#colt python <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[sinsandsweetness]

Hiii T <3

Just had a fantastic little fantasy/daydream during some alone time with my favorite toy…Sooo basically I was thinking about daryl laying me on my back, not fucking me but just slapping my clit with his dick and rubbing it against me until I come just from that stimulation (at least two times), then once my legs are all shaky and I’m a whiny mess he makes me ride him while telling me how adorable I look when I’m a shaky subby mess <3

Hi matty baby<3

This made me want to go home and play with my own favourite toy.

Similar thought that this made me think of:

Imagine he makes you get on top of him and grind on the length of his dick until you finish. He won’t let you put him inside you until you’ve cum from the grinding. Even though you’re begging and whining like a subby little mess, he doesn’t give in. And it gets so wet and slippery and hot and sweaty cause you’re just rutting back and forth with your eyes squeezed shut and your fingers digging into his shoulders, wanting so desperately to cum from the friction alone, because it’s what he wants.

[corgiteatime]

Me and my coworker in the work chat during office hours, going over the BG3 gun mods and debating which ones could Astarion could actually use without hurting his STR 8 self

[craftholsters]

Colt King Cobra vs Python by Craft Holsters

Colt King Cobra: Built for Practicality and Defense

The Colt King Cobra is designed for reliability and versatility, making it an excellent choice for self-defense and everyday carry. With a 3-inch barrel and a heavy-duty stainless-steel frame, it balances power and portability. Its fixed sights and Hogue overmolded grips provide a secure hold and quick target acquisition in high-stress situations. While its trigger pull is heavier than the Python’s, it ensures durability and consistent performance, making it a great option for those seeking a no-frills, duty-ready revolver.

Colt Python: The Gold Standard of Revolvers

On the other hand, the Colt Python is often considered one of the finest revolvers ever made, thanks to its precision engineering and legendary trigger system. The 3-inch Python boasts a full underlug barrel, an ultra-smooth double-action trigger, and adjustable sights, making it ideal for target shooting and competitive use. Though heavier than the King Cobra, its refined design minimizes recoil and enhances accuracy. Whether you’re a collector or a shooter looking for top-tier performance, the Python remains an elite choice. To learn more about Colt King Cobra vs Python, check out Craft Holsters' Colt King Cobra vs Python blog.

[darknight3904]

All Too Well

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Joel deal with the aftermath of Adam's appearance.

Warnings: Violence, torture with a knife, guns, mentions of SA (not depicted in detail) Language, death, animal death

Word Count: 2k

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / Main Masterlist

There is a trail of blood staining the grass in front of you. Joel has dragged Adam off somewhere while you sit on your rock, awaiting his return. A long line of ants march along on the ground, they redirect when they come across the blood. 

“We should get back.” 

Joel’s deep voice pulls your gaze off the ants and their new path. Joel runs a wet rag across the skin of his hands and Adam’s blood disappears. 

“Okay.” 

The gates of Jackson groan in protest as they open for you. Brett and Louis sit atop the wall and give a nod to Joel as you enter. 

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” 

“Fine.” You huff, and you feel your brow fur as you struggle to remove Pepper’s saddle. It was as if all your strength had been zapped from your body. 

About 3 hours earlier, in the clearing:

“You can run off, spread your legs like a whore for this one here-” 

Whatever was coming next never left his lips as Joel’s hand pulled back and shoved his knife into Adam’s thigh. 

It’s a good one, deep but not enough that he’ll bleed out. Joel twists a bit before yanking it from the flesh. Satisfaction fills his body as Adam’s gasps and whines of pain fill the forest.

“Not another fucking word.” 

Joel’s voice is so deep, that he doesn’t even recognize it. All he knows is that he wants this man to suffer for what he’s done to you. Joel knows that he wants to see him burn for his sins. Adam doesn’t fucking deserve to even be breathing the same air you do. He glances back to where you now sit on a couple of rocks, your eyes glued to the new wound on Adam’s thigh. Your eyes flick to Joel and then to the knife. 

Joel takes this as the green light and moves again, Adam is never leaving this clearing, not alive anyway. 

The knife cuts like butter as Joel runs it along Adam’s pale skin. Blood pours onto the grass, staining the ground below him. It runs down his hands, staining his skin as he cuts. Joel yanks at the collar of Adam’s shirt, tearing it a bit, and exposing his collarbone. A dove tattoo sits just below his collarbone, the ink has faded over the years but Joel can tell what it's supposed to be. 

Joel taps the dirty tip of his knife twice against the ink. He leans in close, ignoring the way this monster reeks of body odor and the metallic stink of blood.

“Doves, they represent peace, hope, freedom.” 

Adam’s head lolls about like he can’t focus on Joel’s words right now and Joel lets out a small grunt. 

“Stop it.” Adam wheezes 

Joel slowly runs his knife through the tattoo. A shallow trickle of red follows his blade as Adam begins to cry, 

“Please, Please, let me go! I’ll never come back! Please!” 

What a fucking joke. Joel shakes his head and tells Adam the truth, it’s not his call to make. You’re calling the shots here. 

Adam begs, cries, even pisses himself as he begs you for his life. Joel listens as Adam finally owns up to what he’d done to you. His hand tightens on the hilt of his knife as you push yourself to your feet. 

“Say the word, sweetheart.” His knife rests on the delicate skin of Adam’s neck 

Joel steps back when he sees the silver Colt Python in your hands. Your eyes are distant, trapped in a memory of the past as Adam’s voice fades from Joel’s ears. The caw of a bird registers in Joel’s mind as he focuses on what’s always been the most important, you. 

“No!” 

Joel doesn’t even blink as you pull the trigger. How could he? He’s heard so much gunfire in the past twenty years. 

“You don’t get to say no to me.” 

Present time: 

Joel watches as you walk beside him. You’re silent and the only noise between the two of you is the sound of your shoes scrapping along the ground. When you reach your house, Joel watches from the mailbox as you walk up the porch. He nearly turns around to go back to his own place, in need of a hot shower before you’re finally speaking to him. 

“Can I stay with you?” 

A hot shower is just what he needed. Joel scrubs the blood from his body and lets the water soothe the ache in his back. Horseback riding was getting more difficult every time he went out. By the time he’s out again, he’s thinking of what he might make you for lunch. He’s got ingredients for sandwiches along with a few servings of chili from an older woman named Janet who lives four houses down. 

Joel pushes the door to his room open and walks over to his dresser. He lets his fall towel to the floor in a messy heap, but the sound of a loud sniffle has him yanking it back up with a curse, 

“Fuck!” 

You nearly give him a heart attack from your position under his covers. You’re wrapped up in them, laying on your side, staring at him. 

“Sorry, I thought you were lying down in Ellie’s room.” He says apologetically 

You shake your head the best you can from your spot. Joel opens his mouth to speak again but fat tears begin to stream down your face. 

“Woah, hey.” His hands tighten the towel around his waist before sitting down next to you, “What’s wrong?” 

He knows that he sounds stupid asking. You’d just killed your abuser and he was asking what was wrong, what an idiot he was. The blankets fall away and Joel feels his heart rate speed up as you climb into his lap and rest your face in the crook of his neck. He needed to get himself under control. 

