#gun in mouth

[b0amagination]

Tastes of Whumptober: Day 20

Did you know? Hero and villain prompts were some of the first whump content I intentionally consumed! I will forever be salty that mainstream superhero content could never live up to those prompts.

Content warnings for: Gun violence, threats of death, and mildly suggestive comments

Giving Permission to Die

“So? What’s the plan today?” The villain shouted across the room at the hero whose captivity he’d been in for��� a week, now. Maybe more.

“Finally giving you what you want,” he responded with a shrug, playing with the knife in his hands. Flip it over, switch hands. Flip it over, switch hands.

“You don’t look prepared to present me with your corpse.”

“Oh, my death wouldn’t end your sentence, my love.” The flipping game was getting boring, and he picked at dirt under his nails using the blade instead. “You’d be chained up here with the rotting thing until you passed away yourself. Not punishment enough for your crimes, but it’s better than letting you roam the streets.”

“Sounds like you’re not giving me what I want then.”

“Be glad my greatest sin is telling lies.” A pointed glare accused him of crimes he’d plead innocent to, yet again. The knife moved to scratch an itch with the flat of it. 

“You sure that torturing a man isn’t higher on that list?”

“The pen is mightier than the sword, love.” A gesture with the damned thing now. He pushed down the urge to point out the obvious differences between that little thing and a sword. But the dick joke was funny in his head and didn’t involve initiation of a measuring contest.

“And your forked tongue doesn’t salivate ink. Swords can make quick work of those.” 

“Oh, shall I try it out on yours?” The hero stuck out his tongue at him.

“Put me out of my misery first.”

The knife plunged into the floor and he stood, never taking his eyes off of the villain.

“That. That’s what I’m talking about. Always egging me on. Trying to make me go too far.” He stalked forward and pulled a pistol from the inside pocket of his jacket. Entirely concealed from the outside. “I’ll go too far today. Just for you.” 

“Cute prop.” He hid the way his body shivered at the sight, praying the hero wouldn’t call his bluff. He was chained to this wall by his ankles, wrists, and neck. It wouldn’t be useful to put himself in a more vulnerable position.

“Here, let me fire. Maybe you’ll believe it then.” The gun aimed at the concrete beside his head but he paused. “Oh, who am I kidding. I should save your hearing for the last few minutes of your life.”

Foam earplugs were thrust into his ears and held still while they extended to block the canal, and the other did the same for himself. 

“Now, where was I?” Of course, shouting loud enough to bypass the earplugs. He aimed only a foot to the left of the villain’s head, pulling away as far as he possibly could, and fired. 

The sound ricocheted around the room, admittedly too small to facilitate gunfire, and he grinned at the way his victim flinched, eyes going wide. He walked forward and plucked the bullet out from its newfound pocket in the concrete, scattering dust and chunks that had stood solid just moments before. 

It was still warm from being shot and he dropped his knees, pressing it into the villain’s hand and folding up fingers to protect it. It trembled in his grip. 

“Do you believe me now, dear?” he spoke low into their ear, making sure he could still hear the threatening tone.

“Leave. Put that damn thing away and leave. You won’t shoot me and I know it.”

He cradled his cheek with the gun. And slid it up to sit against his temple. 

“How confident are you?” 

“Deadly so.”

BANG.

The world was fuzzy from the shot. The noise too close to his head, bleeding into his vision despite the protection. He looked down at his hands to see the blood dripping down them, spraying from his forehead. But only the bullet rolling in his palm greeted him. 

“Oops, guess the magazine was out.” 

Comprehension was a struggle. His forehead burned, but without blood… the hero’s thumb reached up and he flinched back uselessly as it rubbed over the not-hole. It came back covered in soot, wiped against his jaw like it was nothing. 

“What…?”

He released the magazine from the gun and presented it. Empty. 

“You were right. I didn’t shoot you.”

“You…”

“Pulled the trigger? Absolutely. Let’s rectify that little mistake, love.” Another magazine from his pocket, showing the bullets loaded inside, and shoving it into place. 

