#Put a gun to my head and paint the wall with my brains. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keravnous · 2 years ago

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the hunter! ; tangerine x fem!reader (smut, 18+)

read pt. 1 here | read pt. 2 here | read pt. 3 here

Tangerine expected someone else - but he'll do just fine with you, too.

(Based on that one scene from the Kraven The Hunter trailer where he turns around in that chair with the loaded crossbow)

warnings: kids, this is dark; this is like the darkest version of tangerine my brain has cooked up thus far; he is a sociopath by source sooo: manipulation; dub-con/non-con, coercion, gun kink, anger issues, crying, blood, murder/injuries, daddy kink, masturbation, slight dumbification, name-calling, pet names, corruption kink, spit kink

SO I SAW THE KRAVEN THE HUNTER TRAILER AND I REALLY COULDNT HELP MYSELF

"You fucking asshole!", you scream at the top of your lungs, bursting through the large door of your husband's office. It slams back into the lock just as you come to a halt on the expensive fur carpet in the middle of the spacious room.

His chair is facing the wall, a lit cigarette slowly glimming away in the ashtray. It lights up your rage like a match to gasoline.

"I am fucking speaking to you, you fucking dickhead! Can't you keep your dirty-ass dick out of that disgusting bitch you call a secretary for one day?", you are fuming, heart racing as you stomp down with your left heel, throwing your expensive and ridiculously small purse at him, missing the chair by nearly a whole foot. It crashes into the massive painting hanging behind the desk, where it leaves a nasty cut before falling to ground uselessly.

Your husband does not react and that, oh that, that get's you going alright, makes your blood race through your veins so hard you can hear it in your ears.

"I am fucking speaking to you -- turn the fuck around you coward!", you yell, hands clutched to tight fists, your jewellery cutting into the flesh.

Slowly, comedically slowly even, the chair turns. The man sitting in it puts his feet up on the table, legs clad in an expensive navy pin-stripe as he crosses them. And that --

That is not your husband.

The man, sitting in a chair that clearly isn't his, in an office that surely doesn't belong to him, is lean and a lot more handsome than the man you so reluctantly married a few years ago. His face is expressionless, bland like piece of paper, except for the anger pooling around his eyes. He is wearing an expensive looking pin-stripe suit and his hair is neatly combed back, 70s porn stache trimmed just as carefully - the only thing that looks out of place is the blood splattered on his face like freckles, one large splatter on his left cheek.

He is also pointing a gun at you. An actual fucking gun.

"And who the fuck are you, Lady?", he says, casually, but a little irritated nonetheless.

You choke on your own tongue, backing up a little. This is not good. It has your fight or flight kicking in, muscles in your back and legs tensing up and brain going numb, fingers starting to tingle.

"Don't ya move an inch", he growls, his gun following your movement. You freeze. You wonder if he will actually shoot you. You wonder what he is doing here.

"I-, I--"

The man rolls his eyes at you - pretty, pretty eyes; blue like the sea - and huffs out an exasperated sigh.

"Fuckin' answer me." His tone sends shivers down your spine and, if you did not already do so by his gun, you now know for sure that he is not playing around.

"I-", you take a deep breath, voice shaking and thin, "I- I am Markov's wife?"

It comes out more like a question, than an answer, really. You hope it will do; you hope he is happy with what is the - for you, rather sad - truth.

Tangerine cocks an eyebrow, leans back in the leather chair, gun still pointing at you. "'S that so?"

"Y-yes", you gulp.

"Didn't know he had a wife", he mutters, more to himself, really.

Tangerine can feel how the wheels in his head start to turn - the intel didn't suggest a marriage. It genuinely surprises him - not only because people in this profession rarely have spouses - but also because the young lady in front of him is way too pretty. Angelic, even. Too good for a boastful, careless cockroach of a criminal like Markov is. And he wants her, wants to own her. Wants to take take take. He wonders just how quickly she will break.

You, in the meantime, sense an opening.

"W-what do you want? I can g-give you money", you hastily stumble over the words, anxiety crawling up your spine, "A-all of it!"

The man raises his eyebrows, snorts amused. "No, love, I don't need your money."

"A-anything, p-please - just, just", and the dam breaks, eyes tearing up as your eyes zero in on the gun, "Just please d-don't kill me."

Something in his eyes changes, a dark shadow dancing over his face, eyebrows shooting up in surprise and then he pulls back the hammer of his revolver with his thumb. Your knees buckle a little as you hear the bullet snapping in place.

"Care to say that again, eh?" - Anything for your life, really.

"P-please don't kill me", you nearly sob, voice small and quiet, and you are ready, willing to put it all in there, "Please, I am begging you, Mister. I- I don't know why you're here, this - this is one big misunderstanding, I don't know anything about my husband's business. J-just let me go, please."

He does not move. You don't want to die, you are young, you still have a life to live. Maybe you will finally file for divorce. Maybe you will buy a house in Europe. Maybe, maybe, maybe -- You don't want to die.

"Please."

Tangerine says nothing for a moment, then his lips tilt up. "Tell me, love, d'ya beg for him that prettily, too? Or 's that just f'me?"

You blink. "What?", you blurt out.

"Jus' lemme hear it again, sugar - sounded so sweet, that."

You do not know what game he is playing but you really aren't ready to die yet either, so you give in.

"Please", you beg, looking at him with big, teary eyes - the barrel of the revolver stares back, a small black hole of ultimate death -, "Please, let me live." His lips tilt up and you decide to make a move on it, catch him off-guard.

"I-I'd do anything, I give you whatever you want!", you are growing desperate now, your brain trying its hardest to come up with something that will safe your ass. And that, that has his eyebrows knotting together.

The man seems to mull it over for a short while, eyes you up and down. Your skin tingles with it, feels numb and like it is on fire at the same time. "Did ya just say Anything, love?"

"I-I did, y-yes", and your voice grows desperate, "I'd do anything - just don't kill me, please, what do you want, I'll do --"

You ramble on and Tangerine rolls his eyes at you, exhales annoyed.

"Fuckin' shut up", he growls and you do, chin quivering a little with the tears still pooling in the corners of your eyes. You blink them away, sniffling a little.

"Here's what we're gonna do, love", he smiles cooly, shows his teeth like a predator, eyes drilling into you, "We're gonna have a little fun. And once we're done, I'll let ya go. How does that sound? Agreed?"

You have a suspicion what fun means, both, painfully clear and enforced by the way his gaze wanders over your body and you gulp. You really don't have a choice now, do you?

So you can hear yourself say: "Y-yes."

"Yes --?", he lifts his gun a little, gestures with it, "C'mon be a good girl."

Your eyes widen. You are not stupid; you know what he most likely wants to hear - you have met men like him before your marriage - and despite it making your stomach tingle a little it also makes painfully clear what he is imagining as A little fun.

Your voice is small, fingers fumbling with the hem of your tweed blazer. "Y-yes, Daddy", shivers run down your spine as his eyes turn dark dark dark, gaze transfixed by you and then he barks out a mean laugh.

"Fuckin' hell", what?, "I wanted you to thank me, you dumb fuckin' thing, not be a complete 'n utter slut about it."

Shame burns on your cheeks and you scramble for words - anything to say, to excuse or justify yourself - as mortification swallows you whole, crawls up your spine and mingles with your fear, has your head swimming.

"What a poor lil' airhead ya are", he grins at you meanly, "But I like it, go 'head, keep callin' me that. Probably gets you all wet, dunnit?"

You shake your head wildly - "N-no" - bottom lip quivering a little and he knows you are lying.

And Tangerine starts to grow bored. He has been feeling quite bored for a good while - since he blew Markov's lights out to be exact. He wishes he had not done it so soon, would have rather tied him up and let him watch how he has his way with his wife. Tangerine sighs, puffs his cheeks and let’s go off a breath dramatically, looks you straight in the eye.

"Alright, listen. I just don't have all day, so ya better get going, before I pop ya too", he waves his revolver at you, "Get undressed. 'n do it slowly."

You nod - I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die - fingers brush over the first button of your blazer, as he interrupts you: "Ah ah ah, what d'ya say?"

Your eyelids flutter and your knees feel like giving in. "Y-yes, Daddy."

Tangerine hums deep in his throat. "Atta girl - now keep going."

With shaking hands, cold sweat pooling between your fingers, you start to slowly unbutton the first few buttons of your costume's blazer. It's a Chanel tweed set, since you had just been out with some friends for lunch, before one of them told you about what had she'd seen yesterday. Part of you wishes you had never left the restaurant, just shrugged it off and ordered another drink instead. You don't even know why you fight for this marriage - you never really spoke to him; he never touched you or even really looked at you - not that you minded that much. But it's losing your status, the money he brings in, that you'd miss and thus, you had grown a nice pair of manicured claws over time.

See where that got you.

Your blazer falls to the ground with a thud and Tangerine licks his lips. And that is when another part of you, very quietly at the back of your mind, is a little glad you came here. It's in his eyes mostly, a strange and unknown hunger, like an animal gone wild. And it ignites something in you, shoots pleasure straight down your loins and has your breath hitching.

No one, no one has ever looked at you like that, like he is close to dashing over the desk and swallowing you whole, eating you up and ripping you apart with razor-sharp teeth.

Your blouse follows next, as you pop open the first few buttons, pulling the thin fabric out of your short tweed skirt. It flows to the ground shortly after, leaves you in your bra, skirt, and heels. Tangerine does not give you as much as a few seconds to accommodate to being partially exposed to him, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

"Skirt's next, darlin'."

You inhale audibly through your lips and Tangerine chuckles quietly at that as you unhook the clasp on your skirt, slooowly pulling down the zipper at the side. You feel ridiculous, like a very bad caricature of a housewife stripping for her husband. It's nothing like you imagined it to be, fingers buried deep inside of you, imagining your husband to be someone else, someone prettier, someone who valued you - someone who you'd love to get dirty for. You don't feel sexy or tempting - but to him you certainly do look the part, the way your body quivers and shakes, all shy by avoiding his gaze.

The expensive tweed falls to the floor and you step out of the fabric of your clothing, pooling around your feet. You gulp, carefully looking up at him. You wonder if he likes what he sees, if it's enough for him to spare your life, to --

Tangerine's heart skips a beat, a sharp noise erupting in his ears. The lingerie you are wearing, a stunning pale-pink lace set, hugs your curves nicely and leaves nothing to the imagination - with the way your nipples poke through the bra, the string cupping your cunt, dipping a little into the cleft of your folds.

He can also see the damp patch on your lacey string and it makes his dick rock-hard, pressing against his slacks. He lifts an eyebrow, as he looks at you. "Who would've thought", and you blush, swallowing, "He married a common whore."

The humiliation burns on your cheeks, turns them red and your mouth goes dry, but there's also fresh wetness pooling between your legs at his words. Oh, you are fucked.

He reads you like an opened book, watches you shifting uncomfortably. "Say it", he whispers softly.

You swallow, licking your lips, before replying quietly: "I am a common whore - Daddy."

"That you are, darlin', aren't ya", Tangerine grins, "Get that bra off, show me what ya got."

You reach back and unclasp the soft lace, pulling the strings over your shoulders and down your arms, carelessly throwing the fabric to the side. Tangerine tilts his head a little, his eyes assessing your tits. He seems satisfied, waves his revolver at you.

"Touch yourself, I wanna see those pretty tits movin'", swallowing, your hands come up, damp with cold sweat and cup your tits, bouncing and squeezing them a little, pressing them together. You do not dare looking at him, gaze focussed on the desk instead, hands brushing over your breasts.

You just started rolling your left nipple between your index finger and thumb, gasping quietly, the slight pain and pleasure running straight between your legs as he suddenly moves. You flinch, arms immediately clutching around your exposed chest while he gets up, deliberately strolls over to you.

Maybe he is not satisfied, he surely isn't, it must've been too little, not enough he's gonna kill you, kill you, kill you --

"Such perfect fuckin' tits", he weighs his revolver in his hands, the metal of it clinking against his rings, and closes in on you. "Have ya been touched often?", the barrel of the gun hooks underneath your chin and your lift your head with it obediently, looking up at him. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, your eyes big and teary again. You don't think he's one to slip on the trigger but it still has anxiety crawling up your spine - don't kill me, don't kill me, don't kill me --

"Answer me, ya stupid twat."

You just wish he would take that fucking gun away from your face.

"N-no", you answer truthfully. The last time you had sex was literal ages ago, in your time at Harvard. Since your parents had married you off you haven't been touched by another fucking human being, assured so by the constant observation of your husband's men. He was allowed to cheat, but God forbid you had some fun. So, you had retreated to fucking yourself, lacking any physical contact, making every single time you masturbated feel shallow and incomplete. Tangerine watches the way your face changes as you reminisce.

"Oh, ya poor thing", he coos, his hand coming up to cup your cheek and you look up at him, "Bet that felt horrible, didn't it?"

And you nod, his thumb caressing your cheek and you get a first good look at him. He is really pretty. The blood looks good on him, bright red in a glooming contrast to his blue eyes. Your head swims with it a little. "How did that make ya feel, eh?"

"Lonely", you croak, before you can stop yourself, a few tears running down your cheeks, pooling between his fingers and rings.

He hums in his throat. "Bet it did", something dances across his eyes, "D'ya want someone to take care of ya? D'ya want to stop feeling so bloody lonely all the time?"

The truth behind his words runs you over like a freight train, barely leaves you wondering with how he got that about you so fast, brain erupting in a static noise.

You do. You feel lonely, locked up in a golden cage of money and bodyguards, with no one opening its door to spend some time with the little bird inside.

"Y-yeah", you whisper, blinking away the tears.

"Wanna know something, love?", and you nod, carefully, not to spook him into shooting, "I could be that person. How's that sound, eh? I could keep ya safe -"

Tangerine's hand leaves your cheek and touches your waist instead, a feather-light touch that has goosebumps spreading all over your body.

"I could touch ya -", his hand sprawls over your lower back, "'N keep you happy, get ya lots'n lots of pretty, sparkly things."

Your breath hitches, brain slowly growing mushy because - because, despite the gun underneath your chin, that does sound heavenly. It sounds easy. Painless. Better. A little exciting even.

"C'mon, how's that sound?", he coos, hand running over your back, to your side again, thumb toying with the hem of your string.

"Sounds so good, Daddy", you sigh, images of a new life, a different life flashing by.

"Mh, I know it does. I could take you with me, make ya mine. You'd love that, wouldn't ya?", his fingers dance over your abdomen, dipping lower and between your legs. His thumb presses down on the damp patch, rubs over your clit, his bracelet rustling.