He gently rests his hand on your back and slowly rubs his hand up and down. Gradually, your sobs die off and he listens to the sound of your breathing. 

“Thank you.” You softly say 

“It’s nothin’” Joel waves you off, comforting someone sad is something anyone deserved.

“I mean about Adam.” You sigh 

Joel is quiet as you reach for his hand. You draw it into your lap and fiddle with his fingers, your skin is oh-so soft against his. 

“I should’ve shot him the moment he walked into Jackson. Shouldn't have even let him lay eyes on you again.”

You shake your head and wrap his hand in yours, “M’ glad you didn’t.” 

“You are?” 

“Yeah…I always wanted to be the one to put a bullet in his head. Used to have dreams about it.” 

Joel nods, he knows the feeling. How many nights had he dreamed of killing the soldier who had gunned down Sarah? Even now, Joel would do it. Revenge was a mighty powerful drug once it took hold in a person’s heart. 

Joel nearly faints when you press a warm kiss on his cheek. The soft scent of you wraps him up as he feels a blush creep across his face. Another kiss presses against his skin, this time to his neck, and then one more, on his collarbone. 

You shift against him, moving so you straddle his lap. Horrifyingly, his cock twitches against his thigh, god he was pathetic. Your hips roll down into his and he quickly pulls away from you. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask softly

“Nothin’...we just can’t do that right now.” He says 

Your face drops into a scowl and your hands drop from their spots on his shoulders, “What the fucks wrong with you?” 

“Sweetheart, it’s not a no forever. It’s just for now. You’re hurtin’ and I’d be taking advantage.” Joel says honestly. As much as his body wants this, he can’t let it happen. You deserve better. 

Your hard stare meets his softer one as your hands wring nervously in your lap, “You should just say it.” 

“Say what?” Joel asks softly 

“That you don’t want me.” You spit, “You don’t want me anymore. Just like when I was in college, you don’t want me. First, it was because I was too young, too naive.” 

“I shouldn’t have done that to ya.” Joel starts but you cut him off, 

“And now you’re hanging me out to dry again. You must think I’m some used-up whore, just like Adam said.” 

“No, I-” 

“You think I wanted it, Joel? You think I wanted to be fed my pet and then used as a fucking sex slave?” 

Your voice is full of venom and self-hatred as your hands come up, nails digging into Joel's soft chest. He winces when one of them digs a bit too deep.

“It’s all my fucking fault. I should’ve just died on outbreak day.” 

Joel catches your hands in his, squeezes them, and meets your eyes. A thousand words dance in his mind. He wants to tell you so much, that he loves you too damn much to hurt you right now. Yet, none of it leaves his lips as he speaks, 

“Stop it.” He commands, “Just stop.” 

You scoff and pull your hands from his, “Then stop being a coward and fucking kiss me.” 

“No.” 

You let out a groan and shuffle off his lap, back under the covers, this time facing the wall so he has privacy to dress. 

“Listen, I’ll get dressed, make us some lunch.” 

“Whatever.” 

Ellie pushes the front door open. School was such a fucking bitch. Why did she need to know about fractions? She knew how to shoot a gun and had literally walked across the country. What was a faction going to do for her? 

The first thing she sees is you and Joel, seated at the table together, big bowls of chili in front of both of you. 

“What happened with the new people?” She asks, thinking of how wild you’d been last night 

“Nothin’ that concerns you right now.” Joel dismisses 

Ellie huffs and looks over at you. You’re silent as you slurp up your food, avoiding her gaze. 

“Slower.” Joel coaches, his voice is gentle. 

“Fuck off.” You seethe, your spoon slams down on the table, “I don’t want to hear your voice right now.” 

Tommy watches as Maria sleeps. He smiles a bit as she begins to snore softly, beside her in a bassinet a perfect baby girl lays, her own snores matching her mother's. Dark brown hair sits atop her head, hidden by a little hat that had been knitted by one of the old ladies who lived in Jackson. Tommy takes Maria’s hand in his and runs his thumb along her palm. 

The soft knock at the door has his eyes tearing away from the perfect sight before him. Dr. Hill is standing in the doorway, beckoning him into the hallway. 

“Maria just fed er’ twenty minutes ago. Can’t we let the vitals check wait for a bit, they’re sleepin’.” He says as he pushes the door shut 

“This isn’t about them.” The doc says, “Can you come with me? It won’t take long.” 

Tommy sighs but follows the doctor anyway. Who is he to deny the person who made sure his kid got into the world safely? Dr Hill leads him to the other side of the clinic to where the smaller exam rooms are, the ones they use to just treat people with basic illnesses like colds or stomach bugs. 

“Last night, there was an issue…Patrol let in people.” Dr. Hill starts 

“What?” Tommy stops dead in his tracks, his hand grabs the doctor's upper arm 

“Joel handled it.” Dr. Hill says, dismissing Tommy’s initial fear.

Tommy nods slowly. Joel had good judgment about people, surely there wasn’t anything to worry about then. 

“This morning, Matt carried an unconscious woman into the clinic. I didn’t want to bother you with her since Maria had just given birth, but…” Dr. Hill’s gaze darts over to the closed door of an exam room and then back to meet Tommy’s eyes, 

“I think you should talk to her.” 

Next Part

Ugh, the fanfic writer curse is so real guys. Right after I published the last chap, I got horribly sick and finally got better like a day ago…Anyway hope you enjoyed this part. 

Comment to be added to the tag list. This tag list is not chapter by chapter, I carry the tags over to each part.

Tags:

@lunaticgurly  @orcasoul  @snowlycanroc  @freythecrazyfae

@person-005 @greenwitchfromthewoods

@elli3williams @yawnzzzzzzzz @am-3-thyst  @concrete-jungleeee

@cherrypieyourface  @kanyewestest @bambisweethearts

@sarahhxx03 @loveisacowboyyy @amyispxnk

[ryuzakemo128]

MDNI 18+ Omegaverse Part 3

cw: isolation, cold weather, injuries, lovely things, overprotective price. mature language. angst.

Omegaverse Parts: Part One + Part Two + Part Three + Part Four

Masterlist

wc: 1311

Price noticed you were no longer on the base, all that working trying to find you all gone to waste because of General Shepard. His frustration grew each day you were gone. Each day you weren’t around the four. Did it matter that it was only a week? Fuck no.

What did the General hope would happen? Delay the inevitable? What kind of foolish man did they take Price for? When he found out you were sent down from a helicopter in the dead of night to Siberia? His blood began to boil. His temper began to rise higher levels.

The man was a monster, and you were his latest victim. The medical results came in. Not that you would ever get the chance to see them. To know what you are. Why people were so keen on taking you or killing you, or both. Not just a weapon, either.

“You can’t do that. You have no right to enforce that. It’s against protocol to send out an unknown operative.” Price argued. He tried making him see the error of his actions. He had to. Not many others were willing to stand up for you. He had to save you.

