#Barrel & Bugger

[threerattsinatrenchcoat]

Last 6 Lines

I was tagged by @graysparrowao3 !

These are the last 6 lines of a fic I just finished that will be out in a few days. The fic is NSFW, the lines are not.

I'm going to tag @beesht @redroomroaving @coreene @captainsigge

Working title: Barrel & Bugger

Sal flopped onto the barrel next to Gale, smoke lazily billowing around his head.

"You really had to eat a boot? Without even salt?" he asked.

"Indeed."

Another inhale, and Sal offered the smoke to Gale. "Think you need this more than me."

[fangisms]

wish it on your worst enemy

A/N: if you see me butchering british slang 🤨 it never happened 🤫

Pairings: George Weasley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your worst nighmare takes a nasty spill during a scrimmage because he was distracted by you. It’s only right you go and check on him. 1.9k words

Warnings: violence by bludger, description of injury, cursing, lovesick losers, enemies to lovers???? ‘enemies’ to lovers but really idiots to lovers

George taking a bludger to the face was not the kind of news you would have liked to wake up to. Something had gone wrong during an emergency weekend scrimmage. He was laughing at something Fred said or shouting at Ron or maybe he was just distracted by his own thoughts and hadn't noticed the pesky bugger barreling towards him with every intent to bludgeon him unconscious. So he took a nasty spill from a considerable height and has been passed out in the hospital wing since six forty-five.

You rush down the hallway in your pajamas, cursing under your breath, face scrunched into a scowl, dead set on your target. Bloody quidditch. A few first years watched you nearly trample a group of girls in the hall. They were traumatized. It was bad.

"He's gone daft! This is absolutely mental—nothing is that distracting!" you shout at Ron who is actively trying to defend himself against you. He stopped you at the door because he heard you storming down the hall a full minute before you arrived.

"Calm down! He’s still alive isn't he?" he says.

"Not for long if I have anything to say about it—"

"Oi," Fred shouts, lounging in a rickety chair beside George's cot, "would you wait 'till he's at least cognizant to threaten him?"

"You!" you fume, "why didn't you warn him!" Ron has given up trying to stop you at this point. You push past him, headed straight for Fred.

"I did! I shouted for him three times. The git was proper distracted. Must've been dreaming of something really special." He winks at you, and you think you could ring his neck right about now.

"I think you mean someone," Ron teases.

Both of them. You'll ring both of their necks.

"What the hell are you two chittering about?" you hiss.

"Oh, nothing at all, your graciousness. We'll leave you two lovebirds"—Fred clears his throat, standing and nodding to his youngest brother—"I mean friends... to it."

You grumble and flip them both off as they leave. You plop down into the chair just in time for Madam Pomfrey to come fluff the pillow propped beneath his left leg. She catches your weary glance over his limp body.

"I wouldn't worry too much, dearie. Nasty spills are what young men are made for. He just needs a little rest. Time to recover," she coos, smiling up at you from the base of the cot. You briefly worry the back of your neck before managing a nod.

"Thank you, madam. I appreciate it."

She grabs a quilt from the stack she had brought to his bedside and flattens it across his torso. You tug the side to even it out, a hitch in your breath when your fingers brush his cold knuckles.

"You know, when I attended Hogwarts, the quidditch boys were all the rage. My boyfriend was a Beater as well—"

"Oh, George—! He's not my..."

"He was wonderful. But of course, he was always getting into spills. It drove me mad to see the boy I loved in so much pain. In the end, I told him he'd have to be more careful or I'd call it quits. He told me he had to focus on his career anyway." She stands silently for a moment. Solemnly.

"That's terrible. I'm so sorry."

"You live and you learn. Boys will be boys, I suppose." Out of her trance, she shrugs and gestures to the clipboard sat on the desk. You hand it to her.

"May I ask... what became of him?"

"He retired from Quidditch very young. Only a few years in and, bam: traumatic brain injury. Some people can't be helped!"

You can't help but snicker at her frankness. She smiles, pats your shoulder, and sighs.

"You just have to love ‘em while you can."

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey."

"Of course, dear. You let me know when he wakes up." She scuttles away.

You take the silence of the moment to look at him. While you can. You prop your elbows on the edge of the cot and rest your head in your hands.

"Not sure how I feel about all of that information. Not sure how much I trust that advice." You tell him like it’s a secret, nose scrunched like there’s anyone else within earshot.

How fragile he seems laid flat atop this plastic wrapped bed. How rich the watercolor purples and yellows of his bruise. Down his neck, out across his jaw. The subtle swoop of his lashes, the rosy bridge of his nose. Then down to his bird bone fingers, your heart skips at the thought of tracing over the delicate skin.