And it is like your brain has completely given up, surrendering yourself to this very handsome man. But you just can't since - "I-I am married", you croak, a little helplessly, like you don't quite know what to make out of that either.

He does, anger flickering behind his eyes like someone pulled a lighter out and ignited his gaze.

Tangerine growls, the barrel of his revolver pressing against your temple roughly, thumb rubbing smaller circles over your clit through your dampened string, "You belong to me now, d'ya understand? There's nothing he can do about it, y'hear me?"

"Y-yes Daddy, I do", you whine, eyelids fluttering and small tears running down your cheeks.

"Oh, stop fuckin' crying - I can feel how wet ya little cunt's gotten, fuckin' slut", and you blink up at him, a small gasp escaping your mouth as your gazes meet through teary eyes.

You just look so fucking hot to him. Adrenaline from his kill still pumps through his veins and it makes him so so mad, his ears ringing. He feels like he is about to fucking burst and your tears only spurr him on, making something in his stomach growl, stretching its claws out.

Tangerine is too far gone already, everything tinted red red red and he just wants to lash at you, bury his teeth in your throat and end your life like that, bury his dick deep inside of you and feel you twitch around him while blood spurts from your open wound, flows from your mouth. He wants.

But you are also so very very pretty to him, tears running down your cheeks, lips plush and quivering a little and nipples hard like glass, testing his patience with the way they poke out at him.

"Or actually, don't", his lips curl up into a cold smile, "I like to see you cry, hm? Y'real pretty like this."

And you sob heavily, his words making your head swim. Pretty pretty pretty - when was the last time someone called you pretty?

"Oh, darlin'", Tangerine whispers, gun grazing your temple, thumb rubbing small and hard circles on your clit, "Don't be hurt by Daddy, hm? I don't mean to hurt ya, now do I?"

"N-no", you shake your head a little, "Di-didn't hurt m-me."

"Mhm, you are such a good girl, aren't ya? Never hurt by your new Daddy, eh?"

You shake your head again but this time, his face grows stern. "Ah ah ah, words, love. Use your words."

"N-no, y-you could never hurt me."

"Yeah, I couldn't, how could I? I can say anything to you, call you whatever I like and you would never be hurt, would ya?"

And you do not want him to be angry, do not want him to think that he could hurt you - so that he doesn't accidentally slip and does just that - and you notice that fresh tears stream down your cheeks.

"I-I wouldn't, no", you blink away the tears and Tangerine smiles at you.

"That's right. I can call you whatever I like", his thumb speeds up and you moan sweetly, "What d'ya think? Doesn't slut fit you well?"

He says it with such adoration that you cannot help but sigh, nodding. "Y-yeah, it does", you reply quietly, ready to wear it with pride.

"Alright then, slut - take that sorry excuse of a panty off."

You follow his command, shaking fingers hooking underneath the hem of your string, pulling it down slowly.

"Faster, you dumb fuckin' slut."

"Uh-huh", you mumble, nodding, and hastily shoving your string down your legs until it falls down and pools at your feet - a pretty pink on a bright fur carpet. Now, with being fully naked, you feel incredibly vulnerable.

You still wonder if he really won't hurt you. You decide that if you stick by rules, he most likely won't.

Tangerine slowly walks around you, like a predator surrounding its prey, then comes to a halt behind you. The barrel of his revolver presses against the nape of your neck and then glides over your body - down down down - cold metal against warm skin, and then he reaches around your waist. The gun grazes your abdomen and slips between your legs, barrel running cooly through your folds. And you can't hold back the moan crawling up your throat, parting your lips, has you inhaling sharply.

"Yeah, that's more like it, innit?", he rubs the cold metal along your folds, "I can fuckin' smell how wet your cunt is."

And you can hear it, too - the way your pussy squelches obscenely around the barrel, wetness dripping down your thighs. Your knees buckle as the metal rubs along your clit, has you moaning shyly.

Tangerine wraps one arm around you, holds you upright with your back pressed flush against his chest and your heartbeat starts to pick up as you feel his hard dick pressing against your ass, hotly through his slacks.

"Lift your leg, love", he whispers, moustache brushing over the shell of your ear and you comply like you are a fucking robot, and his large hand wraps around the back of your knee, holds your leg up. You mewl as the gun wanders further, barrel brushing against your hole and then dips in with barely any effort, so so slick by your juices and your breath hitches, whole body trembling as the cold metal enters you.

"O-oh", you gasp dumbly, your body sacking back against him. The barrel isn't too big, barely larger than a finger, and rather short but it still feels - good? Tangerine starts to fuck you with it slowly, moves the gun in and out of you and your head swims with the thought, that he could just pull the trigger and blow your lights out, could leave you here bleeding to death.

Your legs start to shake, anxiety and lust mingling dangerously, and in a desperate attempt for any leverage your hand shoots up, reaches back and finds the back of his neck, clutches onto it, fists the pristine white banker's collar of his shirt.

"Yeah, that feels fuckin' good, dunnit?"

"Uh-huh", you breathe, the cold metal pumping in and out of you has lust pooling your stomach and you look down to where his tattooed arm wraps around your waist, where the black sparrow and the golden bracelet vanish along your pussy - watching the way you can see the grip and trigger moving against your folds.

You should be scared, afraid of him and afraid of the gun fucking into you - but you just aren't. Lust washes over your brain, makes everything go just a little hazy, wraps you in cotton candy - hot and syrupy, sweet.

"My god - shit", you breathe, your cunt aching to be touched and you wish for the barrel to just be a bit longer, able to fuck you properly, reach the parts only his cock could - the one that's pressing against your ass hotly, pulsing through his slacks. Instead, you roll your hips once, best you can with his iron grip on your thigh, meeting the thrusts of his gun.

It has you whining, the way the cold metal presses against your hot and slick skin, throwing your head back, resting on his shoulder. Tangerine moves in, like a hungry animal, lips and stache brushing over your exposed shoulder, tickling the naked skin while his eyes wander down your body - taking in your desperate thrusts, bouncing tits and hard nipples. You are fucking hot, maybe the hottest thing he has seen in a while, hotter than the tarts he fucks sometimes.

You seem clean - innocent and virginal and it nearly makes him bust a nut thinking about you: on all fours crawling towards him, sucking his cock until your throat bruises and you are a crying mess, tied to the bedposts taking him like a good fucking personal sex doll would. He groans against your skin, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your leg.

The sound has you vibrating. It leaves you wanting, wanting to feel more, to feel full; to hear more of him, more of where that came from. You can't hold yourself back. "D-daddy", you moan, the feeling of his hard dick pressing against you and the warmth that his firm chest radiates leaving you a little dizzy, "N-need your cock."

Tangerine chuckles against your shoulders. "Oh, now you're wantin' something, eh? What about me, love? What about our little deal?"

"'S for y-you, too", you whine helplessly.

"Oh no no no", he sounds genuinely amused, presses the gun snugly against your aching cunt and your legs tremble, "Don't ya try to get me all soft 'n shit, hm? You'll lose, love, you'll lose."

His tongue darts out, licks a fat stripe over your neck, testing your sweat mingling with your expensive perfume. It takes all his willpower not bury his teeth into your soft flesh until he draws blood and life fades from your eyes.

"N-need m-more", you gasp, hole clenching around the short barrel, cunt needy and aching and squirting against his fingers and the gun in anticipation.

"Well, then -- Why don't ya show me how you got yourself off all those years, hm? Show me how to work that sweet cunt of yours", his lips brush over the nape of your neck and your knees buckle at the soft touch, "Show Daddy how to do it."

Tangerine pulls the gun out of you and you gasp, eyelids fluttering, hole clenching around nothing at the loss, wanting the friction back and he slowly puts your leg back down. His hand brushes up your thigh and waist, rests on your shoulder, presses down a little. And you turn to puddy in his hands, knees giving in and you sink down, landing on your knees with a soft thud.

The fur feels soft around your knees and you lay your head back obediently, looking up at him through hazy eyes. You can see him swallowing, licking his lips. His revolver drips with your juices.

His hand grabs your chin, slight pressure on your throat and then he moves in, rubs his crotch over the back of your head. You can feel his hard, big dick against your skull and you can't help your mind from wandering there, wondering how might he taste.

"Feel that? That's what ya fuckin' slutty behaviour does t'Daddy", he bows down, grins at you and then, without warning, spits.

You flinch as his saliva hits your face, lands across your forehead and you cheeks. His thumb spreads it out, rubs it into your skin and you moan, humiliation pooling in your stomach and shooting down between your legs.

Tangerine chuckles, straightens back up and the hand leaves your face, your throat. "Spread ya legs, I wanna see what's gonna be mine."

You comply, sitting down on your ass and planting your feet in front of you, heels digging into the soft fur. He strolls around you, makes is way back to the desk.

"'N you fuckin' whore better put on a fuckin' good show for me, too", he growls, "It's what ya want, innit? Be a good girl f'me?"

It kind of is. The part of your brain that just doesn't want to die is oddly silent. There is something else, something that buries its claws deep deep in your mind and tears and tears and tears until everything is a little mushy and your brain complies - good girl good girl good girl.

Tangerine leans against the table, crosses his feet and places his hands on the edges, gun dangling from his slender fingers. "C'mon love, ya better don't wanna keep me waiting."

You look down at yourself and a surprised gasp leaves you mouth - you are incredibly wet, thighs sticky with your own juices. You run your fingers through your folds in awe, feeling your own slick, and you moan as you brush by your clit. You need more, body and cunt aching for it and your index finger starts to rub over your clit.

Squelching sounds erupt between your legs and you mewl at the sensation, your cunt so responsive, hole fluttering and your free hand darts out, grabs the fur beneath you.

"Such a pretty fuckin' cunt ya got", and your gaze darts up at him, stomach doing a funny little flip as your eyes meet his, breath hitching in your throat.

Tangerine licks his lips, gestures with his gun. "Rub faster, I wanna hear more of ya sweet moans, slut."

You comply immediately, rubbing your clit faster and you do moan for him, gasping with the pleasure shooting through your body, igniting your nerves. You throw your head back, not waiting for his next instruction, adding a second finger, rubbing large and quick circles around your clit, hips bucking and rolling against them, heightening the sensation.

Arching your back you moan and gasp, lust swallowing you whole and taking over your brain - eradicating anything and everything despite the need to feel more more more.

"C'mon, I know you wan'it, push one in and finger yourself", and your other hand flies to your wanton pussy; index finger briefly, impatiently circling your hole before eagerly dipping in, burying itself deep in one quick thrust. You hiss, quickly exchanged by a sweet gasp as you bottom your finger out.

You start to move it in and out of you, rubbing it along your walls and you can't help but sink onto your back, mewling as it enters you deeper, slips back in more easily. You feel so so dirty, naked in nothing but your jewellery and heels with his spit across your face, but you have never felt better either.

"O-one more, please", you beg, "Please, let me have one more."

Don't you just beg so prettily? He wonders if you will beg like that when he will shove a plug up your ass and fuck your throat, stuffing your cunt with a vibrator. He wonders if you will ask for another one to fuck your ass.

Oh, he will ruin you alright. "Since you ask so nicely", he coos, "Go ahead, slut. Whatever ya need."

Pushing a second finger in, the circles you rub on your clit become smaller and faster. You moan in rhythm with your fingers thrusting into you, curling them a little. Your legs go a little limp, knees darting away from each other, giving him an even better view of your assault on your pussy, the way your slick spreads up to your thighs. Your cunt gushes around your fingers as you force them in deeper, squirts against your hand.

Tangerine watches you coming apart smugly, weighs his revolver in his hands. Who would've thought a simple gun was enough to get you to buckle, give in and surrender yourself to him?

You are his now, he will never let you got. He will keep you and train you and make you needy and dumb for no one else but him.

The thought nearly makes his chest burst with the power trip it sends him on, and he spreads his legs a little, feels his hard cock pressing against his slacks. He can't fucking wait to get in that sweet sweet cunt of yours - show you how a real man fucks his wife, fucks what belongs to him. Tangerine can see, even from where he is standing, that you are fucking tight - the way your hole stretches around your delicate fingers has him licking his lips.

He can't fucking wait to claim you.

"Yeah, I can see he never fucked you properly", Tangerine rasps, shakes his head in silent disapproval as you mewl, arching your back, "I'd take care of you, y'know? Y'want that, don't ya?"

You nod nod nod, moaning as your fingers brush over your walls, stretching you out as you scissor yourself open - thinking about how good his huge fucking dick would feel inside of you instead - your hole fluttering around your digits.

"Bet ya do, lil' slut. Daddy's gonna take real good care of ya, ya'd never ever have to think again. Jus' lemme do the thinking."

"Shit, please, yes", you moan, rocking down on your fingers, pushing a third one in. You are so so full, juices squelching around your hole and wetting your hand and the fur underneath you but it's not enough. You start to pump the in and out of you quicker, deep thrusts hitting the spot inside of you just right.

"Yeah, I'd tell you exactly what to do", Tangerine hums, "I'd be coming home and tell my little slut to bend over the fuckin' kitchen table, stuff her tight 'n needy holes, 'n what would she say?"

"I-I'd thank y-you", you nearly cry out, your whole body feeling light and shuddering at the thought.

"Mhm, atta girl - and if I put ya pretty throat on a leash? Drag ya through the house and stuff ya full of toys? What would ya say to Daddy?"

"T-thank you, Daddy", you huff, chest heaving with your rapidly approaching orgasm, legs tensing up and toes curling.

"And what would ya say when I let ya cum, slut?"

"Thank you!", you sob, the two fingers on your clit rubbing mercilessly, your other hand fucking you hard and fast.

"That's a good girl. Lemme hear it then, cum you fuckin' whore."

Your orgasm hits you like a fucking train, your cunt pushing your fingers out as you convulse around them - a high pitched chant Thank you thank you thank you falling from your lips. Your arms fall to the side uselessly as you ride your orgasm out, wave after wave of warm squirt wetting the fur, as you moan and roll your hips, leaving you breathless.

Your eyes flutter open as you hear footsteps, see him approaching. He is still holding his revolver, the outline of where his large cock is pressing angrily against his expensive trousers.

"Too sad your husband couldn't just see that, eh?", there is genuine joy marking Tangerine's features, making his bright eyes gleam.

Oh shit - that reminds you of something.

"W-where is he?", you croak, legs still shaking with your recent orgasm, body sinking into the fur.

"Oh, love", he seems to smile at you, but his eyes don't join in on his lips tilting up, "He's right 'ere, ain't he?"