“Protocol can go to hell, Price. She’s special. The intel says so. We need her. And I will do whatever it takes to ensure she’s safe and on our side. Even if it means throwing her to the wolves and seeing if she comes back to us. That’s an order, Captain!” Shepard’s voice was cold, final. The conversation was over.

The medical evaluation you received years before your imposed, forced exile had always eluded you. Your results never even reached your own hands. They left you there in the middle of the forest with your Barrett M82, SIG Sauer P226, colt python, and a Bowie knife made from Damascus steel. 

Siberia wasn’t meant to be kind nor loving to you. It was supposed to have killed you long ago. They assumed you would be dead by now. Hoped to be rid of you by now. A detriment to what they wanted. Too much of an improbable, uncontrollable unknown. A freak.

The log cabin you made into your home was relatively small, easy to miss, and hard to find within the gusts often sweeping across the snowy landscape. The trees keeping the location of the log cabin a hushed secret. A stone fireplace and varying large cast iron pots and pans. 

Stolen from military vehicles you spotted along the road to a base in the area. Indirectly helping task force 141 from afar. Nikolai said, “Looks like some of their supplies were taken, no signs of a struggle, no signs of combat, and whoever it is. Knew exactly what to take.”

Captain Price remarked incredulously as he frowned deeply, “What do you mean by taken? Nikolai, they’re either stolen or they’re lost. It can’t be any more or any less simple than that. I don’t think ghosts exist to steal supplies from the back of enemy trucks. We would know otherwise.”

“Oh, but Captain, the world is a mysterious place, full of secrets and unexplained occurrences. Maybe, just maybe, there is something, or someone, out there we haven’t accounted for.” Nikolai cooed a little too cryptically for his own good. Possibly even too mysteriously for Soap’s liking. Like he knew more.

The snap of the bear trap's claws clamping onto your leg set out by Nikolai, “See? The little mouse came out to play.” He set out a nice steak within enough reach to tempt you. Purposefully trying to make you do something stupid enough to try stealing it from him.

Price managed to take a closer look at you, Nikolai’s mouse, who bit Price for trying to touch you without consent. Feeling your wolf like teeth into his hand. Digging into his flesh, not hard enough to break bones. But hard enough to leave behind a deep enough bruise.

Your jaw locked in, making it impossible for him to remove his hand. With every movement of his met with a low growl ripping through your throat. Refusing to let go. Price didn’t know what to think. But Nikolai seemed to have his thumbs up, soap and are distressed. Where’s Ghost?

Who knew ghost would be the one to find your log cabin first? There he was. Standing outside your log cabin, staring at the crate you were parachuted down from the military helicopter. Smelling your intense sweet smell of your previous heat. The scent still remaining on the fur blankets.

The place you still go into when your heat comes around again. Tally marks along the walls marking how many times your ‘heat’ came around. The thick, soft fur blankets soaking in the hot water in the giant metal tub in the shed. Which also served as your bath tub. 

Learning your scent could attract far more dangerous predators than you. You bathed once a day when you weren’t in heat. Twice a day during the period of your heat. Once in the morning, and once in the evening. As you found it to be rather productive for your benefit.

Price sniffed around the crate you used to live in before shifting to your cabin permanently. The scent of yours is stronger than any of theirs. Their combined scent could match it. But singularly? No. They’d be drowned inside your scent with enough ease. Like a Megalodon swallowing someone whole.

“I can’t believe we missed this. This is a fucking goldmine.” He whispered to himself. “Nikolai! Soap! We’re not the only ones who know she’s here. She’s been living here, right under our nose!” He waved his comrades over, getting their attention and to come closer to what he found. 

Their footsteps grew louder as they approached. Soap’s eyes widened as he saw the state of your living conditions. The way you’ve adapted. The way you’ve survived. It’s a miracle, really. “How long have you been out here?” He asked, his voice filled with a mix of amazement and horror.

You were patching your leg up and bathing in hot water, hoping to sterilise and clean the wound. It was the sight of your naked body that made them rather peculiar. You were a miracle wrapped inside the cold, tendency to bite people’s hands if they touched you without consent.

Your clothes discarded into the corner of your cabin. Soaking in cold water to get the blood from your clothes. The atmosphere of your log cabin, warmer than what you felt on the inside. After the stitches, your leg is wrapped in clean cloth. You were about to get dressed.

The door slammed open like the gusts of wind came through like a shout rather than a soft, sultry whisper. The four of them must have found you quicker than you suspected. Another 12 months living, surviving, on your own. 

The first to enter your cabin was someone you didn’t expect to see again. Considering the two of you yelled at each other like you wanted to rip each other’s throat out. “What the fuck do you want?” You spat, your teeth still clenched from the pain of your wound.

“To bring you back. You’re in no state to be alone, you’re in no state to be left to pick up leftovers to live off again. I don’t want to hear your protests because frankly, I don’t care. You’re coming with us.” Price's voice was firm, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes as he stepped into the cabin, the warmth of the fireplace hitting him like a welcoming embrace.

You stared at him. Shocked. In total state of shock. Price heard the meek, “I can go back now?” Soap helped you get dressed and patched up. Ghost packed up your things, because he knew it was valuable

[rickswh0r3]

this song with him.

taglist : @colt-python @narcissismand @epilepsywarrior8787 @murdadixon @ririi-3 @walker-bait-1973 @versatilehater @chibsgirl143

[kurtka-temshikovna]

COAT GUY IN MY AU (NOT RELEVANT)

questionnaire

1. Name: Eugene Kalugin

2. Age: 24 years old/ 02/15/1968-12/25/1992

3. Race, nationality: Guest (hound), Polish/Russian.

4. Gender: Male.

5. Orientation: Bisexual.

6. Zodiac sign: Aquarius.

7. Temperament: Melancholic, introvert.

8. Height, weight: 185 cm, 65 kg.

9. Health: Anemia, PTSD, social phobia, myopia (-3.00)

10. Facts: 1) Wears contact lenses.

2) Graduated from medical school to become a pathologist and worked in a morgue.

3) Hobbies. Reading. Prefers science fiction and romance novels.

Origami. Periodically folds cranes and something more complicated.

Drawing. Helps to distract from problems.

4) Was killed on 12/25/1992 by some psychopath who remained unknown. About four stabs were inflicted between the ribs, after which the body was thrown into a ditch covered with snow. Died from heavy blood loss.

5) Works as a medic and patches up guests (less often people).

6) Constantly freezes due to the weather conditions when he was killed. Can warm up, but the effect is short-lived.

7) Likes tea with blueberries and cappuccino with mint.

8) Has an inferiority complex because of his teeth.

9) Often goes hungry.

10) Crackles his knuckles when nervous.

11) Loves chocolate muffins.

12. Inventory: 1. Ammo; 2. Paper clip bent into a heart (a reminder of the bar guy); 3. Colt Python revolver; 4. Folding knife; 5. Chewing gum; 6. Contact lenses; 7. Water bottle; 8. Wallet; 9. Passport.

13. His voice

Signs of a hound (defective guest):

Sharp teeth: ✓

High sensitivity to light: ✓

Body features: there is a dark hole in the abdominal cavity. The location of the organs is questionable, but at least it experiences hunger.

