her hands move from Daisy's hair to her shoulders. Testing, figuring out how much she's allowed to touch today.

[hadnoright]

The firm muscles of her shoulders flex and then relax under the touch, all the strength in those tightly-wound cords restrained and yet never more than a thought away from immense violence.

Those teeth trail down and down, until there's a sharp nip at her collarbone. And at the same time, that hand on Fever's hip pushes up beneath the hem of her shirt, not bothering to be all that careful about the claws.

"Always so tempting just to tear these things..." comes almost grumbled against Fever's throat.

[abhorrently]

"So why don't you?"

This might be a problem for her later, out in the open with no replacements. But at present, Daisy tearing apart her clothes is the closest she'll get to being able to safely tear apart her flesh, removing barriers to her prey being soft, exposed, vulnerable to her machinations.

Hell, if she had healing potions on hand, she would encourage Daisy to sink her teeth into her hard enough to draw blood. She still might. Pain mixed with pleasure anchors her into her skin.

[hadnoright]

Well, now, she's not going decline that invitation, is she? The exploring hand pulls out from under the material so she can instead get a grip on it in both, claws tearing holes where her fingers curl.

Easy, from there, to just yank and tear the whole garment to tatters.

[abhorrently]

She knows she asked for it, but having it actually happen still makes Fever let out a tiny involuntary squeak. And yet, there's also a flutter in her heart rate - she liked that a lot.

"Can you do that to the rest?"

There's a joke to be made here about impatience, but she's in no mind to make it.