#someday i will draw another guy but today aint that day
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(alt under the cut) i cant stop drawing him i fucking hate him. but hes jeff the killing my art block
#mine#creepypasta#jeffrey woods#jeff the killer#jtk#heâs not a proxy i KNOW but i like drawing for my own nostalgia. my target audience is me 9 yrs ago#i have been big into nine inch nails recently. sorry#someday i will draw another guy but today aint that day#tried a lettering thing i saw too WOO!!
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for monster march, ghost + indruck + nsfw?
Here you go! I borrowed some ideas weâve tossed around on the Discord
A sketchbook, new pens, a Hershey bar, and a bag of jumbo marshmallows. A small but lively fire. And a new, huge, fuzzy sleeping bag waiting for him in the tent.Â
Not a bad camping set up for a city-boy art goth (as Barclay likes to call him).
Indrid sticks another marshmallow on the fork, roasting it until itâs deep brown, the smell of burning sugar curling through the air and settling in his hair. Heâs never liked Graham Crackers, so he jams a square of chocolate into the molten center of the marshmallow and shoves the entire thing into his mouth.Â
Kepler is small. Barclay hadnât been kidding about that. Heâd also been right that one of the two tattoo shops in town was willing to hire Indrid after looking through photos of his work and confirming he completed his apprenticeship.Â
Heâs been living in the Eastwoods campground in the Monongahela National Forest while he apartment hunts, and the tattoos heâs done so far netted him enough cash to buy his luxurious new sleeping bag. He might be waiting on a place for some time, so he may as well camp in style.Â
Three âsâmoresâ later, the moon is up and the night is chilly enough that he wants his sweatshirt. Ducking into the tent, he canât find it on his pillow, where he swears he left it this morning. Maybe he accidentally buried it getting dressed.
A splashhiss interrupts his rummaging. Scrambling from the tent, he discovers his fire is now a pile of soaked ashes and logs being angrily stirred by a thick piece of kindling.Â
âExcuse me, but what the fuck?â
A man in a ranger uniform appears, the stick falling through his hand as he gives Indrid a disapproving stare.Â
âLook here, I know youâre new here, maybe to campin entirely. But you canât just leave a fire burnin when you go to bed.â He doesnât sound mad, more like heâs a disappointed big brother scolding his sibling.Â
âI wasnât-â
âAnd all thisâ he gestures to the food on the table, âhas gotta go in the bear box. Black bears are real good foragers and we donât want âem cominâ into camp and gettin to comfy around humans.â
âOf course, but-â
âYou didnât take any food into the tent, right? Wouldnât want somethin to decide to join you âcause it smelled a snack.â
Indrid pinches the bridge of his nose, âI am aware of all of these rules, and plan to follow them. Once I actually go to bed instead of ducking into the tent for my sweater. But since my evening appears to be overâŚâ he grabs the marshmallows, roasting fork, and chocolate, carries them to the bear box, and slams it closed.Â
When he whirls back around, the ghost is still there, chagrined.Â
âUh, sorry. I kinda jumpy about people leavin fires alone.â In the lantern light, his smile is as charming as his drawl. His stocky, bearish shape and unassumingly handsome face command Indridâs focus, which is why his revelation comes so quickly.Â
âYou...thereâs a statue of you at the visitor center. Which makes you, ah, damn it what was the name-â
âDuck. Duck Newton. They put my legal name on there, even though Juno tried to stop âem. But my nameâs Duck.â
âItâs nice to meet you, Duck. Iâm Indrid.â
âNice to meet you too. Uh, sorry for ruinin your campfire, looks like you were havin a nice time.â
âItâs alright. I suppose Iâm grateful thereâs someone haunting the campsites to keep them in order.â
âYouâre takin me beinâ a ghost surprisingly well.â
âIâve always been interested in strange things, to the point that I earned the nickname âmothmanâ in high school.â
âHuhâ Duck watches him a moment, then shrugs, âwell, guess I better be goinâ. Have a nice night, mothman.â
With that, heâs gone.
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âHello again.â Indrid says as the campfire smoke curls around a human form, âDoing your rounds?â
âMore or less. I like my job, and ainât about to give it up just because I beefed it and turned into a ghost.â A creak as Duck joins him on the picnic bench. When he materializes, he floats slightly above the worn wood, watching Indrid draw.Â
âThatâs incredible, itâs so realistic itâs like you pressed the leaves into the pages instead of colored them.â
âThank you.â adds depth to the leaf, âyou know, I looked at the statue again today. It hardly does you justice.â
From this close, he can see a blush spread up semi-opaque cheeks. Then he starts fading.