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

DINE & DASH ───

chris o’doyle 𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “Deep in my enemy I find the lover.” — ‘The Cid’, Pierre Corneille

pairing. chris o’doyle x waitress!reader

summary. you meet chris o’doyle 3 times. the 1st, he’s got a gun pointed at you. the 2nd, you learn his name. the 3rd, you’ve got a gun pointed at him.

warnings. swearing, guns, mention of death, robbery, shooting

word count. 4k

a/n. i recognize this fic doesn’t actually have any romance in it, so considering the reception i might make a part 2😄 (perhaps with an emotional love confession and fluffy smut :o)

i.

Now, here’s the thing about living in Boston, circa 1978, working at a diner: you’ve gotta buy a gun.

Especially because the shitty diner you work at is downtown. Downtown is utterly fucked at night, where all the doped up creeps, gangsters & prostitutes come out to play.

It’s by an off-chance (off-chance being that your boss was a day drinker who couldn’t handle the diner at night without throwing up) that you work the night shift. 

So, the gun. You don’t know how to use one, buy one, hell, you don’t even know what you’re looking for; you just know you need to buy a fucking gun, because you cannot take any more attempted robberies at the diner. 

(There have been several, at this point, and the only way you’ve avoided having the diner robbed blind is by pretending to be one of those rough-‘round-the-edges folk who could kill someone with a broom if properly motivated. 

Think, the kind of person, who, if faced with a gun in a robbery, would laugh at the colour of your gun and smash your head in with a napkin dispenser.)

One night, you’re coming back to the cashier after refilling all the coffee pots, and a man you’ve never seen before is sitting at the front counter. 

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” you say, retying your alabaster apron, smoothing down the wrinkles. 

The man - who looked exactly like those rough-‘round-the-edges folk - shakes his head. “No fault to you, girl.” He says, Irish accent curling around his words like a snake. 

“So, what’re you havin’?” You say, lighting a cigarette, reveling in the nicotine-filled rush it sends right up to your brain. 

The man inhales his own cigarette, staring at you intently for a moment. His gaze makes you squirm, running all over your body. It's nothing out of the ordinary for you, to be eye-fucked by a shady creep in the late night, but his attention is laser-focussed, like he could see through you.

“Mmm,” the man broke his silence, and his gaze drifted elsewhere, “d’you got red ale?” 

Your eyebrows lift at the request, but you complied, grabbing a pint and filling it to the brim with the man’s choice of drink. When you hand it to him, he looks as surprised as you do: “What kind of Boston diner sells red ale?”

“You ask, darlin’, you receive.” The pet name is a conscious decision on your part; there’s something about the man that sets alarm bells off in your head, but you can’t place any context, so you try to appease him.

The man looks at you, then the beer, and then shrugs. “Fuck it,” he murmurs under his breath, and downs the whole thing in one. 

You put out your cigarette, resisting the urge to roll your eyes; now, you’d have to fumble around, wait to see if he’d pay & leave or order something else. 

However, he does neither, pulling out a shiny Colt Python from his leather jacket pocket, pointing it at you and cocking off the safety. 

Your heart jumps in your throat, constricting your breathing, and your hands immediately come up. Everything happens so fast, and you can’t really process anything but your fear. 

You consider doing your act, your confident, no-nonsense, rough skank farse, but something tells you he won’t believe it, just shoot you point blank. Those eyes of his, crystalline blue with little to no emotion tinting them, sends shivers down your spine.

“C’mere,” he gestures to you, “‘round the counter.” He’s chewing on the end of his wet cigarette, not having had the chance to pull it out and inhale.

You do as he asks, taking gentle, tentative steps in front of him. You walk carefully, so as not to startle him; make him shoot you.  

“Where’s yer boss?” The man says, running a calloused hand through his brown hair, gun still trained on you. 

You gulped, focussing on breathing properly. “He’s - he does- he doesn’t work the night shift.” You make out in a painful stutter.

The man raised a brow at this, finally pulling out his cigarette and leaving it on the ashtray. “Well,” he looked as if he was weighing his options, “you lot keep a safe in here?”

You nodded vehemently, your throat still clenched in fear. 

“Go on then. Show me.” He waved the gun haphazardly, and you made quick work of the situation: grabbing the store keys from underneath the desk, and skittering to your boss’s office. 

You pushed open the loud, creaky door then you immediately dropped to your knees and unlocked the safe. Inside was a jaw-dropping amount of cash, an amount your boss had conveniently failed to mention was being kept in the store — as well as a cute little Smith & Wesson .38. 

Before either of you could tell what the other was doing, you’d gone in for the kill: he grabbed the cash, you grabbed the pistol. 

Sure, your boss was an absent-minded fuck who always did you dirty by giving you the night-shift, but he was your boss, and a good one at that; he paid you on time, usually never said no to your vacation requests, and was generally well-mannered and kind. To top it off, you knew he had a real large family to feed. 

“Sweetheart, I jus’ want the cash. Yer boss owes us a great deal of debt, alright?” The man said, his own hands in the air now. He had slipped his gun back into the holster that hung by his belt, and he knew just as well as you did that the slightest movement toward that area would have you shooting bullets like a fucking madman. 

Never underestimate someone who was jumpy and holding a gun: they were trigger happy. 

You inhaled and exhaled shakily, your fingers hesitantly brushing past the safety lever. “All of it?” you said helplessly, trying to erase the mental image of how your boss would look later, absolutely crushed that the store, his prized possession, had been robbed. Under your “watchful” eye. 

The stranger considered this, his mustache curling as his face contorted around the idea. “…Most of it,” he settled on, cornflower blue eyes peering past the gun and instead landing on you. 

“Why,” he continued, shifting the weight between his feet, “you wanna dip your toes in the water, doll?”

You recoiled, both at the pet name and the connotation you also wanted to rob your boss, but you knew that if he knew you were just going to give your cut back to your boss, the stranger would come back and rob the store all over again. 

Instead, you nodded curtly. You figured you could finally buy a gun with a portion of the money, so if this stranger ever came knocking ‘round your place, you could satiate his suspicion by pointing a piece at him. 

The man let out a sigh of relief at the compromise reached. “Guns down,” he said, and you dropped your hand to the floor. He didn’t reach for his Colt Python, so you visibly relaxed as well. 

After a few moments of mumbling under his breath and thumbing through the bills, he shoved two thirds of the cash into his leather jacket pockets, then tossed the rest into your trembling hands. 

“Spend it wisely, darlin’. Don’t go buying all the pretty dresses money can afford - you’ll get caught.” With that, the stranger stuffed his pockets with his hands and exited promptly. 

You gulped, beads of sweat trailing down your back and making you squirm — there was no way that just fucking happened, right?

Right? You thought. Jesus fucking christ, you really had to get a better job. A better place to live now, too; the stranger knew your face and your name — seriously, screw the diner waitress name tags meant to make you look approachable — so if you were, at any point in time, considered a loose end, they’d be coming for you next. 

It’s only then, you realize, he never paid for the ale. 

ii. 

The second time you see the stranger is not even two weeks after the diner-robbery incident. 