He points his revolver away from you, to the side and your eyes warily follow the movement. There is nothing there except the locked closet and --

And a dark pool of something on the ground, a trail of it slooowly creeping your way over the polished floor boards. It looks like-

You stretch your arm out, fingers darting out and the index finger dipping into the liquid. It's still warm and sticky.

And red. It does not take a genius to get what it is.

Tangerine licks his lips as he watches you, how realization creeps in, changes your facial expression. You look horrified and his dick twitches at the sight.

He closes in on you, bows down over your exposed body and grabs your hand roughly, pulls it in. "Would'ya mind cleaning that up f'me, love?", and your eyelids flutter and you do, like you are on autopilot, licking your dead husband's blood from your finger.

"Mhm", Tangerine hums and you gag a little around the metallic taste, which makes his face light up. He pulls his finger from your mouth, unbuckles his belt instead. "I think, I really might just keep ya."

"Y-you said you'd let me go", you gasp as his hand dips between your legs.

"Well, love - change of plans, innit?"

#tangerine #tangerine bullet train #tangerine x reader #tangerine x y/n #tangerine imagine #kraven the hunter #kraven #my writing #smut #bullet train #bullet train 2022

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missfrustration · 3 months ago

Text

grip on the barrel (toji fushiguro x reader, 18+)

rating: explicit 18+, minors do not interact!

tags: pwp, shameless smut, canon universe, hate sex, misogynistic and sexist language, degradation, gun kink, muzzle kink, masturbation, semi-public sex, vaginal sex, co-workers, not for the faint of heart

A/n: the following content contains some pretty intense gunplay, and some seriously fine toji content, you have been very warned! on ao3 here!

word count: 2.3k

-----------

“I didn’t think you were the type to torture someone after they spit out everything they know.”

“I didn’t think I would be hired to work with a brat like you.”

The man in front of you methodically wiped off his stained knives before putting them in an engorged purple worm you couldn’t believe was real. You shook it off.

“Maybe if you weren’t so bold in how you handle your missions, I wouldn’t have to help your sorry ass, Toji.”

The man says nothing, choosing to lazily stride ahead of you to the rendezvous spot in the tunnel of back alleys.

Although you were hired specifically for your information-gathering skills and methods, you were not fully briefed on the assigned target, the ‘Vessel.’ Yet here you are, with the secretive organization’s lead hitman at their disposal, Toji Fushiguro.

You catch up to him, pointing a conniving finger at the side of his face. It’s the same side that has that harrowing scar on his mouth.

“And what you did back there? I’ve been doing this as long as you, Toji, and we both know a chump that’ll start talking after a few punches. Bringing in the damn armory fucks up our plan when you start cutting off tongues.”

“Let’s get one thing straight, little lady.” He turns to you, towering over your figure with an intimidating presence that is overly purposeful. The blood on his chest from the mission is prominent, with no intention of him to hide it. “I don’t play when there’s money on the line. If you don’t follow my lead, we don’t do the job right, and you’ll end up like them. Got it?”

You step up to him, unbothered by his threat. He cocks his head at your audacity to challenge him.

“I can work fine on my own. Not my fault your m.o. is shitty enough to have a girl like me work with you.”

“The only time I work with girls like you is when they have hands that please me. Don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart.” He clicks his tongue at you, rubbing his neck. To him, you’re a pest he’s stuck with that he has no intention to entertain.

“I’m sure they get paid to please you. Must be dehumanizing to fuck a hardass.”

“They’re the ones that end up giving me money. I do too well for them.”

“Jesus, gag me.”

“With that attitude, I won’t.” His comebacks come out with ease, yet they make you want to die on the spot.

“Look, I know you know more about this stupid vessel than the organization does. Not only that, you reveal classified client information to the only suckers that you decide to keep alive. That doesn’t sound like getting the job right; it sounds like you don’t care what’s best for the clients if it’s in the way of your fucking ego. Likely, you don’t even have the brain capacity to process what I just said.”

His face clicks to you as it contorts in anger. In a flash, his fingers fly to your hair, pulling your head by the scalp to yank your eyes to him. His other hand pulls a gun from the creature and aims at the thick of your temple.

His face levels with yours, now flush against your ear.

“I don’t need a wench like you talking shit to me. All you women are good for is being fucked.” His words are like daggers, piercing violently into your ear in booms.

Toji moved quicker than you could process, and your breath hitches from his hands on you. He slams you against a brick wall and the barrel of the gun presses against the side of your head. His hands roughly tangled in your hair, and his annoying mouth pressed to your ear again.

“I got no brain, huh? Say that shit again when I paint yours all over this fucking alley.” His tone is purposeful; the words are annunciated as he buries the gun to your head. He wants you to be scared enough to submit under him.

You should back down now—say you’re sorry about pissing him off and to let you go—yet you’re the opposite of scared. Your hastened breaths seem to be from the terrifying scene presented to you. That’s the natural reaction from someone else in your position.

You try to pry yourself off, only succumbing to his raw strength. But Toji can see the change in your eyes when the weapon is turned on you and your bodies feel so close.

Mmph.

You moan from the hands that hold you, making any words of defense hold no weight. You scramble from his hands to grasp any dignity, but the eyes that were once blazed in hellfire are now doused in curiosity.

“Oh, interesting ,” Toji says, pulling you close as he looks at your heated face. His face is irritatingly smug. “I guess I was right about you, little girl.”

“You fucking asshole,” You seethe. “Just put me down.”

“Oh, do you really want that? I can tell by your eyes that you fucking love this, don’t you?” He glides the handgun down your face, sliding down your chin and now firmly planted on the corner of your lips. “I can shut that dirty mouth up if I wanted to.”

“Like hell you could.”

But you can’t deny the sensation in between your legs when he points the gun at you. He rubs the barrel of the handgun, twisting it against your skin as if to carve it into you.

This same man has killed more people this week than nights in a year. He tortures with no remorse and kills with no feeling—a cold, calculated monster who now turns all of his sadistic tendency towards you. You were so close to death that you could practically taste the power from the barrel that could shoot into your skull at one pull of his finger.

And you can’t help but moan again.

You can’t help but pant from feeling overwhelmed by the dangerous man in front of you. It was like spinning a life-or-death roulette, with each second more thrilling than the last.

“You’re drooling like a mutt. You’re the craziest bitch I’ve met.” Toji laughs. “Why don’t you show me you’re more interesting than women I use off the job?”

Your bloodstream fills will rage, caging your body from total submission. But you know he has you cornered: your biggest turn-on has been revealed.

“You fucking deaf? You can’t do anything better than every girl that’s opened her legs for me.” He snares.

“Asshole.”

Your mouth moves to suck on the gun. The hard rubber of the silencer clacks with your teeth, and your lips clasp a ring around the barrel.

You’re not stupid to know that there are a few more shots in his magazine. Toji shot in the ceiling earlier to intimidate the grunts you got information from. He’s only a trigger away from blowing your head off, yet the level of danger has you moaning on the gun, half-lidded and legs trembling against Toji’s calloused body.

“Jesus,” Toji says.

You notice a glint of exhilaration in Toji’s eye, and a jolt of arousal runs down your spine when you feel the pressure of the gun increase.

Toji shoves the silencer down your throat, watching your lips swallow it down and eyes begin to water.

Above all, Toji was more interested that you haven’t pulled away from the long barrel shoved down your throat, instead your cheeks hollow out. You choose to take it in your mouth, now sucking enough to taste the bitterness of the gunpowder still left on the muzzle.

“Thought I was just some hardass, hm? Now I have you gagging it down like a slut.”

He pulls it out of your mouth, watching you cough out.

“Bastard, I know you like this too.” You say, “You wouldn’t keep going unless you liked it.”

“With some girl thinking she’s all that?” Toji forces your body on the ground with your back flush to the brick wall. “What I want is to have you squirm.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Your ass hurts from that fall, causing you to shift your legs.

“Easy.”

You don’t think you should’ve shifted, as Toji eyes narrow on them. In one fluid motion, he grabs your legs before ripping your cargo pants off of you. He didn’t even spare a second to look at your black lacy underwear before tearing it off. Within seconds, he already has you stripped bare on your bottom half.

Then he grabs his gun again.

“Don’t keep them closed.”

Toji’s hand split into your thighs, cracking them open with sandpaper palms. Even his grip is brutish, and you see your soft skin squish from it. When you tried to close your legs, it seemed that he would wretch your plump thighs wider. He puts himself between them.

You can see the lights in his eyes go off when Toji’s face contorts to sick pleasure. He grabs the gun and dives it between the aching apex of your thighs.

The second the cold muzzle of the gun touches your clit, you feel a wave of warm fuzz. You practically melt into the touch. He languidly rubs it against you, watching you twitch against the gun in sick intrigue.

“Such a deprived slut.”

“And you’re a sick fuck.”

Yet, both of your eyes are glued to the scene. Toji is practically fucking you with the gun with the way it rocked into you. You moaned against him, reveling in the way he could easily mutilate your body if he wanted to. It all made the gun slick against you faster.

A devilish smirk came to your face.

“Put it in.”

Toji raised an eyebrow, obviously persuaded by your offer yet not wanting to give in without pure degeneracy.

“Touch yourself before I do.”

No, this man wants to defile you without holding back. You could practically gag, yet it was lost on the erotic sound on your tongue. You fucking hate Toji, yet you’re hate fucking at its finest with the Sorcerer Killer.

You gather your juice on your fingers before diving into your pink bud of nerves. The thousands of nerves screamed in lust when the skin contacted.

“Shit.”

Toji’s eyes gall to your hands, watching you fuck your sensitive clit. Your hand flicks back and forth so fast that invites Toji to thrust the silencer into you. You feel your walls stretch to the gun, screaming from the pain of the rugged ridges, yet your legs shake from the ecstasy.

The way that Toji grips his trigger makes you lull your head back. Your fingers start to work a pace that rocks you closer. You feel so close, but you stop before you can cum. You want this moment to last.

Toji could give less of a fuck what you wanted.

“Who said you could stop?” Toji says, starting to thrust it inside you at a degenerate pace. He grabs your hair, lunging into your ear.

“Keep. Going.”

You grunt in annoyance, yet you comply like a dog.

Your fingertips come back to your pink bud, rocking your hips against your hand slowly. Toji’s body is pressed against you, focusing on panting and sucking your sensitive ear, encouraging you to keep going. He grunts into your ear, lips taking your lobe, biting it hard enough for you to squeak, thrusting the barrel fast enough to make you cum; it’s all so sadistic, yet you didn’t stop him.

Toji rustles his hand out of your hair and down his pants, popping his hard erection out before immediately beating it off. The way he starts to pant from the sensation, from the vision of you, was both annoying and so enticing. You displayed your dripping arousal to him, watching the movie that was his cock bucking into his hand.

You ram against the wall from the sheer intensity of Toji thrusting his silencer into you, erotic noises come out of your mouth, ripping out of you when Toji bites down on your neck. It was the catalyst for your entire cunt to burst in pleasure.

You burst into animalistic moans as you cum on Toji’s gun, and he sure as hell loved it. He helped you ride that despicable orgasm with each deep thrust of the gun hitting your cervix. The pleasure was so overwhelming your thighs hugged against his body, and you lunged into the crook of his neck. You bit down on the flesh of his shoulder mid-climax, fully enthralled by sheer pleasure that it was almost too much to bear.

Once Toji pulls out of the gun, he eyes down the creamy substance that stained the black exterior. It dripped down like honey before it lifted onto Toji’s tongue. He swallowed it with an insatiable hunger, practically rolling his eyes when his lids fluttered.

“The roughest girls taste the sweetest,” He groans erotically. “It makes me want more.”

“Like you could’ve taken it further,” you panted, starting to get up.

Toji scoffs.

“Oh, that would’ve really killed you,” He darkly laughs, “and I need you to make it to the rendezvous. I’d rather die than have to carry you there.”

“If you keep your vulgarity, I would rather die than have you touch me again.”

“Don’t be like that. I can catch you on a day we're off and easily break you in like a fucking bottle. Get a little vacation from work; I’ll make sure your little legs can’t get up again.”

“Don’t count on it, asshole. Don’t think we’re buddy-buddy just because you made a girl cum for once.”

“Just admit it. You loved it like a filthy little vixen.”

“In your dreams.”

But Jesus, if he can make you feel like that without his dick, you can’t imagine what full-on sex with a cold assassin is like.

There is no fucking way to save this business relationship now.

--------

ao3 | tiktok | kofi | masterlist

#fanfic #x reader #fem reader #reader insert #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #toji fushigro x reader #toji fushiguro #jjk toji #toji smut #toji x reader #my fanfic

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monodramatic-cannibal · 5 months ago

Text

Renegade!Ink

Info post about the au

(If characters seem OOC ((Out Of Character)) it's beacause I'm going off of my own interpretations/headcanons/fandom versions. So please be aware of that)

More info under the cut (Info is subject to change at any time. Info may be added to as well)

-Jobs in the group: builder, scavenger

Weapons of choice: giant paint brush/paint, paint gun

-Head canon voice: ???

-Uses They/Them or It/It’s. Identifies as nonbinary.

-The paint vials they wears gives them emotions, they can take multiple vials at once to get different effects. If they doesn’t take any they become semi-emotionless and their eye lights tend to be a lot more boring that what they’re normally like, e.g. duller colours and not as crazy shapes.

-Their eyes can be any shape and colour the most common shape though is a yellow star with a blue pupil. Tends to change any time they blinks, though if Their brain is buffering and they go blank brain their eyes might not change even after a few blinks.

-Has really bad memory, and also has a bad attention span. It doesn’t really seem to affect them too much, just in the past it used to annoy people, but due to the apocalypse it hasn’t really been a problem for the group. Since it’s not like they need to remember much and they’re basically seeing everyone every day so they’re not forgetting anyone either.

-Can use their paintbrush to heal themselves, e.g. if they break a bone they can just paint over them to repair them.

-Unsure on where their own tattoos came from, they never had them when they were a kid, but at the same time they can’t recall when they appeared. They’re partly unsure if they’re markings or tattoos.

-Always has paint on their face, even when they clean it off it's not long before another one somehow appears.

-Will write things on their scarf. So their scarf will often have smudge stains and writing on it. May also have little doodles on it. To add to this if someone writes something on their scarf after a bit they will assume they’re the one who wrote it, which others can do to trick them into doing something.

-No concept of danger, they can very easily heal themselves with their paint. To add onto this they sometimes struggle with what is right and wrong. May just do something because they think it would be funny or interesting.