âOh, ah, Iâm sorry. I was aiming for a benign compliment, not to make you uncomfortable.â
âSâalright, just surprised me. Not many folks wanna flirt with a dead guy.â
âIâm more interested in what the âdead guyâ wants.â Indrid smiles, hoping to convey he would submit to spectral touches as readily as heâd keep talking.Â
Duck floats closer, âKinda curious about your other drawinâs.â
Indrid turns the sketchbook back to the beginning, âtheyâre half portfolio and half travelogue. Hereâ he holds up a fade, detached piece of paper, covered by an Morpho Butterfly that looks ready to fly away, âthis is the first tattoo I ever designed.â
âDamn. Guessinâ that means you did this oneâ he touches the Rosy Maple Moth on Indridâs forearm (or tries to). Itâs chilly, but not in the way Indrid feared. More like taking a cool shower on a sweltering day.
âI did. Here, it gave me an idea for my first series of flash tattoosâŚâ
They go over the illustrations page by page. Slowly, Indrid weaves in questions to Duck who, instead of recoiling from discussion of his mortal life, tells him rambling stories about the woods and which places serve the best food in town.Â
The conversation doesnât end until the fire goes out on itâs own, Duck standing automatically, grabbing a water bottle, swearing, and then disappearing so he can pick the bottle up.Â
âDo you think thatâs part of why youâre still here? Some unfinished business having to do with the woods?â
âNah.â The water bottle thunks back on the table as Duck reappears, âI tried to live a normal life, improve the world the way I knew how, make some kind of difference to this town. Then I had to go play the goddamn hero.â
âI would say saving two dozen people from a forest fire makes a considerable difference in the world.â
A sad huff of a laugh, âYeah, guess youâre right. Just...I meant to do somethinâ with my life, not my death, even if it was a small somethinâ, and the closest thing I got to unfinished business is a model ship.â
âI...what?â
âIt was four-masted and everything! I had Leo order it in special and everything and then I never, I never got to-â He tilts his head up, sniffs once, ânever mind. I better let you get to sleep.â
By the time Indrid calls âgoodnight,â the ghost is gone.Â
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âPlease tell me youâre gettin a place soon so you stop eatin everythin outta a can?â Leo bags the last of groceries.
âNo such luck. Ah well, there are worse things than canned soup and Pop-Tarts.â
âAt least let Barclay feed you, half the point of havin a friend who can cook is to let âem do it for you. You need stamps or anything?â
âN-â A box behind the counter catches his eye. Itâs at an odd angle, as if whoever put it there is hoping no one will see it. Indrid can just make out an illustration of a four-masted ship.
âIs that for sale?â
Leo looks where heâs pointing, and for a moment something in his gruff affability wavers. Then he nods, âYeah, suppose it is.â
âCan you ring it up for me?â Indrid nearly bounces on his toes when Leo sets the box on the counter and confirms his hunch.Â
The older man sets a gentle hand on the cardboard, sliding it across to Indrid, âDonât worry about that, kid. Itâs yours.â
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âDuck?â Indrid turns in a circle by the picnic table, âDuck, I have something for you!â
He saw the ranger briefly last night, but he didnât hang around. Gingerly, he sets the box on the table, tearing off a piece of sketch paper to write a note in case the ghost stops by while heâs asleep.Â
âHoly fuck.â Duck floats across the table from him, ââDrid, where did, how did--why?â
âLeo still had it. As for why I, ah, it seemed like you still wanted it. If you can douse a fire and over my camp stove, I figure you can build a model ship.â
Duck disappears and Indridâs heart sinks; that must have been too much. Then heâs squished in an invisible, wonderful bear hug.
âThanks, âDrid.â
From then on, Duck spends every night at his campsite, building the ship while Indrid draws, reads, or talks with him. The model lives in the safest corner of the tent during the day.
âI mean, Iâm up durin the day too, but I scared a few folks on accident and I donât want people avoid the forest because of me.â
Indrid also learns that Duck is stuck within a certain radius of where he died, and that his attempts to talk with Juno when she was in his part of the woods only lead to his friend thinking she was hallucinating and Duck feeling miserable for three solid days. Indrid offers to act as messenger and invite Duckâs friends (many of whom have, by chance and by proximity to Barclay, become his friends) to the campsite to see him. The ranger is quiet for some time after that offer.