Following the robbery, your boss gave you time off so he could sort the mess out — as well as his debts, after you told him what the robber told you — and you found yourself with the small bit of cash you portioned off from the safe to buy a gun. 

You followed word of mouth on where exactly to purchase a gun for days, keenly listening in on loose-lipped men who came in too late at night or too early in the morning to even consider the possibility that the sweet waitress who kept butting in to give them a refill could be listening. 

Finally, you entered a bar in anticipation: one of the loose-lipped men mentioned a man who dealt out small revolvers that you thought would do just perfectly for space in your purse, right in that very bar. 

Time was dripping drearily toward midnight, and the wad of cash wedged within the waistband of your flare jeans burned guiltily against you as you searched for the man selling — it wasn’t your money, after all. 

You shook yourself mentally, however, reminding yourself to consider it hush money, or trauma money, for the ordeal you experienced. Then, you spotted the seller who’d been described: average height, lanky, wild brown hair. He was speaking animatedly at the bar counter, silver rings on his fingers gleaming in the dull bar light. 

You slid onto the black, faux leather stool beside him, quietly informing the idle bartender you wanted a rum & coke, before leaning into the ear of the seller. 

“Smith & Wesson, model 36.” you whispered huskily, then promptly preoccupying yourself with smiling at the barkeep and thanking him for the drink. You were a little nervous, getting involved in Boston’s underground crime world, even if it were just for a simple gun purchase. 

The man stopped his storytelling to down his drink — red ale, you noted, brows furrowing at the unexpected nostalgia of last time — and speak to you without turning completely. 

“Straight to business, are we?” He said silkily, and you froze, parsing through your memories to correctly match this voice with that voice— “Name’s Chris O’Doyle, and yes, thank you for “asking”, I can provide you wit’ a beautiful little S&W model 36.”

When you didn’t respond eagerly, in stark contrast to your previous behavior, the stranger from the robbery — Chris O’Doyle, you now knew — turned to face you completely.

“…Well, this is jus’ grand, isn’t it, doll?” Chris said, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

“Fuck’s sake,” you blurted out, pinching your nose bridge. “I didn’t— why the fuck are you here?”

Chris raised a tentative brow, “I’ve got my fingers in all kinds of pies, darlin’. Can’t expect a smart Irish man not to, eh?”

“Jesus christ,” you murmured under your breath. You thought you wouldn’t have to see this man ever-fucking again, but as fate turned out, you just did. 

You steeled your nerves: you’d buy the gun. It was just as well to buy it from him, so he could see you weren’t to be messed with. That, and so he wouldn’t go sniffing around for the money you gave back to your boss. 

“I need a —“ You began, but were irritatingly cut off by Chris.

“—Smith & Wesson, model 36. I know, darlin’, I heard ya the first time. Now, let’s get out of here, I can’t just hand the thing over in here,” he said, before pressing himself flush against you and whispering in your ear. “Plus, it’s best you leave: some of the shitstains in here are gettin’ ideas, seein’ a pretty lady like you, all alone.”

Suddenly, Chris got up, and snaked an arm around your waist. “Darlin’!” He exclaimed, sounding drunk out of his mind, “I don’t- don’t wan’ go feckin’ home!” 

“Play along, unless you wanna use that new gun of yer’s on one of the creeps in here later,” He continued sneakily under his breath. 

Begrudgingly, you did as asked, and supported him up, trying to look like a tired wife dragging her dumbass husband back home. “I told you to quit fucking drinking!” you shouted, smacking him upside the head and dragging him by the arm. 

“Christ, woman! Can’t a man jus’ have a wee drink?” 

“Shut the fuck up, you damn headache!” You screeched back at him. 

Okay, you admit: it was kind of fun to shout insulting names at the man who’d been haunting your dreams since that night.

You hadn’t been having the… best sleep, as of late. Always heaving, waking up at ungodly hours after the dream ended with the cold tip of Chris’s gun pressed neatly at your temple, always unable to get back to sleep for fear the dream would continue and you’d be shot dead in it. 

When you and Chris had successfully averted all public eye, exiting the bar and stumbling to a street a couple blocks away where a car was parked, he let up the drunken husband act. 

“Smart of you, y’know,” he informed you absently, leaning into the open window of his car. He continued by rummaging through the vehicle, trying to find the trunk key in his storage compartment.

“Smart of me to what?” you echoed back, looking up and down the street in case someone was walking past or driving by to witness your incredibly shady and conspicuous arms deal. 

“To buy a gun,” said Chris, a certain lilt to his tone that made you know he thought it was the obvious answer. 

“Yeah, well, you made sure of that.” you said with an eye roll. If you sounded comfortable, it’s because you were, at least a little bit. 

In the small timeframe you’d known and spoken to Chris O’Doyle, you figured out three things about him: he was a penchant for the theatrical, if not a little bit of a procrastinator, was plenty lofty, and probably treated customers and friends like pure gold. You knew that if you were buying, he would be on his best behavior, and do all in his power to keep that happening, be it moving the sun, moon and stars — or kill someone. 

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?” Chris questioned, brow raised as he slipped out of his car window with the key in his hand. 

You thinned your eyes. “Hm, I don’t know, maybe the fact you threatened me with a gun and robbed me blind has me worried for my safety?

He rounded the vehicle, unlocking the trunk and pulling the heavy metal lid up. “I didn’t rob you blind, sweetheart. I robbed your boss blind. And, the gun’s standard business practice. Protect the messenger, threaten the target, all that.”

You sighed exasperatedly, but ignored him, instead opting to pull the wedge of cash out of your pants. You handed the entire wad to him, then opened up your other hand to receive the revolver.

 “You can count, right? Otherwise, your boss’s been robbed blind for a while.” Chris mocked, a sly grin spreading on his lips while his hand hovered above the trunk full of guns for the weapon of your choice. 

Once he found the gun, you snatched the piece out of his hand impatiently, discreetly tucking it away where your bills had been. “I don’t want any more dirty money on me. Enough to buy this damn gun is all I need.” 

“And a few cigarette packs it seems,” he shot back, clearly noticing the cash you handed him was short of the amount he originally gave you. 

“S’not any of your business what I buy.” You said tersely, then quickly walked off and left him without so much as a goodbye. 

After a second thought: “Now stay the fuck out of my life!” you shouted down the street, turning and not looking back.  

iii. 

The thing about living in Boston, circa 1978, working at a diner is that you’ve gotta buy a gun.

Now, you had gone ahead and bought a gun, but it was only ever supposed to be a precaution. Something you brought to work, or when you went out late at night. 

And, of course you never had to use it: you did have normal, functioning common sense, so you never found yourself in situations where your gun became more than just something taking up space in your purse. 

But with Chris O’Doyle, you found, you threw your common sense — as well as your precaution — straight to the wind. 

It’s late at night, quite similar to all the other times you’d encountered the man, like a certain time of night had him summoned like a fucking demon, and he appears. Right in the middle of the diner, sitting in that same spot he’d pulled out his pistol and robbed you. 

After a while, the incident stopped bothering you - as well as the fact you now owned a fucking gun - but you never did get Chris’s face out of your head, those piercing blue eyes. Said eyes were now staring at you straight, before trailing off, like the fucking criminal was embarrassed. 