-Sometimes has antisocial behavior, but normally Blue and Dream can reel them back to reality and keep them in check. It just doesn’t register to them that some behaviour isn’t considered the norm. The others in the group tend to partly understand that Ink works like that, and tend not to question it too much.

-Before the apocalypse, they were arrested a few times for graffiti. Now often does graffiti everywhere they goes now, because it’s not like anyone can tell them not to do it anymore. The rest of the people in the group use some of the artwork as landmarks.

-Has a “Leap first, think later” kind of mindset when it comes to things. They do things because they want to, and don’t care about consequences, “What fun is life if you're always overthinking.”

-Used to argue on Twitter about random things, would basically find anyone with an opinion and make up a worse opinion just to argue, half the sides they took during arguments they never actually stood by, they were just doing it because it was funny.

-Can use paint as a sort of ‘bag of holding’, being able to store up to 20 items which they can access at any point as long as they have paint. E.g. reaching into a paint bucket to pull out items or put items in. Works on any large quantity of paint.

-Their room looks like a tornado hit it, artwork all over the walls, floors and ceiling. Things strewn about the rooms, to anyone it looks like chaos, but to them, it’s organized chaos. If they ever tried to tidy they’d instantly forget where things are.

-Has broken the 4th wall a few times. Don’t question how they know about the 4th wall, they will not understand. And it freaks everyone else out.

-Doesn’t tend to realize when people don’t like them, or maybe they just don’t care. If someone has ever told them why they hate them, Ink would have forgotten within a few minutes. They don’t have time for that negativity, it sounds like their (other) issue not a them (Ink) issue.

-Sometimes trips on their scarf, will keep doing this, has fallen off of a roof before because of this. Whenever Dream sees them tripping up a bunch Dream will tie up their scarf into a bow.

-Can mimic noises really well, is good at impressions of people and making noises of some objects. Annoys others with phone notification sounds. May do sounds randomly.

-Has one of those werewolf shirts, it's oversized and tends to wear it when just hanging around. Just loves any inherently dumb clothing.

-professional yapper, will not shut the fuck up, not even if they get told too.

How they feel about:

Nightmare: Sees Nightmare as just some dude. Like what's up with that weird short guy. No particular strong feelings. Thinks some of Nightmare’s jokes are funny thou, pop off little man.

Dream: Sane friend, thinks he (Dream) needs to loosen up more though. Tries to rope Dream into dumb plans, will go with these plans regardless if Dream joins in on them or not. Does like hanging with Dream though, thinks he's nice.

Cross: Yet another ‘just a dude’, can get along with him well. Thinks Cross is similar to Dream in the way of always trying to keep them out of trouble. Tries to teach Cross to draw, is super encouraging about it, wants more art buddies so Cross is going to be their art buddy Whether he likes it or not. They both yap at each other, Ink finally having another professional yapper to talk too. Half the time they won’t even be listening to each other, they just talk at the same time.

Blue: Friend, will go along with their dumb plans so they like Blue. Blue also has dumb plans that they’re 100% willing to go along with most of the time. Often tries to tag along with Blue to hanging with Error, but 50% of the time Blue doesn’t let them.

Dust: The guy rarely speaks, so Ink yaps at him, good luck telling them to shut up when you don’t speak. Doesn’t really know Dust that well, and Dust ends up just walking away from them. At least Ink tried to get to know him at some points.

Horror: Doesn’t really know him too well, sometimes goes to hang with Blue whenever Blue is helping with the gardens. Loves asking them both questions about the plants/crops. Has shot Horror with the water hose before, is no longer allowed to help water the plants/crops.

Killer: Always cracking jokes with Killer. Killer will also join in on any dumb plans they make. So to them Killer is an ally. But also Killer will write on their scarf to mess with them. It’s not like Ink knows that its killer doing it though.

Error: A silly guy to them. Finds Error interesting, is interested in how glitchy Error is and the strings. Thinks Error is just silly, that's their scrimblo. Will call Error babygirl as a joke, Error is aware that it’s a joke. Finds anything Error makes either it be the puppets or anything he's knitting interesting, has also dubbed Error as an art buddy, Error doesn’t agree to this though.

Lust: A friend, claims Lust as an art buddy due to seeing the clothing Lust makes as another form of artwork. Lust also lets them yap, so they like Lust. Lust tries to convince them not to do anything dumb though.

Fell/Edge: Makes Fell mad, doesn’t mean too, but does it by accident. They can have more chilled out moments between them both, but mainly it's Fell either telling Ink to leave, or Fell being the one to leave the situation.

Geno: “Why are you not dead.” was the first thing Ink ever said to Geno, it wasn’t said as a question, more of a statement. Didn’t mean for it to come across as rude, but Geno took slight offense to how bluntly it was stated. They’re on better terms now with each other.

Outer: The space guy, likes to hear him talk about space. And Outer’s more chilled out vibe does help them to chill out a bit. Whenever they do any artwork to do with space Outer is always the first one to see.

Sci: Smart guy who tells them not to mess with anything. Understandable have a good day. Doesn’t interact with Sci that much, sometimes puts googly eyes on things in secret around Sci’s office. Drives Sci insane.

Reaper/Death: “HOLY SHIT IS THAT THE GRIM REAPER??!!” Upon first seeing Reaper. Will play board/card games with Reaper, though half the time they (Ink) can never sit still to finish the games. Thinks Reaper is just a chill guy.

Fresh: Another silly guy, thinks Fresh is cool, wants Fresh’s roller skates. Loves all the colours on Fresh. Doesn’t know much about Fresh though. Wasn’t paying attention when Dream had told them to be wary of Fresh.

Gans/Echo: Has only really met him a few times, Echo doesn’t give them the time of day. So they don’t really give Echo the time of day either.

Chief: A bossy guy, loves playing pranks on him (Chief). Chief has chased them around for an hour before after catching them mid prank. Blue had to step in to save them.

#monoart #monos art #art #digital #digital art #undertale au #Renegade!Ink #Ink #ink sans #Renegade ref #Renegade refs #Renegade info #Renegade au #ref #reference #underverse #sans au #undertale sans au

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hauntedhowlett-writes · 2 years ago

Text

seven - a joel miller story

pairing: post-outbreak jackson!joel miller x female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 5k

summary:

Joel Miller has spent twenty years pushing the grief and guilt surrounding the death of his daughter, Sarah, to the darkest recesses of his brain in favor of survival. And I've been meaning to tell you I think your house is haunted Your dad is always mad and that must be why

Living a more quiet life in Jackson means the ghosts of his past have returned to haunt him. He finds his solace in you, the town librarian.

author's note:

another work for the folklore anthology! i'd really love to hear your thoughts on this one, so please drop a comment or slide into my inbox if you're so inclined.

content warnings/tags:

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, ANGST, themes of grief and loss, feelings of guilt, discussions of child loss and sibling loss (unnamed brother of reader), descriptions of panic attacks, nightmares, alcohol use, unprotected p in v, vaginal fingering, pet names, a reference to the harry potter series. let me know if any are missing!

“Look at me, daddy!”

Joel watches as Sarah pumps her legs, soaring high into the cloudless blue sky. He has to shield his eyes against the painfully bright sun. He smiles as she laughs, the sound blanketing him in joy.

As she swings down back towards the ground, Joel hears a panicked shout. He turns, a man running toward him over the hill, arms waving. He can’t hear what the man is saying, he’s too far away.

A shot rings out and the man drops to the ground in a heap of limbs. Joel can see a line of soldiers, guns trained toward him.

“Sarah, we have to go!” He shouts, turning back to the swing set. The swing is empty. He searches frantically for his daughter but the little girl is nowhere to be found. “Sarah!”

He’s running, putting space between him and the soldiers. He begs and prays to a God he’s always had trouble believing in that he finds his baby.

He sees her, finally. She’s standing in the middle of a field, her back to him. It’s dark now, he’s not sure when that happened.

“Sarah! Sarah, we gotta go, come on, baby,” he shouts. She turns, slowly, her arm braced around her stomach and a horrified expression on her face. Joel drops to his knees in front of her, taking her face between his hands. “Baby? What’s wrong?”

She lowers her arm, bright red blood smeared on her tan skin and a blossoming stain on her shirt. Her voice shakes as she whispers, “Daddy?”

Joel wakes with a shout, sitting up in bed as he struggles to catch his breath. His sweat damp skin erupts with goosebumps in the cold air of his bedroom. He presses a hand to his chest, the tight grip of panic around his heart easing incrementally as he fights for breath.

The brief glimpse of darkness between the curtains covering the window tells him it’s still early and a glance at the clock on the nightstand confirms as much. He groans, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. The floor is frigid against his bare feet and he shivers with the unexpected chill.

In the kitchen, he makes himself coffee before slipping his leather jacket on and heading to the back porch. The dark sky has lightened the slightest bit, the encroaching dawn painting the inky sky a faded purple as the sun creeps up from its slumber.

From his porch, Joel can see one of the side entrances to the cemetery. He watches as a figure emerges from beyond the concrete walls and it takes him a moment to realize it’s just you again.

You, the curious woman that runs the town library. He’s seen you on other occasions like this morning, where he’s trying to shake off the remaining webs of discomfort that have been spun in his mind. You shut the wrought iron gate and like you can feel his gaze on you, your head turns, keen eyes regarding him.

You approach his house, stopping at the bottom of the porch. You stand with your hands stuffed in your coat pockets, head tilted slightly and a smile on your lips as you say, “Up a bit early, aren't you?”

Joel takes a sip of his coffee. “Could say the same about you.”

“Early bird catches the worm,” you reply, smiling at him. He swallows. You make him nervous. Despite the few interactions he’s had with you, he feels like you know him to his very marrow, and that scares a man like Joel.

“More like a night owl.”

You chuckle. “A bird is a bird. I’ll see you around, Joel Miller.”

He stares after your retreating figure for so long his coffee has gone cold. With a sigh, he returns inside, thoughts no less tangled than when he first stepped outside.

________

You survey the rose bushes you’ve cultivated, rows of different varietals beginning to blossom or in full bloom. The peony buds have gotten larger and any day now they should blossom as spring really begins to show her colors. The mornings and evenings are still cold, but the afternoons give way to hotter temperatures and thankfully you’ve been spared one last late winter snowfall.

You prune some of the faded blooms from the bushes, collecting them for composting. When you’re done, you return inside to wash up and change before heading to the library. As you scrub beneath your fingernails, your mind drifts to the specter of Jackson, Joel Miller.

There’s something about him that draws you in, despite the arms length of distance he tries to keep from everyone. You saw him the other morning after you made your way through the cemetery long before it officially opened, laying extra flowers around some of the less tended graves. It’s not the first time, and based on what you know about the older man, it won’t be the last.

________

Since Joel isn’t scheduled for a patrol for a few days, he decides to visit the library. Too much idleness is dangerous for a man like Joel, who is in constant search of something to keep his mind and body occupied so that his thoughts don’t drift to darker places.

You’re sitting at the circulation desk when he enters, bent over a book as you read off the log number on it and write it in a journal under your hand. You look up, flashing him a smile that briefly suffuses him with warmth.

“Hey,” you say in greeting. He nods, intending to just walk past you, but you continue to ask, “You need help finding anything?”

“No,” he replies shortly. You nod, smile faltering the slightest bit. Joel feels a flash of guilt before he tamps it down and walks deeper into the library.

He explores the tidy shelves until he finds himself in the fiction section, reading cracked spines and faded letters until one catches his eye. It’s a small paperback sandwiched between two larger books, a pink spine etched with white lines and faded blue lettering. He wiggles it free, turning it over in his hands.

A Wrinkle In Time.

The blue cover with a snowy mountain scene, three children carried in an egg over a town by a flying white creature used to stare up at him from Sarah’s nightstand. It was her favorite book, one she had him read to her at bedtime when she was five. It was the same book he’d caught her reading under the covers with a flashlight past her bedtime when she was eight, the same one she carried everywhere until it fell apart and he had to replace it when she was ten.

Joel’s hand shakes and he has to steady himself by holding the bookshelf. His chest feels tight, too small of a space for his rapidly pounding heart. The words printed on the books in front of him all blur together as he tries to focus, tries to breathe, tries to stay in the present.

There’s a hand on top of his. Delicate, soft. A voice he knows he recognizes but can’t place is saying his name, but it sounds like it’s coming through layers of cotton in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut.

After a long moment, that vise grip around his chest eases and he swallows around the lump in his throat. He blinks, spots dancing in his vision as his eyes adjust to the light once more.

“Joel?” You ask, voice quiet. It makes his muscles tense, coiled tight like he’s ready to run. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies roughly. He slips his hand out from beneath yours. “‘M fine.”

You’re silent for a moment, keen eyes making him feel flayed open and exposed as you watch him. Finally you ask, “Was it about your daughter?”

“No,” he snaps. Rage blinds him, white hot in his vision as he moves past you.

“Wait,” you call out. Joel pauses but doesn’t turn. “It’s okay, you know. To still carry that pain. Did you ever even allow yourself a chance to mourn?”

He turns, looking at you incredulously. “What the hell do you mean? I mourn every fuckin’ day.”

“No, you grieve. You let the thoughts of Sarah—“

“Don’t. Don’t you say her name,” he hisses, stepping closer in his anger. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

“—haunt you to the point of pain. You think I don’t know why you’re out there on your porch so early some mornings? It’s the same reason I’m out in the cemetery,” you confess. You take a deep breath. “You’ve been fighting for survival since the outbreak and you never gave yourself the chance to mourn. You owe it to yourself and to Sarah to try.”

Joel’s chest heaves, a venomous retort on the tip of his tongue when a voice calls out your name from the front of the building. With one last look that speaks volumes with no words, you disappear from the stacks.

Joel leaves the library and heads straight for the Tipsy Bison. A young man is polishing glassware when he storms in, door slamming shut behind him.

“What can I get you?” The man asks as Joel slides onto a stool.

“Whiskey,” he demands. A glass is set in front of him, amber liquid poured until it's halfway full. He brings the glass to his lips and lets the alcohol burn its way down his throat and erase the taste of guilt on his tongue. Setting the glass on the bar he says, “Another.”

He drinks two more glasses in the same fashion, glaring at the boy when he hesitates to pour his third drink. He sips his fourth pour slowly, letting time pass as it always cruelly will.

Finally, when the light beyond the window panes starts to fade, he heads home, hands shoved in his pockets as he wills one foot in front of the other, gaze fixed on the pavement. It’s not a long walk but it feels like it as he cuts between buildings to avoid having to make conversation with people.