He twitches, and you startle and sit pin straight. His muscles relax, though yours refuse to. You notice a rip at the hem of his folded quidditch robes and perk up.

Eight minutes later, you’re tugging just the edge of his robe into your lap while the rest is feathered out across the linoleum floor. Your emergency sewing kit is perched on your other thigh as you thread your needle and begin stitching.

George blinks the ache from his eyes, finally awake just to find you with a thin string caught between your teeth, your brow furrowed, and your fingers pinching fabric together. He reaches up and presses the heel of his palm to his forehead.

"Thank Merlin I wore something under my uniform today—"

"George!"

The sewing kit clatters to the floor along with the robe and thread. Hopefully that needle will be easy to find. But you smile for now, and it’s one of the sweetest things he’s ever seen. No wonder he took a bludger’s hit. You’re bloody distracting. Even when you’re not around.

“I’ll go get Madam Pomfrey, she said—"

"Were you... stitching up my quidditch robes?” he says, just a hint of teasing in his hoarse voice.

You look down and gape at the mess.

"There was a tear in—when you fell, the bottom—there was a rip! I had a sewing kit on me, I was just... helping a friend."

He blinks. If he wasn’t completely crushing on you before, it’s safe to say that was the nail in the coffin.

"That's adorable," he warbles.

You look cross and put your hands on your hips and scoff.

“Well, you can’t very well play with a rip in your uniform!"

"No. No, of course not,” he mumbles, “Silly me.”

Usually, you’d mock him. You’d call him names and tease him for getting knocked on his ass by and inanimate object. But that smirk has you incapacitated. He's making this very difficult for you.

"Well!” he chirps, “Don’t let me bother you, I’ll just be lying here."

"But Pomfrey—"

"I'll live. My mind is alive, the neurons are firing. All is well, it can wait,” he says, “Please.”

Goddamn you, George Weasley. You muster up a pathetic sigh and sit back on the stool, getting back to work on his robe.

But he’s back to grinning like a fool, admiring the way your tongue pokes the corner of your mouth when you focus. It’s incredibly endearing.

"You're very beautiful."

Daggers. “Shut up.”

He chuckles. "What? I find you to be very agreeable, poppet."

"Gee, thanks, Weasley,” you huff, “Do you want this stitch fixed or not—"

"Don’t get your dear panties in a twist, I’m only trying to compliment you. Would you just take it while I’m too ill to make fun of you properly?"

But he finds you very agreeable. And now you know that out loud. More than an inkling. More than friends. Oh, he’s awful.

"Quit staring."

"Sincerest apologies."

You roll your eyes and glare at him while the needle punctures the thick fabric.

"Why don’t I just tell Madam Pomfrey—"

"And ruin a moment? Come on, let me get a good look at you, you're the reason I’m in this mess,” George mumbles.

"Me?"

"Yes, you! Your stupid face won't get out of my head."

"Be serious, Weasley—"

"I am! You’ve cursed me, poppet, can't think straight unless I’m thinking of you."

"That's not fair!" you say.

"No, it’s not," he huffs, "I love you."

Shock. From both of you. More than friends, and more than a simple crush, now. But love. Love, for Merlin’s sake! Do you love him?

"You're being idiotic��”

"No. I'm not. I've thought long and hard about it, and I love you, and you can't change my mind—"

"George, quit it,” you say.

"Everyone knows it, poppet, I adore you, and—"

"I love you, too, George, now would you shut up!"

Well, then. Secrets out, no holds barred.

And he’s smiling all smug to himself, even though his left side is a bit swollen. And you’re back to fiddling with the stitched up tear in his robe. You’ve got crazy eyes. He thinks you might murder the stitched up tear in his robe. Or confess your love to it.

You groan.

"Stop smiling like that. You look crazy."

He shrugs. "I am crazy…"

"Do not—"

"… Crazy in love."

"I hate you"

"I know."

You look at him. And he’s looking back at you terribly fondly. As fragile as he seems now, he feels invincible. You fold up his fixed uniform and set it on the desk.

"George,” you sigh, “you have to stop getting hurt."

He nods curtly. "Okay. I’m sorry."

You squint at him, suspicious and expecting just a little pushback.

"... It's... okay, I just worry about you. I don't like seeing you like this." The stool scrapes against the floor, and George reaches for your hand.

"I know you don't, poppet. It won't happen again,” he says.

"Good. And if it does, then—"

"Then I’ll quit the team.”

"What!"