âNot yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I, it ainât even been a year, âDrid. I think a lot of âem are still hurtin. And, and maybe this is selfish but...I ainât ready to deal with them findinâ out I aint fully gone. Itâd be so much all at once.â
Indrid doesnât bring it up again. More than once, when Aubrey tells a story about Duck only for her eyes to sadden halfway through, or when he sees Juno looking at Duckâs statue a little too long, he struggles to keep his promise.Â
A cold front blows into town and, since heâs still in the tent, he pops into Kepler Thrift N Find in search of an extra sweatshirt. Tucked in between one reading âRanchosâ and one with a picture of Garfield is a soft, well-loved hoodie with âMonongahela National Forestâ on the front. He buys it and wears it home, the fact itâs loose in the arms making it even easier to tuck in his hands when he gets cold.Â
He stops by the visitor center out of habit, checking out the new plush wild animals. There are also hints of Duck here and there; his name on displays, his face in group photos. As he contemplates a small, squishy black bear, he notices Juno looking at him more than usual.
âHello againâ he sets the bear on the counter.
âHowdy. This all?
âYes, please. Are you alright? You look, ah, tired.â
âYep. Or, uh, just noticed that sweatshirt. It was one that got made special for staff a few years ago.â
Indrid fidgets with the cat-bitten drawstring, âIt was Duckâs, wasnât it?â
âUh huh. He put that patch on the sleeve. Guess it startled me to see it on someone else.â
âI understand.âÂ
âKnew him since we were kids. Hell, heâs my daughterâs godfather. Still donât feel right, beinâ here without him.â
Indrid pushes the bear towards her and she pets it.
âWhat was he like?â
In the empty visitor center, Juno tells him. In her stories are echos of every conversation heâs ever had with anyone who knew Duck. When itâs time to close up, she asks if she can hug him, and thanks him for listening to her.Â
âGuess you werenât kiddin about wanting to sleep with a bearâ Duck teases as Indrid sets his new purchase inside the tent. Indrid whaps at him, arm going through his torso. The ranger floats nearby as Indrid heats up ravioli and opens a can of Mountain Dew. Indrid tells him about the conversation with Juno.Â
âHuh, guess that is my old one. Glad someone is gettin some use outta it. And it looks good on you.â
Indrid sets down his bowl, âWe talked a lot, Duck. And it made me think about what you said to me one of the night after we met. You said you wanted a chance to make the world, the town, a little better. Everyone Iâve talked to, and I mean every one, has a story about you. How you helped them, how Kepler is worse off with you gone. You did so much, even with your time cut short. I, I wanted you to know that.â
The ghost looks away, âI wasnât done tryin to help.â
âYou still arenât. You do what you can to keep the forest and the visitors safe. And you, youâve made my life immeasurably better Duck. Seeing you is the best part of my day and I think Iâm falling--ah, that is, youâre not done making a difference.â
Duck hasnât moved since Indrid started talking about his feelings. When Indrid tries to meet his eyes, he disappears. Hurried, he reaches out to offer a reassuring touch and gets only air.Â
âDuck?â
Nothing, even after he calls his name three more times.
He slumps onto the bench, âwell, fuck me I guess.â
---------------------------------------------------
This is a terrible idea. But itâs his last, and therefore his best.Â
Indrid even asked Barclayâs boyfriend, Joseph, if anything in his impressive library of the paranormal advised the reader on dealing with upset ghosts. A few did, always from the perspective of trying to get the specter to go away. They said nothing about what to do if your upset ghost was missing, leaving an ache in your heart you didnât know you were capable of feeling.Â
Instead, after a week of silence, Indrid changes tactics: if he canât coax Duck back, maybe he can annoy him into appearing.Â
Tonight, he finishes dinner and cleans his dishes, puts the bulk of the food in the bear box, and then tears open a bag of chips, scattering them across the table. He eats one, then leaves the open bag laying amongst the potato shards.Â
Next, he dumps his remaining water on the fire, which takes it down to embers but does not extinguish it. When none of that gets a reaction, he decides to narrate.