When he reaches his house, he stomps up the steps as he digs in his pockets for his key. His boot knocks into something on the ground by the door. He bends over to pick up the object.

A Wrinkle In Time.

Joel opens his front door and collapses on the couch, book pressed to his chest as a dreamless, whiskey tinged sleep consumes him.

________

“Stop running! Put your hands up!”

Joel sets Sarah on the ground, raising his hands above his head. “We’re not sick! My daughter, she hurt her ankle,” he shouts.

The soldier keeps his gun trained on them as a staticky voice over the radio says something he can’t make out. His finger moves from rest to poised over the trigger, the barrel of his gun braced against his shoulder as he takes aim.

“No!” Joel shouts as the gun goes off. He launches himself in front of Sarah, wrapping his arms around her and bracing for the impact and the shocking pain.

The pain doesn’t come. He slowly opens his eyes, expecting to see the soldier and his gun but instead he sees Sarah, a shocked look on her face as she clutches her stomach, dark blood staining her fingers. She’s far away, not right behind him like she had been.

That’s when Joel notices the weight in his hands, the cold press of metal to his palms. He looks down at the black rifle in his hands, then back up at Sarah.

“No!”

Joel wakes tangled in his sheets, panic coursing through his veins and a hoarse shout of Sarah’s name fading in the dark. As he chokes on the air his lungs are desperate for, he glances at the clock. It’s early again, too early for the rest of the town to be awake save for the people scheduled to return from patrol in a couple hours.

He runs a hand over his face with a sigh before getting up. It’s been a couple weeks since he last had a nightmare, the product of back to back patrol shifts and helping with a building repair that left him so blissfully exhausted his traitorous brain couldn’t torture him, but it seems they’ve returned with a vengeance.

Joel gets dressed and heads downstairs, making himself coffee that he brings out to the porch. He watches the cemetery gate, part of him hoping he sees you and a larger part hoping whatever haunts you has left your peace intact for the night.

Like his thoughts have conjured you from the ether, you step outside the cemetery gates. He sees the brief moment of hesitation when you notice him sitting on his porch, but a forgiving part of you must urge you closer. When you reach the porch, you regard him with that same look that makes him feel like you can see right through to his wretched soul.

“You’re up early,” you comment knowingly.

“So are you.”

“So I am.” You take a deep breath. “Come with me. I wanna show you something.”

You don’t wait for his response before you’re turning, heading for the gate and back towards the cemetery. Despite his better judgment, Joel follows, taking wide steps to catch up with your quick stride.

You walk the winding dirt paths between the headstones with sure steps that Joel follows with uncertainty. He’s never been in the cemetery, has never had a reason, so he appraises the headstones with a morbid curiosity, reading the names of people he’s never met. He notes that a number of the sites have flowers in various stages of freshness.

After a few minutes, you stop and Joel glances at the headstone you’ve paused in front of.

“Tommy had it put in a few years after he got to town,” you say quietly. “He told me about her…about what happened.” Joel takes a step closer, dropping to his knees. The damp earth cushions the fall, early morning dew seeping into his jeans as he reaches out to trace the carved letters of his baby’s name.

“I’ll…I’ll give you some privacy. I just thought you should know she’s here.”

As you turn to leave, Joel reaches out and wraps a tentative hand around your knee. You look at him in surprise as he murmurs, “Stay with me?”

You lower yourself to the ground, settling in beside him as the sun rises and the world around you wakes from its slumber.

________

You sit together in front of Sarah’s headstone for about an hour before Joel stands with a groan and mumbled curse. He holds a hand out to you to help you up, the gesture leaving you nearly pressed together. You search his brown eyes, hoping for a glimpse of relief but it’s still too soon to tell.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, stepping back and clearing his throat. “For snappin’ at you in the library.”

“I understand. I made a lot of assumptions that day,” you reply. He laughs, though it’s strained.

“Yeah, well, if there were still a lottery around I’d tell you to buy a ticket. You were right on the money.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Thought I was gettin’ better. After all that time with Ellie…I felt like I had a purpose again.”

“Maybe that’s the issue. Thinking your purpose is tied to someone else.”

His brow furrows. “How do you keep doin’ that?”

“Doing what?” You ask.

“Seein’ right through me.”

You smile at him.

“Like attracts like, Joel. Remember that.”

________

Joel starts visiting Sarah’s grave regularly. Sometimes it’s early, the result of another nightmare or returning from patrol, and sometimes it’s later in the evening, when fireflies begin to flicker in the grass as spring wears on. He takes the worn copy of A Wrinkle In Time that you left him, reading a chapter of it out loud each time as he sits with his back pressed to the stone marker.

One thing he notes with growing intrigue is how there’s always flowers on a number of the headstones, including Sarah’s. It’s a reminder that he’s not the only victim of loss, even if his own still feels like a gaping wound some days.

He visits the library again, a bag full of books he found on his last patrol shift heavy on his back as he enters the building. You look up from a book you’re reading as the door shuts, smiling at him.

“Hey,” you say in greeting. “You need any help finding anything today?”

“No. Brought you somethin’, though,” he replies, hefting the bag onto the counter and opening it to reveal his bounty. “Found ‘em last patrol.”

You reach in and pull two of the books out, your grin downright ecstatic as you look at him. “The Lord of the Rings?”

“Complete set. You ever read it?”

“When I was younger,” you murmur, fingers tracing the cover of the book. “Thank you, Joel.”

His heart pounds as he looks at you, smile bright and eyes soft. You remove the other books from his bag, laying them out and checking them for damage. He likes watching you work, the gentle way that you flip through the time worn pages soothing to him as he stands there.

“What’s your favorite book?” You ask, glancing at him as you work.

“Not much of a reader. Sarah was, though. She would tell me about the books she was reading,” he says, voice catching on Sarah’s name. “She loved A Wrinkle In Time. Started the Harry Potter series, too. When the last one came out she made me take her to the bookstore at midnight just to get it.”

“My brother did the same,” you reply. “Dressed up and everything.”

“Your brother, huh?” Joel asks. You stack the books, avoiding Joel’s gaze.

“He was about Sarah’s age. Twelve. I was seventeen when…everything happened.” You pause. “The night that everything started happening, I had actually snuck out of the house. Went to a party in the woods. I made it back home just as the grid went out but when I got inside…”

“You don’t gotta tell me this,” Joel says.

“When I got inside, my brother was sitting at the table, covered in blood. Our parents had attacked him and he fought them off as best he could. He could feel the infection, you know? Knew something was wrong. He told me to leave.” You take a deep breath, your eyes returning to the present. A tear slides down your cheek and you brush it away quickly. “If I had been there—“

“Don’t,” Joel interrupts. “You can’t blame yourself.”

You laugh, looking at him incredulously. “Pot meet kettle!”

Joel laughs with you, a boisterous sound he hasn’t heard in years. It feels almost rusty in its disuse. “Thank you for tellin’ me,” he says when quiet descends once more.

“It’s only fair, right? A tragedy for a tragedy?”

“I don’t think that’s how the sayin’ goes.”

You shrug. “That’s how the world goes, though.”

________

As spring starts to fold into summer, Joel finds himself growing closer to you. It starts with visits to the library when he’s off from patrol, helping you shelve and catalog books. Soon, he’s spending so much time there that he’s still around when it’s time for you to lock up and he offers to walk you home or to the mess hall for dinner.

Dinner turns into the occasional drink at the Tipsy Bison. Those nights are his favorite, watching as you try to play darts after a few drinks and laughing when you pout after each missed shot.

Better days still give way to troubled nights, though. He wakes on one such night drenched in sweat, the nightmare just a haze of fear in his mind. It’s early, of course, so he takes a brief shower and dresses before grabbing his coffee and A Wrinkle In Time to make his way to the cemetery.

The ground is soft beneath his footsteps as he takes a now familiar path to Sarah’s headstone, seating himself on the damp dirt. He reads for a bit before the creak of hinges alerts him to someone’s arrival.

You enter through the front gate, a pile of flowers wrapped in butcher paper in your arms. He watches as you lay flowers around the graves with care, moving steadily among the rows until you’ve reached Joel.

“You do the flowers?” He asks. You take a seat beside him, gathering a wilted white rose from in front of the headstone and replacing it with a spray of yellow flowers.

“Some of them. Sometimes people come to me for arrangements to bring themselves,” you reply.

“Why?”

“Because I still believe in beautiful things,” you tell him with a shrug.

Joel watches you set the flower carefully on the ground in front of Sarah’s headstone and it feels like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place. In the silence between you, his mind drifts to Tess, who he cared for but couldn’t give himself fully with the way he was when he knew her. He thinks about Bill and Frank and the kindness they showed him even when he didn’t show his gratitude. He thinks about Ellie, who stuck by his side despite everything he had to do to make it here.

Then there’s you, who’s planted roots in his heart like the flowers you grow and filled him with a light he hasn’t known in a long time and it leaves him feeling damn near winded. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, when a crack of thunder precedes the opening of the sky, heavy raindrops filtering through the tree branches.

“Shit!” He curses, shoving his book into the waistband of his jeans beneath his shirt to protect it from the rain. “Let’s go,” he says, tugging you up from the ground and keeping your hand gripped tightly in his as you both sprint for his porch.

You’re both drenched from the sudden summer downpour, rain dripping from your clothes and hair to the porch as you race up the steps. Another crack of thunder has you jumping, laughter spilling from your lips that joins the melody of the rain on the roof.

As your laughter fades, Joel pulls you closer by the hand still held tight in his. He searches your face for any sign that you might not want this, might not want him, but to his relief he finds none. He wraps an arm around your low back, pressing your rain soaked body to his as he tilts his head to capture your lips in a gentle kiss.

The kiss remains soft, gentle, a smooth glide of his slightly chapped lips against yours. You taste like rainwater but feel like sunshine, a perfect dichotomy. Joel pulls away slowly, not wanting to lose the connection but starting to feel uncomfortable in his soaked clothing.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s get some dry clothes.”

He leads you inside the dark house and upstairs to his bedroom. He finds a shirt and boxers for you, turning to give you the privacy to change as he does the same, setting the damp book on his nightstand and leaving his wet clothes in a heap on the floor.

“I’m decent,” you announce. He turns, breath catching at the vision you make wearing his clothes, your nipples pressing against the worn cotton shirt. He reaches for you, wrapping an arm around your waist and a hand behind your neck to pull you into another kiss.

You pull away first this time, stepping back and crawling into his bed. You burrow beneath the covers before lifting the edge, an eyebrow raised at him in invitation. He slides in beside you, blankets settling over your bodies as you rest your head against his bare chest.

“I’m scared,” Joel says, a whisper in the dark.

“About what?” You ask, lifting yourself up to look at him. He swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Losin’ you. Losin’ Ellie. Losin’ Tommy.” A pause. “Like I lost Sarah. And Tess.”

“Fear doesn’t stop death, Joel. It just stops you from living.”

________

Something changes in Joel with your words. He lifts his head from the pillow to kiss you, his body shifting beneath yours to push you onto your back so he can hover over you. This kiss is different, more desperate as his tongue slides against yours and his teeth dig into your bottom lip.

You slide your fingers into his hair, nails scratching against his scalp and making him moan into your kiss. He trails his lips across your jaw and down your neck as he urges your legs apart and fits himself in the space between your thighs.

His hips rock against yours, the friction making you gasp and pull on his hair. He chuckles against the skin of your neck before sinking his teeth against your pulse point, sucking a mark into your skin to match the one he’s left on your heart.

One of his warm hands lifts your borrowed shirt, bunching the material beneath your armpits and exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. Joel dips his head to pull one nipple between his lips and he swirls his tongue over the hard bud, looking up at your face as he does. He does the same to your other breast, the delicious sensation of his mouth almost enough to distract you from the slow drag of his calloused fingers across your tummy and beneath the elastic of the boxers he’s leant to you.

He groans as his fingers circle your clit, gathering your wetness and spreading it over your folds with his movements. He leans up to kiss you again, deep swipes of his tongue exploring your mouth as your hips chase his hand with increasing fervor.

“You’re so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs. There’s a bright flash of lightning that illuminates the room, giving you a clearer view of the adoration simmering in his eyes.

You press a hand to his cheek. “You deserve good things, Joel Miller.”

He drops his head, forehead pressed to your collarbone. He slips two fingers inside of you as thunder rattles the windows, the storm overhead matching the one in your body as he works his digits with slow, methodical movements, curling them with each pull from inside of you.

“Need you,” you whimper, “please, Joel, need you.”

“You got me,” he says, sitting up to tug the boxers down your thighs and pull the waistband of his down, freeing his cock that he takes on his fist, rubbing it through your folds.

He notches the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pressing inside of you with a single deep thrust that has you gasping his name. There’s another crack of lightning as he bottoms out, hips pressed flush to yours.

Joel starts to move, setting a leisurely pace, notably unhurried as you relish in the weight of him against you. His forehead drops to yours and he peppers your face with soft kisses, from your forehead to your nose to your chin. You smile at him and to your surprise and delight, he grins back.

He sits up, gripping your hips for leverage as his rhythm changes to something more carnal, more desperate, sharp thrusts that drag against something inside of you that makes stars dance across your vision. You’re moaning his name with each collision of his hips to yours and his head drops back with his own deep groan as you tighten around him with your release.

“Fuck,” he shouts, withdrawing quickly and taking himself in hand, hot splashes of cum hitting your stomach as you gasp for air. Joel leaves the bed for a moment and returns with a damp cloth he uses to wipe you clean before tossing it to the pile of wet clothes and climbing back into bed beside you.

He pulls you close and with your head on his chest, you let the pounding rhythm of his heart lull you back to sleep.

________

“Look how high I got, daddy!”

Joel watches a young Sarah deftly climb the limbs of a tree she found on their hike. He laughs as she straddles the last branch she can reach, waving down at him with a bright grin on her face.

“That’s mighty impressive, baby girl, but can you get back down?” He shouts up at her.

“Of course I can!” She insists, slowly working her way back down the branches. She makes it to a lower branch but she can’t reach a foothold from where she hangs by her arms. “Daddy!”

“I gotcha,” Joel says, moving to stand below her. “Just let go, I’ll catch ya.”

“Promise?”

“Always.”

Joel’s eyes flutter open. The first thing he notices is the sunlight streaming through the open window. You must have woken up before him and opened it. The room is warm from the late summer sun, but there’s a breeze that rustles the curtains as he stands and stretches.

He can hear the clink of pans downstairs and he follows the noise, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen as he finds you whisking something in a bowl. It’s been weeks since that early morning together in bed and every day since you continue to help put him together piece by jagged piece.

