Gun Tw - Blog Posts
”Rise and live again. As my fist of vengeance. As my Moon Knight.”
Hello, Moon Knight Nation. How we feelin tonight?
so, in case you couldn’t tell, MK autism has taken ahold of me, and I’m about to make it everyone’s problem.
Bonus 👇
My baby girls (Jake Lockley fan art coming soon, probably)
really if taka just had a gun everything would be a lot easier.
[Start ID. A drawing of V1 from Ultrakill in blue, yellow and red against a black background. It appears to be sliding to the left while midair, albeit with one leg bent and a wing splayed outward, gripping a gun and aiming it indirectly at the screen. Blood sprays from a couple broken wires and litters its body. End ID]
so I've been playing ULTRAKILL recently
oh yeah im an art blog, heres some WIPs im working on. below the cutoff be aware of: guns.
Enjoy seeing some WIPs that if you talk with me on discord youve 1000% seen.
Wip of V1 ultrakill while i was learning mecha, im GONNA finish this, some day. i swear.
and this is an adopt i brought that now im redesigning into a full character, fell in love with him fr.
One of my favourite simple yet effective whump tropes??
Pistol whipped!
Maybe they’re on their knees, held at gun point yet still quippy and sarcastic. Their captor gets fed up and with one quick strike, they crumple to the ground, out cold.
anonymous requested: jay halstead + favourite outfits
This, but cow frog
the gun is still, but her breath isn’t. it slips through clenched TEETH as something she doesn’t trust herself to name. her eyes don’t waver and that’s the only thing that doesn’t betray her. everything else, every muscle, every nerve ending is listening to him. his words coil around her like smoke in a sealed room; thick, unrelenting, poisonous and holy.
he stands in front of her like a revenant. a memory reanimated into something hungrier, rougher but not gone, and maybe that was her penance for unearthing what should have stayed dead. she watches the way he leans into the barrel, like he’s inviting annihilation. like he already knows she won’t give it to him.
and that’s what tips her.
gloria moves before thought, a surge of instinct and history. rage, ache, and hunger burn under her skin like shrapnel hitting a nerve. she lifts her hand, the barrel close enough now that it kisses his chin at the juncture between flesh and mask. she knows he'll find her and haunt her, and she will let him in every single time.
❛ you’re right. i don’t want control and i don't need permission either. ❜ her voice serrated, low and trembling with something that has nothing to do with fear. her free hand curls in his shirt, dragging him tighter against her. she wants to feel the pulse of him and plead to the man beneath.
❛ and you, what about you, querido? ❜ she leaned in, her nose brushed his mask, mouth hovering at the edge of his jaw, and then so suddenly. CLICK — that's all it was: an empty game of roulette she never loaded. a sound so deafening despite being so small. She pulls back just enough to look at him, really look at him. ❛ i could always see you, you know. all that hurt i could sink my teeth into like you tore into mine. ❜
she holds a beat like she's unhinging her maw. ❛ but you’re wrong about one thing ❜ a push off his frame, empty clip snapped out of the pistol, and the entirety falls to the ground. her eyes don't leave him, emotions too deep to remain buried and twice as volatile as the heart on her sleeve. ❛ i don’t want to pretend i’m better than you. i want to believe i wasn’t always just like you, but we both know that's not true, don't we? ❜
🔫 [ something tells me it's fucked up but hot though? the one time she can't pull the trigger but should. 🫦 ]
POINT A GUN AT MY MUSE PROMPT. | @waruins
that barrel's not cold. that is what gloria doesn't realize. it's not trembling in her grip. but he can feel the hesitation affecting her. and jigsaw? he feeds on that.
it's not wanton glee or the mockery you'd get from an overperforming circus clown. he has a hunger that lives in the marrow of his bones. the version of him before wouldn't flinch. neither would the one that came back from the mirror.
❝ now this—this is the good part. ❞ his voice scrapes out. it's rusted and sharp, like heavy metal dragged across the asphalt. there's a twisted reverence that overrode any delight or scorn he might have derived from his grim circumstances.
his devilish audacity compels him to tempt his fate and step closer. to dare her finger to twitch against the trigger because he invaded her space now, in her head, and still—he’s unafraid of death.
❝ oh, go on. ❞ the virtually masked eyes flick to the muzzle that was ready to bark at any second. he wonders what dark whispers it put in her head to make her believe this was the right move. ❝ do it. i’d let you. right here. right now! permission to kill, soldier! ❞
the mask covers the jagged and lopsided grin. it shields her from the ruin, but not the dark dare. his head cocks, wolfish, a second away from acting on the impulse to tear into her for the cowardice alone.
❝ i think you want me close. i think you want me to bleed for you. break for you. and maybe even burn you a little and call it worship. ❞ he says it like it was a secret passed between their sinner selves of a previous life. a gospel carved into the wall of some brig.
❝ i think this little gun? ain’t punishment. it’s one of our fucked up foreplays. ❞ because it felt familiar. it seemed like some shit he'd be into with a girl like her in his past. his hand lifts slowly—measured, not threatening—fingers brushing against the side of the coal-black barrel like he’s petting it. like it's her hair. his thumb grazes the slide, the tension point of unceremonious death, and he sighs like he's tasted the most exquisite dish for his last day on earth.
❝ you don’t want control, gloria. you want permission. you want to see what you are when you stop pretending you're better than me. as if we didn't fly the same colors for our country. ❞ his other hand reaches—not to her, but to his own chest. he taps it once. twice. thrice. firm. he leans in and whispers rot in her ear:
❝ squeeze the trigger. i’ll still come back for you, gloria. even if you break me. even if you kill me. i'll crawl outta hell and find you, sweetheart. ❞ then—he steps back. but it's barely an inch away. it's enough to see her beautiful trepidation in her eyes. enough to see if his words led to them softening or hardening. jigsaw grins again.
❝ now what’s it gonna be, angel? you gonna make uncle sam proud? or are you scared it’ll feel too fucking good? ❞
fashion of the mcu | the punisher (2x08 // my brother’s keeper) ↳ amy bendix + pink overalls
“Well, I’m making something to eat if you’re hungry. [“First you wanna kill me, now you wanna feed me?”] Yeah, it might be the same thing, I’m not much of a cook.”
omg you're so sweet can i suck your dick while you keep a gun pointed at my head?
sanic doodle dump
Introducing Violet Death, the most terrifying teenage gunwitch in the whole West. Her truth bullet will make you spill your guts-- in both senses of the phrase.