You don’t know what exactly was running through your head, but, again, Chris O’Doyle and you equaled common sense and precautions funeral, and you immediately dragged yourself to the breakroom, where you kept your stuff during a shift — including your purse — and you came back out with your shiny, unused Smith & Wesson model 36 gleaming in your hands. 

“Fucking—“ Chris cursed, when he saw you come out with the gun, which was trained on him shakily. “Put the damn gun down! Jesus, d’you even know how to use that thing?”

You bit your lip, deciding not to answer his very valid, very biting question, for you did not know how to use a gun properly. “Just - what the fuck are you doing here, Chris?”

Deep in your mind, a more unbothered part of you wondered why you kept saying that when Chris appeared, like the mustached man was some creep ex who was stalking you. 

“I’m just fucking peckish, girl. This is a diner, is it not?” He exclaimed, like what you were doing was manic and unexpected. 

You stared at him incredulously, reluctantly putting down the hand that held the gun. You’d told him to, paraphrasing, “completely and totally fuck off”. What part of that did he not get?

“The part you don’t get, darlin’, is that I don’t care.” Chris shook his head, and you were so distraught you didn’t register you’d actually said what you were thinking out loud. 

“God forbid you do!” You said, an infuriated laugh coiling around your words. “Order, then please grant me the blessing of never seeing you, ever again. Like I already fucking asked.”

Chris puffed up his cheeks, then blew the air out of them. “Red ale.” he said simply, looking like that was it, before continuing and making you freeze midway between quickly running to the kitchen to grab and fill the glass. 

“And, eh…” he scanned through the plastic menu the diner offered, “a slice of Boston cream pie.”

You smiled at him tensely, hoping he knew it was fake as hell and meant to make him uncomfortable. “Coming right up,” you ground out through gritted teeth. 

You thus disappeared into the diner kitchen - though not without first expertly hiding your pistol back in your purse - busying yourself with warming up the slice of pie in the ancient microwave your boss believed to be a holy grail heirloom as it was from his mother. It was loud, took too long, and always made the food too hot — but now, you were reveling in its flaws.

Loud means you didn’t have to hear Chris and whatever the hell he was doing, too long meant you could stall (and, pray he’d get bored and leave), and too hot meant that, later, you could privately make fun of him for burning his tongue, then have to blow on it and look like a little kid. 

When it finished, you haphazardly threw it onto a plate, and filled Chris’s ale just half-way. If he wanted service here, fine, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to get good service. 

Then, you handed it to him with a loud clatter on the counter, startling him out of his chain-smoking stupor. He made a face at your antics, but put out his cigarette and picked up the fork on the plate to begin eating anyway. 

Finally, with having served Chris his stupid pie and stupid red ale, you could count down to the second until you never had to see him again, and you could finally erase him from your mind, forget how his gun felt trained on you, icy blue eyes digging into your spine. 

However, much like you, it seemed an entirely different group of people with a grudge against Chris O’Doyle also threw common sense and precaution out the window when they saw him. 

One moment you were pulling a cigarette out of the sleek, metal case sitting in the pocket of your apron, the next, Chris was jumping over the counter and shouting at you to duck. 

You did as told almost immediately - his tone of voice had grown serious, cold, something you’d only heard briefly the night he robbed the diner. 

Bullets tore through the diner, completely shattering and destroying the glass windows. The shots ricocheted against the walls, making the whole diner shake and feel like it was going to collapse. After a few more minutes of rapid gunfire eating at the building, something flew in from the same direction of the bullets. 

“Good fucking riddance, Chris O’Doyle!” A voice called from outside, Several vehicles could be heard driving away as quick as they came, not even bothering to check if Chris was dead or alive. 

You guessed that they — whoever “they” were — were a confident bunch, but unfortunately for them, Chris was still alive following that clownish display of gunfire. 

Hidden beneath the diner counter, you laid against Chris’s bandy chest, his arms holding him close to you, like he was a kid and you were his prized balloon. One of his hands petted at the crown of your head, almost soothingly, while the other hand fumbled with his signature Colt Python. 

Then, an ear shattering boom exploded from the “something” that was thrown into the building. You supposed it also set fire to quite a few things, for the water sprinklers set off and soaked the entire building. 

For a long moment, it was just you and Chris, laying on the floor beneath the diner counter, sprinkler water soaking you both. Your hands were clenched impeccably tight on his leather jacket sleeve, and his hand had, like on autopilot, begun carding through your locks comfortingly. It seemed to comfort him more than you however, his breathing sounding stilted, and, with your pressed right up against his chest, you knew the situation had shocked him. 

“That happen to you often?” you said, disregarding all questions that were clambering around your head for this softer, more considerate one. 

Sure, the man maddened you to no end, and you still had dreams of him shooting you in the diner or jumping you in the street, but you were human, and he was too. Chris seemed like the kind of man who was inured to all sorts of sick and twisted things, so this event having shocked him surely had to be a large one. 

And so, you knew it was empathy that needed to be used here; you recognized the struggle of a human vulnerable. 

“More than I’d like,” Chris whispered back, his eyes shutting closed, surely replaying the entire situation behind his eyelids. 

You could digest this all later, and he could talk about it later - if he wanted - but for now, it was just you and him in the diner, your voice gentle, his touch shaky. 

[cyberitual]

i know i said last night that i'm done with dayz. but i just now had. the most exhilarating moment in All My 90+ Hours.

i spawn in grabin, scavenging around, when i approach the police station, someone activates the town PA system to shout racial slurs. i have a p1 pistol with 13 rounds on me, and a colt python with 3 .357 rounds. it is my mission to kill this man.

i creep around the west buildings hoping to see him, and i do spy him going down the rooftop stairs. i wait to see him thru the windows.

he exits the station on my side of the street, and doesnt see me watching him.

i slowly go round a fence to hide in the bushes closer to the station, but then he's on his way back, so i rush to fire at him with the Colt before he can get to cover. i miss my first two shots, but land one on him.

i switch to the p1, eyeing every opening for him to show.

he keeps peeking, and i fire 4 shots.

i wait for him to show his face again.

i only have 4 rounds in the mag in my gun, and 4 in my reserve mag.

i decide to quickly remove the bullets from my reserve, unload my p1, and load its magazine before pushing a move.

once im loaded, i carefully push forward, angling in thru the windows of the barricade

but he's already dead! went into shock from the .357 and a couple other bullets i sent him.

now i'm eating his food, and knowing i ruined this idiot's time on dayz.

[sinsandsweetness]

Hi T babyyy, I need to rant for a moment I was thinking about how people complain missionary sex is “too vanilla” and that it’s boring meanwhile I think it’s one of the most intimate and best positions besides riding…like I don’t find positions where you can’t see your partners face that romantic, I like to see the other persons expressions and reactions.