You must feel him there, attuned to him as you always are, because you turn and grin brightly at him.

“There you are,” you say, crossing the kitchen to kiss him. “Was wondering when you’d finally wake up.”

“Can’t a man sleep in once and a while?” He asks, pulling you in for a second and third kiss. “What are you workin’ on?”

“A cake. It’s July 20th.”

Sarah’s birthday.

Joel’s breath leaves him in a rush. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and holds you tightly to him, your arms wrapped around his waist as you squeeze back.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Always.”

Want more Joel Miller? Check out my masterlist.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel tlou #no use of y/n #joel x reader #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou hbo

307 notes · View notes

alvaeris · 2 months ago

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No more gatekeep, gaslight, girlboss

It’s time for genocide

I like people how I like my tea, in a bag, underwater

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Everybody mistake make

I fart in your direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!

CURSE OF RA 𓀀 𓀁 𓀂 𓀃 𓀄 𓀅 𓀆 𓀇 𓀈 𓀉 𓀊 𓀋 𓀌 𓀍 𓀎 𓀏 𓀐 𓀑 𓀒 𓀓 𓀔 𓀕 𓀖 𓀗 𓀘 𓀙 𓀚 𓀛 𓀜 𓀝 𓀞 𓀟 𓀠 𓀡 𓀢 𓀣 𓀤 𓀥 𓀦 𓀧 𓀨 𓀩 𓀪 𓀫 𓀬 𓀭 𓀮 𓀯 𓀰 𓀱 𓀲 𓀳 𓀴 𓀵 𓀶 𓀷 𓀸 𓀹 𓀺 𓀻 𓀼 𓀽 𓀾 𓀿 𓁀 𓁁 𓁂 𓁃 𓁄 𓁅 𓁆 𓁇 𓁈 𓁉 𓁊 𓁋 𓁌 𓁍 𓁎 𓁏 𓁐 𓁑 𓀄 𓀅 𓀆 𓀇 𓀈 𓀉 𓀊

Thought I’d have some cosmic horror turns out I’m a cosmic whore

I grew this dick for you, you clod

The man who waits, masturbates

Punch me in the back of the frontal lobe until I’m out colder than Bill Cosby’s pong partner

It’s never a war crime the first time

Your life lacks whimsy and your ass is flat

I’d rather play dead at a necrophiliac convention

CURSE OF THE NILE 𓀔𓀇𓀅𓀋𓀡𓀡𓀕𓀠𓀧𓀨𓀣𓀷𓀷𓀿𓀿𓁀𓁶𓁰

𓁴𓁿𓂀𓁾𓁵𓁯𓂞𓂤𓂗𓃃𓂾𓂺𓂹

𓃞𓃙𓃖𓃓𓃕𓃓𓃜𓃘𓃙𓃟𓃛𓃞

𓂺𓃂𓂿𓂺𓃃𓃂𓂛𓂏𓅱𓅥𓅩𓅦

𓅹𓅸𓅳𓅩𓅪𓄭𓄫𓄮𓄬𓄗𓄑𓄌𓃦

𓃧𓃨𓃤𓃟𓃓𓃅𓃁𓂽𓃂𓂊𓁾𓂀𓁽

𓁼𓁠𓁛𓁟𓁦𓁜𓁭𓁡𓀔𓀇𓀅𓀋𓀡𓀡𓀕𓀠𓀧𓀨𓀣

𓀷𓀷𓀿𓀿𓁀𓁶𓁰𓁴𓁿𓂀𓁾𓁵𓁯𓂞𓂤𓂗

𓃃𓂾𓂺𓂹𓃞𓃙𓃖𓃓𓃕𓃓𓃜

𓃘𓃙𓃟𓃛𓃞𓂺𓃂𓂿𓂺𓃃𓃂

𓂛𓂏𓅱𓅥𓅩𓅦𓅹𓅸𓅳𓅩𓅪𓄭𓄫𓄮

𓄬𓄗𓄑𓄌𓃦𓃧𓃨𓃤𓃟𓃓𓃅𓃁

𓂽𓃂𓂊𓁾𓂀𓁽𓁼𓁠𓁛𓁟𓁦𓁜𓁭𓁡𓀔𓀇𓀅

𓀋𓀡𓀡𓀕𓀠𓀧𓀨𓀣𓀷𓀷𓀿𓀿𓁀𓁶𓁰𓁴𓁿

𓂀𓁾𓁵𓁯𓂞𓂤𓂗𓃃𓂾𓂺𓂹𓃞𓃙

𓃖𓃓𓃕𓃓𓃜𓃘𓃙𓃟𓃛𓃞𓂺𓃂

It’s not a crack house its a crack home

_____ is like playing chess with a pigeon. You could be a grandmaster, they’re still going to shit on the board and strut away like they won.

We’ll see who’s sloshing soon!

Being on deaths door just means you got a new neighbor!

Guards! Take this creature to a scary room

Oh my god! Boobs! Hoo ha, love them!

Fun Fact: female Jesters were called “Joculatrix” & therefore male Jesters should be called “Joculator”!

-🌀

what. the. actual fuck. okay firstly WHY ARE HALF OF THEM ABOUT BOOBS??? 😭😭😭😭 secondly which pit of hell did you dig these up from??? thirdly, wow. what is "bbg you are soup now" supposed to mean??? or, "hard boiled turtle slapper".

#🌂 friend in me #🌀 anon

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jovialtorchlight · 1 year ago

Text

Ballad of Johnny Kidd

My name is Johnny Kidd. I’m a bad, bad man. I’m cold, on the verge of death, stumbling through a fierce winter storm somewhere just North of Bangor, Maine, a bullet lodged in my thigh. I was following an old logging road out of the deep woods. I got lost, trailing spurts of blood like a breadcrumb trail. I see it; a tiny flicker of light through the lashing white snow. The cabin. I pound on the door.

“Mister! Please, it’s so cold out here! Please, let me in! I’ll…I’ll freeze to death!”

An old man unlatches the door; I practically fall into the cabin, legs giving out, trembling. He’s walking towards the fire, doesn’t offer to help me up. Doesn’t even look at me. I think shit, I’m bleeding all over his floor, but the bleeding has stopped.

“Strip to your birthday suit, right there in the mudroom. Hang it up. It’ll dry. Don’t be bashful, kid. I won’t peek. Got a pair of long johns hanging on the coat rack. Once you put them on, grab the folded blanket, wrap yourself in it tight,” he says.

I follow his directions.

“You’re a real kind person, mister. Thank you,” I said, ambling towards a chair by the fire.

“Kindness has nothing to do with it. Just don’t want to see anyone else freeze to death on this mountain path. Hard times claim enough good folk around these parts. Don’t need to lose anyone else,” he said, staring into the crackling flames.

Goodness has nothing to do with it, I think. I’m naked under the blanket, ‘cept for a sawnoff shotgun strapped to my back.

“I really owe you my life, sir. I can already feel my bones warming. Blood thawing out.”

“Any frostbite?” the old man asks. I looked down. I was already toasty. Fingers and toes looked fine.

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Good, good. Sit. Warm yourself by the fire. Don’t have a bed in this shack, but you can sleep in the chair. Hopefully the storm will be finished by morning.”

I linger, not sitting. I’m scoping out the cabin, ready to pull the loaded gun from my back and spatter this oltimer’s brains on the wall. He doesn’t have much. It’s a bare wood cabin with cedar planks and a woodstove with rusted pots and castiron pants.

“I do appreciate it, sir. Truly. It’s a whitewash out there. Any longer, the snow would have swallowed me completely. My company wouldn’t have found me until the spring thaw.”

The old man doesn’t break eyecontact with the fire. He chuckles.

“Company. You mean your gang of bank robbers?”

My hand moves to the gun. I’m about ready to end this foolishness.

“Sir, what do you mean? I work cutting trees.”

The old man’s voice drips with contempt.

“No you don’t. You’re a much better shot than you are a liar. You’re Johnny Kidd.”

I drop the blanket, naked. I draw the gun from my back. The Old Man doesn’t flinch.

“Damn. Nothin’ gets past you, old man. Move and this room gets a new coat of paint. Say, you haven’t even looked at me yet. Am I that famous? You can tell who I am just from my voice?”

“I know you, Kidd.” the old man says.

“I guess so. Have we met?”

“I’ve seen the newspaper clippings. A sheriff came by the cabin a few days ago, said your gang might be around. Wanted by the federal government, and every bumbling, whiskey drunk county sheriff this side of the Mason-Dixon line. Look. I know you got a shotgun pointed at my cranium, to your back, and I know you’ve been thinking about shooting me in the head since you first came into this cabin. But I ain’t no lawman, and I ain’t trying to collect the bounty on you…even if I could finally retire down to Rio with your blood money,” the old man says, a soliquiy into the fire.

My hand lingers over the trigger. But instead, I speak.

“Huh. Well, you marked me pretty good, oldtimer. Most people start cowering, throwing their watches and jewlery at me when they figure out who I am.”

For the first time, the old man turns to face me. He’s normal, saggy skin and a long gray beard.

“Kidd, when you first came in here, you said I was a kind person. I ain’t kind. I could plead, sure. I could beg, say I just saved your life. But that don’t matter. You’re not the type of person that responds well to kindness, are you?”

Ha. Kindness, I think. Fuck kindness.

“No, I reckon not. I ain’t apt to “kind” my way out of a shootout. Kindness ain’t ever done nothing for me. Pops was kind before he was fileted in his sleep by a drunkard he let stay in the hayloft.”

“That’s why I’m here. You ain’t gonna respond to charity, kindness, or the yolk of human compassion, are you, kid?”

His tone drops into a command.

“Look into the fire.”

I try to pull the trigger, but my finger locks. I start to move towards the fire, like I’m being pulled like a boxcar on a railine. I try to fight the movement, but I can’t. I bend down and gaze into the dancing flame.

“What do you see?,” the old man asks.

“Jesus, what kind of witchcraft is--”

“Answer me. What do you see?”

I saw her. The boys and I had the bank on Main Street locked down, about to grab the bags of cash, jump in and speed away to hit the next town. She came out of the washroom, unaware we had the place held down. I shot her through the neck. She choked on her blood. I meant to shoot the wall to scare the clerk into opening the vault…the bullet ricoheted..I didn’t mean to shoot her.

“I see her. Jesus, shot her through the neck. I swear to God, I didn’t mean to--”

“Course not. Is that what you tell yourself when you’re alone at night? Is her throat, ripped open, the image burned in your eyelids?”

I collapse on the floor, holding my face in my hands. The old man stands up from his rocker for the first time.

“I’m almost sorry for you, kid. There ain’t any other way to set you straight but raw power, right? A kind sheep is still a sheep, and you’re a wolf, right, kid? You’re a predator, ain’t you? You sink your fangs and take whatever you want from those poor fieldmice cowering in fear, right?”

“Shut up,” I sputter. I gather myself, uncrumple from the floor, stagger to my feet.

“You’re talking real funny, sir, and I implore you to stop--”

The old man laughs, spittle flying.

“You ain’t gonna implore me to do nothing, kid. Like I said, I ain’t kind. But I’m just.”

He sits down.

I draw the gun, aim it at his temple.

“Ha. Just. You mean, you’re an agent of justice? What are you gunna do, old man? Tie me up and take me down to the jail? Kill me? I got a gun pointed at you, but I got a sawblade in my satchel... I’m gunna have some real fun with you.”

Old man sinks back into his rocker.

“I ain’t going to cower, kid. I’m gunna show you something. Sit. Down.”

Despite everything in my body, I sit.

“Watch the fire.”

Depsite every voice echoing in my mind, I gaze again into the fire.

“A dozen lawmen are tracking you. Been following you since you killed her. In fact, they’re closing in on your camp now. Budd’s just got pumped with lead. Big Frank’s brain is oozing out. They’re following the tracks. They’re gunna find you, kid. Rather, they’re gunna find your frozen body next to your dead horse.”

I feel the pain of freezing to death; like someone stuck my body into a pit of ice blue flame.

“Oh my god.” All I can manage. A whimper.

“God ain’t got nothing to do with it,” the old man says. “Savor it. Not a lot of men get to see how they die, Johnny. But it doesn’t have to happen like that. You got a way out, kid.”

I don’t belive him. Ain’t no way out, I’m an cornered cat and he’s a rabid dog.

“Instead of killing me, get up, take my seat by the fire. You’ll be waiting for a while. For as long as I have. Till some other poor fool gets lost in the storm. You help them, you help them thaw out, you send them away. Keep waiting by the fire. Or, you kill me. Outside these walls, it’s just ice. Ice, snow, and death,” he says.

“I’m dead either way, ain’t I? I’m dead right now, ain’t I?” The question flashes like an explosion. “Am I dead? Am I dead?”

The old man shakes his head.

“I can’t answer that for you. You got to make a choice, now. Before the fire dies. We’ve been in here for a good bit of time already.”

I look at him squarely. He’s not reacting. Just a dirty, saggy, weathered old face. My fists clench. I want to kill him. But I let the wave of hate roll over me, and I’m left with whatever is left in the wreckage. The old man gestures for me to pass. I sit in his rocker. I look at the flames, for a few moments, an hour, a day, a year. I don’t know. I don’t care to know. The old man is gone.

It’s cold. Someone is pounding on the door.

“It’s freezing out here,” someone calls from outside. “You gotta help me, Mister!”

I don’t look up.

“Come in. Door’s unlocked. Mind you don’t track in too much snow.”

#western #jonny bolduc #jovialtorchlight #poetry

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dexter-and-hospes-story · 8 months ago

Text

Beginning

(May 25th 2:37 pm)

(an orange cat sits on a window sill sun bathing. Then all of a sudden. A small mouse walked from out of the wall the cat almost immediately noticing the mouse gets in a position to pounce on the small rodent. after a couple of seconds, the cat leaps at the mouse. the mouse noticing, narrowly escapes and began to run the cat following suit. After 5 minutes of the cat trying to catch the mouse, the mouse disappears into the wall through a small hole. The cat try’s to scratch at the wall with hopes to get the mouse out but to no avail. Then out of boredom the cat turns around and jumps onto the bar next to it. the cat began to walk across the bar coming to a halt after a random stranger in a red jacket and made of smoke started to pet it.)

Aww you’re adorable

(the cat began to purr and laid down on the bar next to the stranger. a drunkard next to him began to laugh hysterically he didn’t know why but it was annoying to say the least. The man was that of a lizard man)

[huh that’s interesting, I know I hop dimensions but I’m surprised I haven’t seen a lizard man… I have seen unicorns, very interesting.. I wander what unicorn meat tastes like. Does it taste like cotton candy. Or does it tastes like horse meat but a little sweeter? Is it sweet at all? What does regular horse meat taste like?]