Then the front sight pressed against the villain’s lips, wiggling between them and scratching his teeth. He shook his head, turning it to the side. 

“No, no. You asked me for this, baby. I’ll follow through for you.” His hand steadied his chin, squeezing his jaw, and the muzzle jammed into the teeth with the threat to break. He had no choice but to let it in.

Gunpowder was a repulsive taste. Ash and acid. Then metal, still warm from recent discharge, but cooling rapidly. He guided it in, not stopping when teeth clamped down in an attempt to ward it off. The muzzle pressed toward his gag reflex when the trigger guard finally brushed his lips and he sighed, a whiny pathetic thing. 

“C’mon. Nod, babe, and I’ll pull the trigger. Hero’s honor. To save those in need.”

Nothing. He held him by the back of the head, devious smile aware of each action’s connotation, and twisted the pistol to force it further, making him gag on it. 

“Tell me to do it. I’ll let you die. I’ll blow your fucking brains out, sweetheart.”

The hammer clicked back. His finger inched toward the trigger. The villain held his breath, unmoving.

And then the gun ripped out of his mouth, sight tearing across his cheek and lip, splattering his blood across the floor where it flew and spun to a stop at the other end of the room.

“Right. Don’t ask me again.”

[krissonlythoughts]

that one interaction with the Hardie Boys

[scrollonso]

sit down

marco out, he walked away

.

[monards]

.. thanks browser.

[purplesectorss]

please god take away all of Daniel Ricciardos track limits violations and give them to Lando Norris.

[psilolysergica]

internet in 2003: awesome, fun browser games, explore the webscape 😎

internet in 2023: slaves to algorithm, everyone is depressed, trapped in a corporate hellscape 👎

[chimchiri]

gideon & harrow OR rd and sf as cowboys please please please

It's the cowgirl necro and her gunslinger cav! Who is so damn extra she's got three guns: one left, one right, and one in pole position! (She swears the ladies love it!)

[weirdsociology]

hey writers we have to talk.

if you've read any romance or fanfic in the past twenty years (i know you have), you know that there are a certain number of scents associated with hot dudes. you can probably recite the list of Things Men in Fic smell like in your sleep: leather, black pepper, pine, sandalwood, "something uniquely him", clean sweat, and if the character has ever fucking been within 50 yards of a firearm, something called "cordite".

here's the thing.

NO ONE SMELLS LIKE CORDITE.

cordite was a highly specific type of smokeless gunpowder developed in the 1890s by england specifically and used mostly in wwi.

if your good-smelling guy is not (a) english (b) using a very specific type of british rifle (c) dying in a trench in flanders, he does not smell like cordite. technically even if he does meet all those conditions he still doesn't smell like cordite because he smells like trenchfoot.

the point is, cordite is so far from universal that no one but the most hardcore gun nerds give a single shit about it. making your Sexy Hero smell like cordite is like naming a cassette-only bootleg live recording from the 1970s as your favorite grateful dead album. everyone at the party hates you immediately and knows you're doing it for clout. also, it's just factually... wrong. please stop. i know everyone else is doing it, but you can do the right thing here, i believe in you.

so what do people who are using guns smell like?

well if your story is set before the late 1880s, the smell of a fired gun is black powder, which, unfortunately, smells like seventeen flatulent cows have been shoved in a tire factory. trust me, you do not want your Hot Dude to smell like black powder. it's b a d.

if your story is set after the late 1880s, guns are using some variety of modern 'smokeless' powder - which speaking broadly doesn't really have a ton of scent when used. it does have some, but it's sort of non-descript: the best way i can describe it is the sweet, ozone, hot-plate smell of popping your car hood with a warm engine.

people who use guns a lot don't smell like fired guns all the time anyway, so while those scents might work in a fight scene, they're not realistic all the time. but there are some things that your Sexy Shootist will smell like basically 24/7 and that's metal and gun oil. metal you can go and sniff (i recommend non-stainless steel), but if you want a reference, most gun oils have a sharp, organic smell that's not dissimilar to canola oil but muskier and with a tang overtop. it's not unlikely leather is in the mix as well due to routine handling of leather equipment and gear. modern gear also tends to have a certain smell although it varies by production country and storage conditions - lots of opportunities there.

in conclusion: gunslingers and hired killers and military folks can be sexy and smell great on page, but i am begging you not to say "cordite" when you mean "gunpowder" ever again. we can do this. we are writers and therefore pedants. i believe in us!