Plus you can make missionary less vanilla with simple things like gags/collars and stuff like choking and spit…anyways I wonder if you have any opinions on this 😭🩷

If missionary is vanilla then I am vanilla <3

I think if I’m in love with the person, intimacy is what makes the sex. No matter how “vanilla” it may be. Eye contact and kissing and being able to read the other person is so intimate and sexy to me. Honestly, the only time I prefer doggy is when I’m not that in to it🫣

And I will also agree, if kinky is what you’re going for, there’s so many ways to spice missionary up. Bondage, blindfolds, dirty talk, spitting, choking, hair pulling, etc. But you don’t need to do any of these things, and it is ok to be “vanilla” if that’s what you like. Honestly, I don’t really care to be degraded or slapped or anything. I like simple and I like sweet. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Overall I find that missionary, at least for me and my anatomy, feels the absolute best and is the only thing that can even get me close to an orgasm.

So I guess yeah, I don’t think missionary is vanilla. But I also think there’s nothing wrong with vanilla😇

[blubushie]

Hey Blu! I just saw one of your old asks on how the mercs designs are good because they look like normal everyday people you can see out on the streets. And that just reminded me of my favorite tropes in fanfic that I don't see that much in today's TF2 fics which the mercs have an uncanniness to them because of their regular looks. Like I remembered it popped up more often in the fics that where publish when I was in high school. Not complaining bc I just appreciate it more when it pops up. Like there's a ficlet still circulating here where while in jail, before comic 2 happens, Scout basicly beats up most of the inmates in jail for ciggs for Spy. It sets up how intimidating Scout is when an inmate twice Scouts size couldn't even move him and how the inmate was jarring reminded that despite his size, Scout is One of the infamous 9 mercenaries.

Like bc of this trope I developed headcanons that the mercs are actually the closest things to super soldiers bc of 1.) Constant fighting/training 2.) Mad science/experimentation of Medic 3.) Respawn keeping them at near top shape/slow aging. So regular looking guys + intense fighting near daily + mad science/magic + random weird shenanigans that happens to them = an uncanniness and uneasiness around the mercs in public when they move in away /do stuff no average person can do or is expected to do of their appearance.

Sorry if this makes no sense it's 7:14am and I literally JUST woke up, do not expect lucidity from me yet

I love this shit and it features slightly in my fic, both in Jesse's fighting ability but also Mundy's. Primarily it's Mundy's—he gets in more fistfights in the fic than Jesse (though not for her lack of aggression).

I don't think RESPAWN would do much via muscle training—every time they die, any muscle progression is just reset. So the physically strongest of the mercs would be those that don't die often. Heavy, because of his health bar, and maybe Medic, because everyone protects him (and he lugs around the Medigun which must weigh a fucken tonne). This is supported a little by Medic outright lifting Soldier off his feet in Expiration Date.

But there's gotta be some shit they're feeding those cunts if Spy can one-handed fire his stock revolver, a .357 Colt Python; the Big Kill, a S&W Model 29 .44; and the Ambassador, a Dan Wesson PPC .357 (THAT WEIGHS 3.6kg MIND YOU—ALMOST AS MUCH AS MY RIFLE WITHOUT HER SCOPE). This is without mentioning that the Russian translation of the Sniper VS Spy update states that the Ambassador actually fires .50AE like it's a fucken Deagle. Spy's grip strength must be INSANE.

Mostly though I reckon it's mental fortitude over physical. Believe me, you train harder in combat situations than ACTUAL training scenarios because trauma makes shit stick in your brain better. You learn lessons when there's risk better than when there's no risk involved. And with often the mercs die and engage each other physically, I'm fully on the boat of "they look normal, but they're not".

The freakier is that I think they actually blend very well into public environments. Sometimes Sniper walks to the shops in SST minus the thongs and looks like any other bloke off the street you'd see at a servo. Sometimes Scout goes in to the local diner for their all-you-can-eat chicken and waffles deal. Sometimes Engie visits the local tack shop "just for a look around", Soldier and Demo go fishing together, Medic goes to the pharmacy and looking at any of them you'd never suspect a thing.

They all have an almost uncanny ability to look like they entirely belong whereever they are and blend into their environment, so really the only time you even get a hint that they aren't your average person is when there's a situation where they need to showcase their skills. Scout catches a flyball while walking past the local baseball field practically without looking and tosses it back. Soldier can jump down stairs while in a rush and stick the landing with no injury. Demo recognises the sulphur of a gas leak before anyone else can smell it. Spy can lift things his scrawny frame shouldn't be able to lift, Engie can notice any shimmer or shiny thing regardless how small, Sniper has a hawk's eyes and can pick out movement from a half a click away in the dark where other people just see black.

Their jobs have made them very effective professionals—it's a pity the general public so rarely gets to see it.

[garlic-the-gnome]

In 2023 I:

Followed many blogs

Reblogged a fuck tonne of posts

Gained 1 new special interest (zombies)

Was blocked at least 1 time

Became feral about 3 old men

Made 533 original posts

My top 5 posts of 2023:

soup poll 10989 notes

Bug race 10014 notes

autism monster high 859 notes

ui hate 612 notes

sandwhich furby 268 notes

My tumblr 2023 highlights:

following an irl friend @zakkuen making @colt-python and @infinitetrainss blog headers ending up on a staff post with my polymer clay bug race Dunkleosteus becoming a short king polls being released (polls my beloved) awakening my love of gnomes gaining a soup apprentice @genderdoe-sly creating the frolicker

thank you to all my mutuals, followers, blogs I follow for making 2023 a little bit brighter <3

credit to jetblackcode.com for the tumblr stats @kylebonallo

[craftholsters]

Colt Python 3 inch Holster - Which one is the best for you?

Selecting the Right Colt Python 3 Inch Holster

When it comes to the Colt Python - 3", renowned for its precision engineering, finding the perfect holster is essential. Whether you're a Colt Python owner or enthusiast, the right holster ensures your firearm is carried with style, comfort, and readiness. For those with the Colt Python 3 inch model, it's crucial to choose a holster that complements its compact size, allowing for easy concealment without compromising draw speed. 

Enhance Your Carrying Experience with the Colt Python Holster

A Colt Python leather holster offers a blend of classic aesthetics and durability, appealing to those who value the timeless charm of leather holsters. Additionally, custom leather holsters for Colt Python allow for a personalized fit and design tailored to your revolver and style preferences. Whether you opt for a Colt Python 357 holster to support the power of the .357 Magnum or a Colt Python chest holster for quick access during outdoor adventures, selecting the right holster is crucial for ensuring your Colt Python is complemented by a holster that matches its prestige. To learn more about Colt Python 3 inch holsters and to discover the best options available in the market, visit Craft Holsters' holsters for Colt Python 3 inch section.

[just-a-random-person24]

Stark's Mind notes episodes 7-12 :)

Episode 7

• wishes he'd have a grappling hook but thinks he'd fall into the water below if he did have one

• acrophobic!