Drunkard: hey you got a staring problem kid?

huh? What? (honestly being lost in thought made him forget he was even looking at the drunkard to begin with)

(a second man sitting at one of the tables behind him stands up and walks towards the man pulling a gun out and taking it to his head)

Drunkards friend: we got problem here?

(He turned to the man) ya know I wouldn’t really do that if I were you

(before the drunkards friend could say anything, his head was blown off splattering purplish blood and pieces of brain and skull fragments across the bar and onto the stranger only leaving his bottom jaw in tact the body fell onto the bar and slowly slid down painting the side of the bar in purple blood. This scared the cat away to the other side of the room and out the door)

Aw cmon hospes you got blood and brains all over me and scared my friend (he frowned and began to wipe the blood and guts off of himself)

(the man was a tall man about 6feet tall wearing a cowboy hat and a lavender button up shirt. He had two double barrel shotgun on his waist, he proceeded to put the one he was holding away and sit down next to the stranger.)

and you gotta be more careful who you pick a a fight with Dexter

(Dexters brow furrowed at this.) I wasn’t picking a fight.

what ever (he looked at the terrified bartender) hey there partner mind pourin me some whisky please

(the bartender nodded their head grabbed a glass and started to pour his drink)

thank ya kindly sir (he then tipped his hat to the terrified bartender)

(the bartender shacking, looking like he’s about to piss himself gives a very silent but still audible “no problem” before waking to the other side of the bar)

(Dexter gave the bartender a soft apologetic look and mouthed the word “sorry” before turning back to the stranger) you know we could’ve handled that without killing him

Yeah well he was threatening your life (he proceeded to drink the whole glass of whiskey) we should leave before someone else attempts to kill us l as well (he mumbled something under his breath though it wasn’t all that audible)

(Dexter gave a loud sigh) I guess so

(they both got up out of their seats but before they could leave the drunkard from before who was to stunned to speak at first walked up to them)

Drunkard: HEY HOW COULD YOU, WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT

he was picking a fight and threatening my life which (he points to hospes) unless you want to lose yours I’d suggest to back off thanks

(they then walked out of the door leaving the man quivering and scared)

#oc story #oc writing #writing #(cats curiosity)#[strangers trail]

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marta-bee · 2 years ago

Text

As you might have guessed from the quotes, I’ve been reading Good Omens again. I was all prepared to be uncomfortable with this par. Crowley was about to turn paintball guns into gun-guns, and I was sure after all the mass shootings America has seen since the twelve or so years since I last read it, that part would just hit differently.

I wasn’t wrong, though I’d forgotten how funny and delightfully ‘90s-ish the corporate warfare was. Honestly I was laughing too hard at all the humor around the violence to notice. I can’t recommend it enough, if you’re old enough to remember why Dilbert was funny once upon a time, you really should give this bit a read. A sample:

The contingent from Financial Planning were lying flat on their faces in what had once been the haha, although they weren't very amused.

"I always said you couldn't trust those people from Purchasing," said the Deputy Financial Manager. "The bastards."

A shot pinged off the wall above him.

He crawled hurriedly over to the little group clustered around the fallen Wethered. "How does it look?" he said.

The assistant Head of Wages turned a haggard face toward him.

"Pretty bad," he said. "The bullet went through nearly all of them. Access, Barclaycard, Diners-the lot."

"It was only the American Express Gold that stopped it," said Wethered.

They looked in mute horror at the spectacle of a credit card wallet with a bullet hole nearly all the way through it.

"Why'd they do it?" said a wages officer.

What most struck me though was the bits woven between all the poking fun at white collar office culture and the human capacity to wish violence on each other. I’d almost call it a coincidence if it wasn’t actually relevant to everything else going on. Any of my fellow Sherlockians, you know what they say about coincidences.

Let’s start with Nigel Tompkins. Or a little before he shows up, for context. Aziraphale and Crowley are hunting for the antichrist so decide to go back to the hospital where Crowley left him. It’s been burned down, most of the sisters have left, but now Sr. Mary Loquacious (now Mary Hodges, no sister) has turned it into a rather unorthodox corporate events center. They’re doing paintball. Lots of stultified corporate types have been handed nonlethal guns and told to have at it, which has exactly the result you’d expect (humans being humans) even before Crowley miracles their dearest wishes into reality and turns their paintball guns into real guns.

This is the scene Az&Cr stumble into (the paintball version to start). Nigel Tompkins has the bad luck to shoot at them as they’re getting out of the car, and after much hemming and hawing over stained fabrics, Crowley scares him off:

Tompkins thumbed another paint pellet into the gun and muttered business mantras to himself. Do Unto Others Before They Do Unto You. Kill or Be Killed. Either Shit or Get Out of the Kitchen. Survival of the Fittest. Make My Day.

He crawled a little nearer to the figures by the statue. They didn't seem to have noticed him. When the available cover ran out, he took a deep breath and leapt to his feet.

"Okay, douchebags, grab some sk-ohnoooeeeeee . . ."

Where one of the figures had been there was something dreadful. He blacked out. Crowley restored himself to his favorite shape.

"I hate having to do that," he murmured. "I'm always afraid I'll forget how to change back. And it can ruin a good suit."

"I think the maggots were a bit over the top, myself," said Aziraphale, but without much rancor.

Then later:

Nigel Tompkins had come to with a mild headache and a vaguely empty space in his recent memory. He was not to know that the human brain, when faced with a sight too terrible to contemplate, is remarkably good at scabbing it over with forced forgetfulness, so he put it down to a pellet strike on the head.

He was vaguely aware that his gun was somewhat heavier, but in his mildly bemused state he did not realize why until some time after he'd pointed it at trainee manager Norman Wethered from Internal Audit and pulled the trigger.

It’s this “scabbed over” language that really interests me, because ti comes up again with Mary Hodges. Trying to get information out of her, Crowley puts her into a kind of trance to question her.

"Good"-Crowley glanced at his watch-"morning, ma'am," he said, in a sing-song voice. "We're just a couple of supernatural entities and we were just wondering if you might help us with the whereabouts of the notorious Son of Satan." He smiled coldly at the angel. "I'll wake her up again, shall I? And you can say it."

"Well. Since you put it like that . . ." said the angel slowly.

"Sometimes the old ways are best," said Crowley. He turned to the impassive woman. "Were you a nun here eleven years ago?" he said.

"Yes," said Mary.

"There!" said Crowley to Aziraphale. "See? I knew I wasn't wrong." "Luck of the devil," muttered the angel.

"Your name then was Sister Talkative. Or something." "Loquacious," said Mary Hodges in a hollow voice.

"And do you recall an incident involving the switching of newborn babies?" said Crowley.

Mary Hodges hesitated. When she did speak, it was as though memories that had been scabbed over were being disturbed for the first time in years.

"Yes," she said.

"Is there any possibility that the switch could have gone wrong in some way?" "I do not know."

Crowley thought for a bit. "You must have had records," he said. "There are always records.

Everyone has records these days." He glanced proudly at Aziraphale. "It was one of my better ideas." "Oh, yes," said Mary Hodges.

"And where are they?" said Aziraphale sweetly.

"There was a fire just after the birth."

Crowley groaned and threw his hands in the air. "That was Hastur, probably," he said. "It's his style. Can you believe those guys? I bet he thought he was being really clever." "Do you recall any details about the other child?" said Aziraphale. "Yes."

"Please tell me."

"He had lovely little toesie-wosies."

Neil and PTerry are not authors like me, they don’t just use the same word all helter-skelter because they cant remember what they wrote five lines earlier. They’re funny and most importantly clever people. Or at least they have good editors who will call them on it. So likening this hazy or lost memory to a scab seems intentional to me.

But it’s not that Mary was traumatized by her time with the order. She was young and a bit hemmed in, but they weren’t evil in anything more than being allied with Crowley’s side. There’s nothing about her time with them that would be particularly upsetting, certainly not so much she’d have blocked it out even from her subconscious. Crowley’s putting her under here feels vaguely akin to hypnosis, suppressing part of her mental defenses so she’ll share more information with less filtering. And even then, talking about that time brings on the same sensation Nigel had when exposed to something too scary and --more importantly-- weird to fit with how he normally saw the world.

I think it’s Crowley. Specifically, Crowley letting his human face slip a bit. With Nigel it was intentional, with the nuns, possibly because Crowley was more distressed than he normally was so was less in control of himself? He wasn’t transforming into things that go bump in the night, sure, but between being so upset about the Apocalypse happening and these being his people so he didn’t have to fight so hard to hide his essence, I wonder if he didn’t let a certain something just ... slip through? Something the human mind just isn’t equipped to deal with?

It calls to mind another scene where we talked about memory and the benefit of failing to leave an impression, from much earlier:

"Is that him?" said Sister Mary, staring at the baby. "Only I'd expected funny eyes. Red, or green. Or teensy-weensy little hoofikins. Or a widdle tail." She turned him around as she spoke. No horns either. The Devil's child looked ominously normal.

"Yes, that's him," said Crowley.

"Fancy me holding the Antichrist," said Sister Mary. "And bathing the Antichrist. And counting his little toesy-wosies . . ."

She was now addressing the child directly, lost in some world of her own. Crowley waved a hand in front of her wimple. "Hallo? Hallo? Sister Mary?"

"Sorry, sir. He is a little sweetheart, though. Does he look like his daddy? I bet he does. Does he look like his daddywaddykins . . ."

"No," said Crowley firmly. "And now I should get up to the delivery rooms, if I were you."

"Will he remember me when he grows up, do you think?" said Sister Mary wistfully, sidling slowly down the corridor.

"Pray that he doesn't," said Crowley, and fled.

I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but maybe it’s not Crowley, or just Crowley, that makes her memories of this event feel scabbed-over. “Lost in some world of her own” could just be getting a little absorbed in the new baby (lots of women particularly are conditioned to think we need to coo over infants, and I can’t imagine the type of women who become nuns-- satanic or otherwise-- are much different in that respect). But it doesn’t have to be just that, does it? Prolonged exposure to the supernatural, even the also-human antichrist in his veiled form, seems like the kind of thing that’s too weird for the human psyche to easily come to terms with.

It’s interesting, because that sort of inability to be noticed is really biting Crowley in the backside now.

"Of course, we might be able to get a human to find him," said Aziraphale thoughtfully. "What?" said Crowley, distractedly.

"Humans are good at finding other humans. They've been doing it for thousands of years. And the child is human. As well as . . . you know. He would be hidden from us, but other humans might be able to . . . oh, sense him, perhaps. Or spot things we wouldn't think of."

"It wouldn't work. He's the Antichrist! He's got this . . . sort of automatic defense, hasn't he? Even if he doesn't know it. It won't even let people suspect him. Not yet. Not till it's ready. Suspicion will slide off him like, like . . . whatever it is water slides off of," he finished lamely.

"Got any better ideas? Got one single better idea?" said Aziraphale.

"No."

I’m not saying this has to be the same sort of inability-to-be-perceived that affected Mary and Nigel above. It could be a sort of built-in defense mechanism specially for the antichrist. But it seems on theme at the very least. There seems something deeply sad to me, and probably very relevant to the queer experience of the ‘80s and ‘90s, around the time this book was written and published, to there being something about your true nature that’s just not allowed to be seen and remembered.

Now I’ve made myself a bit sad, and if you’ve read this long you deserve to end on a treat. Luckily, our favorite authors have us covered there as well.

"Ducks!" he shouted.

"What?"

"That's what water slides off!" Aziraphale took a deep breath.

"Just drive the car, please," he said wearily.

They drove back through the dawn, while the cassette player played J. S. Bach's Mass in B Minor, vocals by F. Mercury.

#good omens #book omens #marta rereads good omens #queer representation #of a sort

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afeveryoucantgleekout · 1 year ago

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“put a gun to my head and paint the wall with my brains”

#fight club

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bleachanimefan1 · 1 year ago

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Sarge's Heroes The Final War Part 3

Echoes From the Past,

Sarge came tumbling out of the portal and landed face first into the ground. He had landed in the other world in a forest. Sarge groaned as he opened his eyes, waking up and slowly tried to push himself up. He fell back down too weak to get himself back on his feet. Sarge looked at his wound to see the gunshot in his abdomen and let out a hiss in pain. Sarge tried to put pressure on the wound as green liquid plastic slowly pooled out. He needed a med kit. He needed to get back! Vikki needed him, and the boys needed him as well. As Sarge managed to get himself to his knees, Sarge heard the portal behind him began to ripple and three tan soldiers ran out of it. Sarge sighed and tried to back away from them. The three tan soldiers kept their guns aimed at Sarge.

"Are you here to join the party, boys? It was starting to get lonely without you." Sarge retorted.

"What should we do with him?" Sarge heard one of the soldiers whisper to another.

"Let's finish him off right here!"

"But General Plastro ordered us to capture him alive."

"Yeah, listen to your buddy." Sarge replied. The three tan soldiers aimed their guns at Sarge, getting ready to fire. Sarge closed his eyes. Suddenly, a shot rang out, but Sarge didn't feel the bullet hit him. He opened one of his eyes to see one of the tan soldiers, drop to the ground.

"Who's there!? Show yourself!" The second tan shouted. Another shot rang out through the woods, hitting the tan in the chest blasting a hole clean through.

"I'm out of here!" The last tan soldier cried out and ran towards the portal. A shot ran out and the last soldier fell to the ground. Sarge looked behind him into the woods to see a woman step out through the trees, holding a rifle. She had pale skin, short black hair that looked to be painted on, wearing a black vest and dark cargo pants and boots. Her piercing green eyes met with Sarge and she started to inch closer to him after she finished inspecting one of the dead tan soldiers.

"Listen, I don't want any trouble." Sarge warned her. The woman smirked and let out a small laugh.

"If I wanted to kill you, I would have done so already." She spoke in a soft tone, almost velvety. Sarge blinked at her then smiled in relief.

"Oh, good to know." This woman she appeared to be on his side. But then again, he fell for Briget Bleu's trick. All nice and acting innocent. She even brain washed him at one point and put Vikki in danger. He wasn't going to fall for it again! But Sarge couldn't help but get the feeling like he knew this woman somehow. She held her hand out to Sarge and he took it, and she helped pulled Sarge up back to his feet.

"Thanks for the help. I need to get back." Sarge turned to the portal only to see it deactivate. The bomb must have gone off. "Blast it! How am I going to get back now!?"