[saint-hymn]

mercy, mèrci

[potato-lord-but-not]

FINALLY the John/Noel post is COMPLETE

[tr-shb0at]

cried in front of my coworkers because i thought i was having a stroke!!!!! very cool and chill employable adult activities

[hipsternumbertwo]

Favorite Angela Moments 50/∞: Expectation vs Reality

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲

A piercing cry slices through the dark--your eyelids are too heavy to wrench open, especially when you’re cocooned under the heavy duvet like you are right now. 

From behind you, molded against your body like he always is when you sleep, Jake’s muscles tense. Rigidly, he sighs into the warm curve of your throat and blinks through the dark. And, yes, there on the baby monitor is your six-month-old baby boy in his silly-looking sleep sack. He’s about to wail, Jake can tell. His little bottom lip’s wobbling and his eyes are shut tight and even though Jake can’t see his hands, he knows his fists are clenched.

“Your son is so dramatic,” you whisper, muffled from the pillow. 

“I thought we decided on theatrical,” Jake whispers back, his voice thin and worn. He peppers a few sloppy kisses to your throat and starts to sit up. “I’ve got ‘im.” 

“You’re my hero,” you mutter, yawning. 

He stretches and then swings his legs over the bed. 

“Kinda my thing,” he says as he stands.

“I love you so much,” you reply. Any other time, with more sleep, you would’ve scoffed at him and given him your best eye roll. But you’re too tired to feel anything but grateful for your husband right now. “Like, so much.” 

Jake laughs lightly, tiredly. 

“I know,” he says cockily, teasingly. 

You don’t respond, already drifting off to sleep again. You’re so tired that you can feel it in your bones--a deep, deep ache that is only exacerbated by frequent diaper changes and excessive feedings and tumultuous tummy times and gas and formula and binkies and board books and burp cloths and baths. 

And even though the baby is definitely about to start screaming, Jake can’t help but pause for a moment in repose as he stands in the doorway in his slouchy sweatpants. You’re sprawled across the bed already--you always say it’s to keep his spot warm but he knows that it’s because you’d sleep in star-formation if you had the choice--and breathing deeply. Your hair is a mess on the pillow and your cheek is smushed. Anyone with eyes can see that you’re exhausted from parenting a very particular, theatrical Seresin baby boy.  

He wants to cross the room again and tuck your hair back from your forehead. He wants to kiss your aching temples and your heavy eyelids. He wants to pull you in his arms, gather all those limbs, and hold you close. 

But he doesn’t want to wake you up.

So, he just smiles gently. 

“I love you so much,” he responds finally. “So, so, so stupid much.” 

And then he’s padding down the hallway, yawning again, but with a smile tugging on his lips. He can hear his son’s whimpers from outside the door and honestly, he’s shocked the screaming hasn’t started yet. 

The sound of artificial rain floods Jake’s ears when he comes into the room, the little sound machine in the corner lulling your son to sleep each day and night. He doesn’t bother turning it off or turning the light on--Jake’s fairly certain he’s adapted to the dark by now anyway. 

There in his crib, the one Jake had to finally ask Javy to help build, is a wriggling and fussy baby boy. His gummy mouth on display as he thrashes his head back and forth and his cheeks ruddy from upset. 

Jake’s heart swells as he strokes his cheek. Sometimes he still can't believe that this sweet little creature--the one with your eyes and his nose and your cheeks and his chin--is all his and all yours. You made him, every bit of him, and he is the most precious thing to ever grace this earth. Jake's sure of it.