• still uncomfortable with being in vents. Vent sharks and the possibility of the facility collapsing on him

• doesn't know how the grating held his weight

• would rather be dehydrated than drink Black Mesa's water

• thinks of the aliens of a hindrance

• doesn't know why he's the only one trying to get help. Thinks the resonance cascade couldn't have killed *that* many people. He complains like a parent who doesn't get any help around the house

• would rather be the one to end the resonance cascade cause he caused it

• thinks about jumping down the edge for a moment

• seems very happy about having to jump across boxes

• lots of pep-talk for himself <3

• “Up is right! But then left would be down…” taking that phrase very literally ~~cough ♾️ cough~~

• wonders if the Houndeyes are actually dangerous and if they just want to play

• actually I lied in ep 5. He seems happy to finally be getting to the office complex :)

---

Episode 8

• tries to get the other scientist in the room to open the door, fails

• why can't the HEV suit go through the electrical hazard? it's a *hazard* the *hazard* suit should be designed for

• thinks him being alive even though he's gone through shit that should've killed him is convenient

• says the Barnacle he just killed is repulsive

• he talks a lot for a series that's a *mind* series /loving

• “That should stop the leak.” that’s… a power switch

• EAS broadcasting the disaster at Black Mesa, telling people within the affected area to get out

• tries to come up with a scientific name for the headcrab zombies

• apologizes to the guard for his dead friend

• “I never meant to bring you to this word, but I can assure you, I will dedicate every single breath in my body to taking you out.” Okay, you can be cool *once*

• he gets a Colt Python here instead of the regular Spas-12. Probably cause it's an earlier version of the game or maybe modded?

• calls the guard a friend :)

• attributes his knowledge of reloading the magnum to watching enough Clint Eastwood movies

• “Now we can safely traverse.” Sir you are alone, who's ‘we’?

• guard shot the houndeye watching TV :,(

• willing to believe Black Mesa installed ceiling turrets just to be evil

---

Episode 9

• needs a helmet :(. Also no vents

• asks a guard if he wants to experience a near-death experience with him

• thinks the guard doesn't believe him about the turret gun

• “Fuck- that was too close!” There is blood on the wall behind him

• thinks the turrets guns were Black Mesa's way of dealing with the recession

• wants to try to save as many people as he can

• FELIX MENTION! STUPID ASS SECRETARY /loving

• tries to help the scientists getting dragged into a vent by a vent shark. fails :(

• gets to the other living scientists! Very offended when the male scientist told him they would die out there

• “step side to side to dodge their attacks!” npc moments

• more turrets! he is *not* getting the achievement :(

• Tells the last remaining survivor with him to stay down

• definitely not doing well after seeing people die right in front of him. Blames himself for their deaths

• apologizes to the hurt scientist

• “Just don't let up, Stark. Don't give in.” Someone *besides* himself should give him a pep talk

• notices the amount of corpses in the room :(

• thinks the guards and scientist are ignoring the amount of stress the whole situation has put on him

• “Why am I shaking? I can do this. See? I can do it, I can deal with this. Well, it doesn't matter if I *can* deal with it. It's that I *have* to. Because people… people like Dr. Vance, or Dr. Kleiner, people like them are counting on me. And I swear… I will get through this, I will. I *have* to. ‘Cause it's my responsibility.”

---

Episode 10

• contemplates getting snacks from the cafeteria. Doesn't because it'd be too awkward

• tells the scientist in the freezer that they're a headache to work with. Still tries to get her to leave the freezer

• takes some bullets from a dead guard despite it being in a pool of blood

• “The only thing this place could give me is a cold because of how cold it is in here.”

• can do a pull-up :(

• lots of meat in the freezer

• MR WHISKERS <3. says the name makes any animal objectively cute

• very confused why the scientist is still in the freezer

• stacking things to avoid things!

• doesn't like being in the vents. Unhygienic and vent sharks and spiders :(

• doesn't like spiders. Doesn't like insects in general

• corrects himself insects *and* arachnids

• that explosion and fire got WAY to close to his face

• thinks this is now the 20th time he's almost died

• lists off all the ways you could die. Very normal things

• “I concur.” I need you to shut up /aff

• the guard left with the other living scientist is gone :(

• checks the stairway for any turrets before going forward

• g-man spotted!

• again thinks the survivors with him are ignoring how he obviously feels about the whole situation

• first death he doesn't blame himself for! Good for him

• thinks it's good the scientist just fell to his death instead of any of the horrible ways you *could* die in Black Mesa

• “it's only a matter of time before the soldiers get to us.” moments taken right before disaster

---

Episode11

• has a lot to deal with when he gets out :(

• “Charming physicist saves entire facility.” Okay Mr. Ego

• realizing that the actual headline would be ‘Rouge physicist commits corporate sabotage’ he instead focuses on not dying

• once again has the opportunity to eat and doesn't

• worries he's stuck after the fire doors closed before realizing there's a button

• easily recognizes a laser tripwire

• Fails multiple times at using the grenades to blow up the turret. Doesn't understand he should save those

• gets shot somewhere he could feel (ear?)

• mentioned before, he usually resorts to his magnum before pistol

• says the fire doors closing is worse than his fire alarm

• questions how vortigaunts teleporting can shatter the glass

• doesn't use the first aid station despite being shot

• no more magnum ammo :(

• feels like Indiana Jones

• jokes about the scientist staying in the freezer

• tries to make small talk with the two scientists

• g-man spotted!

• when hearing the announcement system is under military command says it's a good thing

• “The military is here and we can go home safe and sound.” Oh buddy

• not sure if Breen is aware he was the whistleblower

• the military is not here to help :(

---

Episode 12

• absolutely doesn't want to confront the soldier. Thinks he's overthinking

• just wants to get out and help others escape

• goes around the body to avoid getting blood on his suit

• thinks the rescue team wouldn't believe he killed the soldier in self defense

• MP5!

• going to assume the best and that the rest of the rescue team doesn't know, says that's a bad thing to do

• “My other ear!” your ear got shot before??

• reaffirms that him killing the military is self-defense

• he's a felon/domestic terrorist now because he's killing soldiers

• not closing the fire door because he thinks others should see how incompetent the military is

• tries to climb up boxes to see through the fence. Still can't see much

• falls off the boxes and says that doing that was stupid :(

• prefers the aliens over marines. They don't know what headshots are do he has a 70% chance of living

• still upset about no helmet

• 2 bleeding ears! ouchie!

• runs straight into a bunch of soldiers to try and protect the scientists. Fails

• blood on his suit? Or maybe just a bunch of bullets hitting his suit??

• tries shooting a marine far away with the magnum *without* looking through the iron sight

• his ears are bleeding again :(

• certain he can't negotiate with the military anymore

• has no clue how he's able to even kill the military for being a no-body

• “I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. And yet somehow… heh, I really shouldn't dwell on that kind of thinking too much. Usually that kind of thinking actually leads you to your death.”

• again doesn't acknowledge the first aid when he really needs it

[plasticmutations]

picrew + quiz

tagged by @mafuteru tysm!!!! i tag @astarionhater @trainerdawn @weavebond @pikopuri @colt-python @compassionately @kh4 @computerized and anyone else who wants to do it just say i tagged u :3

[rickswh0r3]

on my knees begging

taglist : @colt-python @narcissismand @epilepsywarrior8787 @celtic-crossbow @ririi-3 @walker-bait-1973 @versatilehater @chibsgirl143 @blackvelveteen1339

if you want to join the taglist comment here