âHmm, that should be fine, itâs not that dry and I donât think sparks can go over the edge.â
âShould I leave these juice pouches out? Yes, I think I should, in case I get thirsty at night. Maybe Iâll take one into the tent, just to be safe.â
He already feels silly and like no one is listening, and so he escalates.Â
âI know I shouldnât leave food out for the wildlife, but since thereâs no handsome, ghostly ranger here to punish me for my transgressions, I am just going to leave some nuts out for the raccoons. I like raccoons. They deserve nice things. Hell, how about I just leave them a whole buffet since no one is stopping me!â
All he gets in reply are the few bugs awake this early in the spring and the crack of brush as a small mammal runs away from the weird bipedal thing yelling at his camp fire. He doesnât leave out food for the raccoons; he climbs into his tent in a huff. What a bad idea, to think this of all things would bring Duck back to him. Heâs being childish and bratty and selfish; Duck doesnât deserve that, no more than he owes Indrid his company.Â
He changes into his pajamas pants and sleep shirt, intending to go back out to make the site safe and tidy. Except.
Except something just opened the bear box. The chip bag crinkles and the fire hisses out a minute later. He should be running outside to apologize, but his mind has simultaneously registered the full darkness of the night , the possibility that Duck is not the only paranormal thing in these woods, and the fact the nearest other campers are on the other side of the campground, meaning he is very, very alone.
The zipper on the tent moves, the flap falling open so his lantern shines on nothing but April air.
âDuck? Please say thatâs you.â
A low chuckle, âItâs me, âDrid.â The fly zips shut, âmighty peeved about that trick you pulled.â
âIâm, Iâm sorry. I missed you, but that was a bad way to communicate that.â He canât see him, and the lantern only picks up the odd shift of sleeping bag or tent floor, so Indridâs eyesâ dart about trying to pinpoint him.
âOh, you communicated plenty, sugar. Like what you want a certain, uh, ghostly ranger to do to you.â
âOh godâ he winces, âplease, forget I said that, itâs humiliating.â
âNot all that surprisin, truth be told. I mean, you and I flirted now and then. And you told me enough about yourself for me to suspect that youâre a kinky little weirdo whoâs dyin to get fucked by a ghost.âÂ
âI, I feel I should point out that I only want to fuck one ghost. You. I want to fuck you and that means fucking a ghoOOOst.â He gasps as cold lips press into his neck.
âI can make that happen, darlin, all you gotta do is say it. You were a pain in the neck earlier, so now I expect you to be real polite and use your words.â Duckâs voice has never been like this before, rough and possessive yet still, under all of it, the same warmth draws Indrid in like a flame.Â
âI want you, Duck.â
A bite to his ear, strong arms wrapping around his waist from behind him, âWant me to do what?â
âFuck meâ this is like every wet dream he had as a teenager, the supernatural being coming for a fellow outsider.Â
That gets him a tender kiss on the cheek, âThatâs better. Though, if Iâm rememberin correctly, word you used was punish.â
Indrid yelps as Duck turns and shoves him to lay across his lap, kicks his legs out in surprise when his waistband slides down to his upper thighs.Â
âYesssâ he wiggles his ass as Duck palms it, âyes, Duck, pleaseAHgodâ the first strike stings, and Duck doesnât let him recover before delivering five more, three to each side. His cock perks up at the pain. Stranger still, because Duck is invisible, all Indrid has to do is tilt his head to watch it harden and twitch with each slap.
Twenty strikes later Duck pauses, hand rubbing soothing, cool circles on the burning skin, âLearned your lesson?â
âMmhmm.â Indrid presses an awkward kiss to Duckâs knee.Â
âGlad to hear it.â Duck hauls him up onto his knees, slides a hand under his shirt and up his chest, âIâm rarinâ to feel more of you--holy fuckâÂ
âAH!â Indrid arches as Duck toys with his left nipple piercing, his other hand quickly finding the right.Â
âGod, fuck, youâre fuckin hot, if I were alive I woulda taken you home first time I saw you.â Messy kisses cover his neck as Duck tugs the piercings.