“Hey there, cowboy,” he says softly. His son doesn’t let up yet, kicking his legs as Jake unzips the sleep sack. “S’alright, darlin’, daddy’s here.” 

All the tired floods his body and slips out under the door when Jake’s not looking. He holds his son against his bare chest, his body still so small and so soft. But then Jake is kissing the feathery hair on his head and bouncing lightly in his spot, heels digging into the rug. 

“What’s got you so upset?” Jake whispers, lips pressed against his son’s forehead. “Bad dream, baby?” 

Your son doesn’t respond. He just burrows into his fathers neck, his breaths stuttering and his mouth open and drooling. Jake pats his back a few times, kissing his cheek. He inhales his sweet, sweet scent and sighs.  

He loves the way your son smells--he just smells warm. He isn’t sure if it’s the body wash or the lotion or the sheets that does it. But he somehow just always smells good, like home, like you. 

“Let’s take a seat, huh? A little rock and roll never hurt nobody, huh?” He asks quietly as he sits in the rocking chair. 

If you were awake to hear his pun, you would’ve never let him hear the end of it. Jake makes a mental note to tell it to you over breakfast. 

Your son’s whimpers are fading fast, especially when Jake starts to softly rock him, tucking his chin on his head and patting his back softly. 

“Mama thinks you’re theatrical,” he tells your son, eyes fluttering shut. “And you definitely are. Mama also thinks you get it from me--and you absolutely do. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, cowboy. You gonna be a little actor? Or a little lawyer?” 

Your son babbles quietly, fingers tangled in Jake’s hair as a form of self-soothing. Jake kisses his face a few more times. 

“Or you could just stay here with me and mama forever,” he whispers. 

And he knows that having a son has made him soft--like crying at that one Honda commercial kind of soft--because his eyes grow wet when he thinks of your son getting any bigger than he is now. He never wants a day to come where he can’t pull his son to his chest, sit down in the rocking chair, and make the tears stop. 

"I love you," he whispers. "Me and mama love you so, so much. More love than can fit in this whole world."

When you pad down the hallway, eyes full of sand and sleep from your very few hours slumbering, you don’t even have to touch the walls anymore to orient yourself. You know where you’re going even in the pitch-black hallway. 

Jake’s sleeping when you come into the nursery, the sound machine quiet in the corner of the room. Your son is still in his arms, sleeping against his chest. And God do they look alike right now in the light of the moon--both of them sleeping with their heads resting on each other’s, their mouths open, their fists clenched. 

You came in here to bring Jake back to the bedroom. But watching him hold your son, your sweet boy, in that rocking chair that he built in this room he put together--you decide that a few more hours of comfortable sleep isn’t worth it. Tempurpedic mattress be damned. 

So, you just carefully cross the floor. The rug is soft beneath your bare feet when you lean forward and stroke your son’s head, careful to have a soft touch that will not wake him. And then you’re kissing Jake’s warm cheeks, stroking his blonde locks, too. 

Jake stirs slightly, eyes twitching. Your heart swells. 

You sink onto the floor before the rocking chair, leaning against Jake’s legs. The rain is lulling you already and you yawn as you rest your cheek on his thighs. The rug is comfortable--you’re glad you went for this one. Your son is happy and sleeping and your husband is holding him and everything is right in the world. 

And just as you’re about to fall asleep again, Jake’s thighs cushioning you, Jake’s hand falls into your hair. He strokes a few times in welcome--hi, baby. 

 “Missed you,” you mutter. 

“Missed you,” he returns. His hand glides through your hair. “All’s right in the world now, huh?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It is.”

happy Father's Day to those who celebrate <3

[namtanlovesfilm]

burnout syndrome (mock trailer) | not me (2021)

dir. anucha boonyawatana

[aduckwithears]

Haven't you fired a gun before?

Not as such...

Good Omens S2/Ep4

[sneakingpasta]

Blitz: Expert in the art of Wooing

When Stolas first arrived:

Home decorator Blitz: It’s time to break out the fine china

Bonus:

It’s going well