"I know of another portal. I can take you to it." The woman spoke. Sarge quickly turned back to her.

"Then what are we standing around here for let's go-!" Just when Sarge took a step, he fell forward and the woman quickly grabbed him, before he hit the ground.

"Let's get you patched up first. We can make a quick pit stop at my place. It's not far. Then you tell me what happened on the way back."

"Sounds like a plan." Sarge groaned and nodded his head. The woman smiled and supported Sarge as the two walked through the woods, heading back to her place.

Sarge told her as they walked, how he got separated from his team and his girlfriend Vikki, and that he really needed to get back. The woman quietly listened to him as the two continued. Then Sarge noticed a small cabin within the distance on a hill made completely out of Lincoln logs. "This is the place." She told Sarge and walked them inside the cabin. She sat Sarge down in a chair and left to grab the med kit. Sarge looked out around the room. The were some random pictures hanging on the wall, a small fireplace slowly burning, a twin bed in the far corner of the room.

"Nice place you got here." Sarge called out. The woman walked back to him, carrying a med kit and set it down on the table and started to bandage up Sarge's wounds.

"Thanks. We like to keep it simple. Not to draw attention to ourselves." She spoke.

"We?" Sarge questioned.

"My husband." The woman smiled then Sarge noticed it drop a little and she continued to fix up his wounds, finishing up. Sarge watched her take a seat next to him across the table and he examined her again.

"You know, I've never gotten your name. But you-you look a little familiar. Have we met before?" He asked her. The woman turned to him and smiled.

"We have."

"Then what is it?" Sarge asked her, wondering where he had met her before.

"It's Ari."

"Ari..." Sarge repeated her name a few times thinking of where he had heard that name before. Then his eyes widened in shock, now realizing who she was. "Ari Armalite!?" Sarge shook his head in disbelief. "But you died! No one ever found you."

"That's because I didn't want to be found. I faked my death." Ari said.

"Faked your death? Why? Why did you leave? You were one of the best snipers on the base apart from Bullseye!" Sarge exclaimed.

"I got tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of a war that was never going to end."

"How could you do this? You lied to everyone. You lied to me. We were friends! You betrayed the Green Nation!" Sarge shouted, angrily.

"I saved you, didn't I?" Ari smirked, pointing her finger at him.

"Well, yeah, but-" Sarge sputtered.

"I've had enough. I saw an easy out, so I took it. I didn't betray anyone. All I wanted was peace and now I have it." Ari explained to him.

"How did you survive for so long without getting plasturfied?" Sarge asked her.

"I've heard from our little blue friends that they came up with a mixture that prevents complete plasturfication, so I stole some. And speaking of which, here you go." She slid Sarge a small bottle of the mixture. Sarge took it and sprayed a little on himself and he could feel his limbs loosening up a little. Ari stood up and picked up her rifle and slinged it over her shoulder.

"I said that I will help you get you to your portal and I will. But I am also coming with you to help fight the tan." She replied.

"But I thought you said you've had enough." Sarge said, confused.

"The tan took someone very important to me. My husband. So, they've made it my business. And I am going to get him back no matter what it takes." Ari explained and she held her hand out to Sarge. "So, up for one more round for old times sake?"

Sarge stood up and shook her hand. "Welcome aboard, soldier." Ari smiled.

"Great! We get your buddies and I'll get my husband and we'll go our separate ways."

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dreamsofthejackal · 1 year ago

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Half-life the game show

So I’m on this TV show and it’s my team who have a challenge to complete. My team mate is the chocolate guy and he gets to work making a chocolate car headlight (a left one). There are a bunch of judges who have to try and guess what he’s making.

Meanwhile the set is designed to look like an old half-life 1 cut scene, but it’s this alternative universe cut scene. On the ground is an AWP crossed with the crossbow to make the arctic warfare crossbow which in this universe was the sniper from the original half-life.

The walls and floors are supposed to be ice, but they’re just painted textures and the studio has a corridor leading away from it. Down this corridor there is this tracked roomba thingy driving towards us carrying a package. This was supposedly in the original cut scene. When it reaches us the package is removed and I get on, the roomba then starts driving away, taking me to my challenge.

At the end of the corridor there is a door, I go through on the roomba and on the other side is a half-life 1 style enemy, a really tall, bulky warrior who is head healthy with me standing on the tracked transport roomba which is itself about 3 foot tall. Initially he is non hostile but beside him is a glove sitting on a pole, as I go past I grab it and put it on. This glove is a weapon, instead of fingers it has a Gatling gun that fires explosive plasma. I try shooting the warrior which aggravates him, turning him hostile. At this point I’m desperately trying to get this thing to fire, all the while still slowly moving on the transport roomba. Then I look around and I’m in an arena with 5 or 6 of these big guys and a Gatling glove beside each one. As I drive past a second glove I grab it, now o put one on each hand and finally figure out how to fire them. A stream of explosive plasma fires from each of my hands at the big guys but they just tank it. :/

I wake up anxious, still desperately trying to fend off the warriors.

Analysis

I think chocolate guy is supposed to represent my creativity. Yesterday I was talking to friends about art and it started making me feel like wanting to get back into it, but yesterday it was just a mission to get the few tasks done that I really needed to. I think the warriors represent the tasks that I need to do and the battling gloves represent my ability to do the tasks. Dual wielding two explosive Gatling plasma weapons should be enough to deal with the big guys, the same way my mental and physical capabilities should allow me to complete any task. But I’m so messed up mentally from long covid taking away my abilities to cope with my ADHD, it damaging my autonomic nervous system as well as giving me crippling brain fog, it’s made it nearly impossible to do a single task and now these tasks not being done are threatening me.

#dream journal #the chocolate guy #half life #game shows #Gatling glove #dream analysis #long covid

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erysvoleil · 7 months ago

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Got annoyed at myself for not elaborating. Long post.

Taylor Hebert (worm): I feel like it's almost impossible to say anything about Bug Freak Prime here that hasn't been said a thousand times already. Absolute top tier Protagonist Who Has Things Wrong With Her, and it's endlessly engaging to both get a real grasp on how she's fucked up, how that impacts her perspective and how she describes/thinks about things, how she bounces off other characters who are by and large also top tier Freaks With Things Wrong With Them, and how she twists into herself over time and stress. Not to mention she's just. Aesthetically cool, and how she uses her powerset is cool and good and creative. Just an absolute 10/10 of a fictional character.

Jessie Ewesmont (twig): There are a lot of problems twig has in comparison to the other "good" wildbow works. It also, however, has jessie, who almost singlehandedly drags the whole book in my reckoning from a very mixed opinion to an overall positive one. Genuinely one of the best-written transgender characters I've ever seen, strong enough to be worthy of that recognition even though her proper weight class is "mediocre fiction written by cishet white guys." There's a lot of reasons for that-the levels of subtext she's working on, that she's the second-most prevalent and fleshed-out character behind the protagonist in a 1.6 million word long book, that her transition is a Thing That Happens in the story instead of being offscreen, that her gender situation is messy and complicated in a way that isn't painted as a bad thing. But beyond that, she's just Good-her dynamic and evolving relationship with said protag, even disregarding the romantic elements, is interesting and fun, her story has a lot of very good moments, etc. etc. etc.

Binah/Garion (lobcorp/ruina): Binah gets here mostly for her lobcorp appearance-like most of the returning characters in ruina, her arc is over and she's mostly just there for the new boy to bounce off of. It doesn't feel ooc, tbf, but she's a lot less entertaining of a character there when she isn't in scp purgatory. In lobcorp though. Before you even meet her, you've already seen her brutally murder two of the other characters in their own backstory flashbacks. Already seen her gleefully kill and maim and gun-to-head threaten some of the earlier cast you may have gotten attached to. And then you go press her story scenes and she's just. This impenetrable wall of passive malice, stonefacedly recounting absolute horrorshows, a facade only breached to smirk at the occasional morbid joke that's come to her. She's trapped in the Torment Nexus like every other lobcorp character but unlike the majority, she's reveling in it-she's pretty much an explicit sadist and seeing Everyone Else (notably, the people who put her here) in Misery is enough to make it worth it to her-or at least to say and act that way. Plus her formal responsibility in the Torment Nexus is tearing monsters out of people's brains, a procedure she claims would drive anyone else insane and she clearly enjoys, so. y'know.

Cylva/Cyella (ffxiv): Augh. I feel like I was such a lorebrain in my xiv days that it's hard to stop myself from just Retelling Her Entire Story, especially since she is so deeply woven into things in the background, but that'd be too long for this sort of thing. I think a lot of what she speaks to is inherent alienation, setting yourself apart from everyone else with the utter conviction that that gap is unassailable. And then once they're all gone, once you've played your game of cutting yourself off because you told yourself you had to, realizing that Fuck, you'd gotten attached-and they'd gotten attached to you, but they're gone now. Forever. And you've gotta live with both failing your little gambit and losing what you've only now realized you had forever. She's such an important character to shb's background narrative and her quests are some of the best writing in a Generally Well-Written expac. I genuinely love the blend of guilt, self-hatred, love for her former companions and conviction she has. But unfortunately you kind of have to be a bit of an insane completionist to see them-so she can't show up even when things directly relevant to her story start being the focus and this was actually the point where I hardline burned out on xiv's narrative. (wasn't feeling it for a bit, tbf)

Esmerelda Weatherwax (discworld): This one's a bit lighter of an opinion than the others previously, but she's come up recently in talking to friends about yazeba's, so she was on the brain. I haven't actually reread discworlds for a bit, but I was big into them as a teenager and Granny Weatherwax here was unironically a role model of mine. Which probably tells you some things about how I was as a teenager If You Know, but shhh. Inevitably, though, she's just a fun character-crotchety old witch who barely even uses magic, getting away with a strong sense of how people work, medical knowledge and sheer, unbending self-control in almost all situations. Plus her bouncing off the Jolly Old Lady that is her Old Witch counterpart is generally quite fun. I should reread wyrd sisters.

Ema Skye (ace attorney): Ema's an interesting one and a large part of why I like her is that she's imo easily the most developed character in aa. A lot of the bigname standbies can't really progress much due to Brand Recognition-this is quite notable in hobo phoenix being reverted nigh-immediately, for instance, but Ema's one of the only ones that feels like she's actually lived through the decade+ the series is supposed to take place in. I'll accept her first appearance is just maya-lite, but the contrast between bright-haired and bushy tailed "I'm Gonna Do Forensics :)" kid to jaded dropout/failure who hates her job post-timeskip is Good, and her starting to put herself together and work back towards those dreams, reclaim a bit of that excitement in 6 feels like a satisfying next step for her character. Now where the fuck's her sister capcom please stop throwing the cool female characters in forever jail.

Samus Aran (metroid): Like a lot of the ones that come from my teenage years, this is a lighter opinion-I don't have any long dissections of her character, I just think she's Cool and Neat. I played the prime games a lot and frankly the vibe of her just going out and Being Alone, doing her job on dangerous planets without really anyone to talk to or rely on or any of that was like. Nice, and particularly nice for me at that time. I feel like a lot of people just call her blank slate because like, yeah, inevitably she is a silent protagonist, but on the other hand she is supposed to be the same person throughout-and at least in terms of primes/dread, you can read a lot into her body language and decision-making and whatnot. But mostly she's just Cool and Neat.

Kohaku (tsukihime): This is another one I feel like it's difficult to say anything that hasn't been said a thousandfold before, but unlike Our Lady of Escalation, I haven't honestly seen most of it. She's a really really strong tragic character, and the degrees of depersonalization she's running on throughout the story are quite the potent read to slowly realize. Her "blood vanished like vapor" speech bounces around the back of my head quite a bit in that department. Plus she's at the center of two Very Strong routes that I rather like for being in conversation with each other. It's a good use of the vn multiple route standard, I think-the tragedy of Where She's Heading, of being dragged down into becoming a predator herself, into self-destructing in a spectacle of indiscriminate, suicidal destruction answered immediately by "but what if she was actually able to get better" work so well as companion pieces to each other. The "what if she got better" doesn't hit nearly as good without knowing just how bad she was doing, how close she is to being That again, and "but what if it could be averted?" is a key part of a lot of tragedy. Plus, a lot of tsuki's writing around sex is pretty juvenile and while I won't claim it's Super Mature with her, it is worthwhile that her sex scenes are actually both Pretty Plot/Character Relevant. It's also nice that in her good ending, it's not One Night of Magic Protagonist Dick that Fixes Her, in either the literal or facetious sense. The connection helps her, certainly, averts the tragic-route deathspiral she's in, but her actual good ending is moving away from it all and roadtripping alone for a bit, which is Good.

Aigis (persona 3): I don't necessarily know if I regret marathoning all three of p3p p4g and p5r in early pandemic years. These games in retrospect piss me off more than anything even if the gameplay loops active my neurons oh-so-well. But on the other hand, this Fucking Robit that's a boring nothing character for 90% of the game's runtime is the most direct personal attack I've ever fucking received. She's genuinely the most resonant depiction of dysphoria that I've seen in anything and that counts for a Lot. And then you get into the whole "views herself as a soulless Executor of the Task she's good at instead of any kind of a Person for Most of Her Life until that's shattered and she has to desperately try to figure out how to put together Being A Person while coming to terms with just how badly she hates herself" thing and hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Another Common Thing I have Commentary on is her internalized homophobia if you romance her as femc-it's funny, especially given atlus's Homophobic Past, Present, and Future, but I feel like I usually see it framed as being ooc, which it isn't. She's having a selfhatred breakdown in that scene and is reaching for any club she can think of bash herself with, that's just one of them.

Airy (bravely default): For some reason I can't get this stupid fucking Cryst-Fairy :) out of my head. She's so good. Not only is Her Being Evil Actually a fun way to play with the jrpg trope she's responding to (marketably scrunklie companion character who knows So Much about the plot,) the way it's revealed is rather nice. She's suspectable for quite a bit before the actual reveal, and the hints get more and more and more blatant as you go on-the game menu's subtitle dropping the FF in Fairy Flies/Flying Fairy is a legendary one, but I don't think I'm ever going to forget the realization that her wings were counting down as I went through the game's back-half loops. That being said, bravely 1 remains my favorite game that I never actually finished so I've never seen her Actual Heel Turn but she's stuck in my head forever so. Plus she's got a really strong and recognizable leitmotiff, which counts for A Lot

Name ten female characters you like, you get zapped if it's jsut a male character you call a babygirl or other feminine nicknames because I can't see people calling Lestat coquette again

#long post

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