âGaahnnyes, thatâs, thatâs very flattering.â
âAinât flattery, sugar, itâs the truth. Never could turn down some skinny punk with piercinâs and messy hair, not when I was a teen burnout hidin in the woods and sure as hell not now.â He moves Indrid onto his back, rucking up his shirt as his legs twist in his half-down pants. The ranger cups his face, and Indrid is positive heâs meeting his eyes, âtell me what you want sugar, tell me so I can treat you right.â
âMarks, I want marks anywhere youâll give them.â
A growl from above him, then lips smashing into his, drinking him in before continuing down his throat, biting and sucking hard enough that he cries out every time. Duck pauses, teasing his nipples with his tongue as he rakes his nails up his sides. He sits up and for a horrible moment Indrid loses him. Then with glee he watches five red marks drag down his chest. He moans, rolling his hips and discovering just how closer Duckâs clothed cock is to his own. The contact only feeds the rangers eagerness, and Indrid is tosses and turns as he sucks, bites, and scratches, laying claim to the illustrated expanse of his body.Â
âMore, please, god that all feels so good.âÂ
âDonât worry darlin, still got plenty of you to mark up, but weâre gonna do somethin else while I do.â He eases Indrid onto his stomach, slaps his ass fondly, âdonât go nowhere.â
Indridâs duffel bag unzips, clothes and pens moved aside until a bottle of lube hovers in the air. The tube compresses and drips coat the rough outline of fingers. When the two digits press into him he sighs, eyes closing as he melts under Ducks watchful eyes.Â
âThatâs it âDrid, relax for me. Got well over a year of horny to work out, so this cute ass needs to be ready to take it.â
Indrid pushes his hips back in reply, taking as far as the fingers will go and whimpering excitedly when he presses in the tip of the third. Duck works that one more carefully, kissing Indridâs face and shoulders as he whispers about how good he is, how much heâs wanted this.
âI want it too so for, for goodness sake please fuck me soon or Iâll leave my entire cooler out for the bears.â
âOnly one bear in this campsite tonight darlin.â Duck laves his tongue down the base of his spine, bites down hard on his ass. Indridâs still moaning from the pain when his cock pushes in.
âFuuuckme thatâs good. Shoulda snuck into your tent sooner, sugar, made you a fuckin cocksleeve you feel so fuckin good.â
âOhgodâ is all Indrid, voice muffled by the sleeping bag heâs biting, manages before Duck adjusts them so Indrid is on his knees. The ranger isnât gentle, pounds into him like heâs nothing but a warm hole and chuckles whenever Indrid moans.Â
âH-handprints, Duck, want hand prints GAHyesyesyesâ he struggles to move in time with the ghost as the air fills with ear-splitting slaps. Heâs so close, the pain and the sensation of phantom fingers claiming his body making his body beg for release. When he slides a hand down to jerk himself off, the arm twists up and stays trapped against his back.Â
âYou wanna cum, you know what to do.â
He blinks away the ecstatic tears, words raw in his throat, âPlease let me cum, Duck. I want to, need to cum while you fuck me pleaseplease-â he cuts off into whine as the ghost works his cock hard, all the while jamming into him hard enough that the smooth fabric of the sleeping bag burns his knees. When he cums itâs with a weak cry of Duckâs name, which is swallowed up by hungry lips as Duck kisses him over and over, repeating Indridâs name like an incantation as he pumps his hips and cums, pulling out as he does so it splatters on the reddened patches of his ass.Â
A final kiss to the top of his head, and then thereâs no contact between them and the zipper is moving.
âOh no you donâtâ Indrid scrambles, sweaty and exhausted, between the tent fly and the invisible man somewhere in front of him, âfor goodness sake, Duck, I thought you liked me enough to at least let me fall asleep before you ran.â
The ranger finally appears, hair a mess and cheeks noticeably pink, ââDrid, all that was amazing, but itâs all I can give you. I, I canât...you said you were fallin for me and I canât give you that.â
Indrid cocks his head, âWhy not?â
âBecause Iâm a fuckin ghost, âDrid! You deserve to be with a livinâ fella, you deserve someone who can be a real part of your life.â
He crosses his arms, âDuck, you are a real part of my life. Honestly, what part of all the nights we spent together, all the ways we take care of each other, all of thisâ he points at the rumpled sleeping bag, âsuggests otherwise?â
The ghost doesnât speak, simply hugs himself (or tries to).
âIf this is too much, if Iâm offering something you do not want, then please tell me. But if this is you thinking that some paranormal quirks keep you from being a worthy partner for me, kindly think again.â
Duck disappears and Indrid is gearing up to try and tackle a supernatural entity when a familiar face buries itself in the crook of his neck. The ghost clings to him, and Indrid clings right back.Â
âYou really wanna give it a go?â
âMore than anything.â
Duck lifts his head so their cheeks rest together, âThen fuck it. Letâs see what happens.â
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Indrid finishes hooking up his lightly used Winnebago, AKA his solution to the lack of available apartments. Heâs in a different section of Eastwoods, but heâs happy with his new spot. He opens one of his few boxes, gently lifts the completed model ship into a place of honor, and waits, humming happily, for an unseen hand to knock on his door.Â
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