"I’ll do it. I’ll quit for you. I’ve got other things to worry about anyway. More important things than some silly sport where balls fly at your face."

Your eyes sparkle. For him, and it makes him absolutely giddy. He presses his thumb to the back of your hand and cocks a brow.

"Now,” he sighs, “would you come here and give me my hard won kiss?"

"Oh, so you won a kiss.”

"Nobly so. Dutifully and honorably. Nothing less than the best for your highness."

"Fine, whatever, only because you think I’m beautiful.”

You lean over his arm, trying not to nudge any of his tender injuries. While you’re being so careful, he’s straining for your kiss, jutting his neck out and shuffling under the quilt. He grunts at the overexertion, and you sit back before he gets his kiss.

"Nope! I’m getting Pomfrey!"

"One peck! Swear, I won’t move an inch!"

"Madam, he's awake!”

"Wonderful news, darling!" she calls from the other side of the wing, preparing a jug of water and a two glasses.

"You're horrible, and you torture me. You don’t love me at all, witch!" he whines, voice low

"On the contrary, I love you a good deal too much, which is why I’m so horrible."

He grumbles something under his breath.

Then chirps: "Be my girlfriend.”

You fold your hands in your lap. "If I must"

"And let me be your boyfriend,” he pleads.

"Well, what else would you be?"

"Your servant, your house pet. A footstool if you needed it.”

“George Weasley, you’re a fool,” you tease, reaching over to fix a strand of hair behind his ear.

"Yes, I am. A fool who loves you very much.”

“Sap.”

masterlist

[lulublack90]

Prompt 8 - Not A Date

@wolfstarmicrofic May 8, word count 662

“So, fancy going to Hogsmeade with me on Saturday?” Sirius asked. “James is going with Evans and Peter is off with, erm, I can’t remember her name, but he’s off with someone and I don’t want to go on my own.” He scuffed his toe on the rug, looking up at Remus though his eyelashes. 

“What, like on a date?” Remus teased. Sirius’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Don’t be daft.” He grinned back. But secretly he wished it was a date. He'd wanted one for a while. 

“Oh, go on then.” Remus nodded. “I need some new quills anyway.” Sirius beamed. 

“Great. Where do you want to meet?”

“Sirius, we live in the same room. We can walk down together.”

“Oh, okay, great.” Sirius felt a bit flustered. James came barrelling in and tackled him to the floor. Thank Merlin for James Potter. He wrapped his arms around James and attempted to get on top of him, but James dead weighted him and squashed him into the floor. 

“Hello gorgeous, fancy seeing you here.” James cooed at him.

“Get off me, you big lug.” Sirius wiggled and pushed at James. But that boy was all muscle. James finally got to his feet and hauled Sirius with him. They wandered off together, leaving Remus to his homework.

Saturday came and Sirius had been too excited to sleep. It’s not a date, it’s not a date. He had to keep telling himself. They went down to breakfast together and when they were done James and Peter disappeared off to find their dates.

“Shall we?” Sirius asked, making a show of bowing Remus forward. Remus snorted at him. 

“Sure.” And walked off. 

The walk down to the village was pretty quiet. The other students milling around them making all the noise. 

“So where do you want to go first?” Sirius asked, once the picturesque village was visible before them. 

“Honeydukes,” Remus grinned. Of course, Sirius should have known. That boy was addicted to chocolate. 

“Perfect.” He grinned as they headed towards the sweet shop. 

He opened the door for Remus and said to him as they entered the sweet-smelling place. “Get whatever you want, my treat.” Remus turned and gave him a funny look. 

“I thought you said this wasn’t a date.” Sirius swallowed and became very interested in a box of peppermint imps. 

“Should I get some of these for Peter? They’re his favourite aren’t they?” Deflection. That always worked, right?

“Sirius, answer the question.” Damn it. Sirius picked up a packet of fudge flies.

“I’ll get these for James as well. Can you see the fizzing whizzbees? I have a hankering for some.” Remus stood in front of him, blocking his way. 

“Sirius, is this or is this not a date?” He’d folded his arms, Sirius knew he wasn’t getting out of this. 

“Would it really be that bad if it was?!”  He scowled. He was fucking this up as usual. He felt the tell-tale stinging behind his eyes as he blinked back tears that had suddenly tried to burst out of him. 

Remus’s arms relaxed.

“No,” He said, his voice low and sincere. Sirius’s eyes snapped up to Remus’s, searching his face for any signs that he was joking. “And if this is a date, I won’t feel bad about lightening your purse.” He winked mischievously and Sirius watched as Remus gabbed a basket and began piling all of his favourite sweets into it. 

When it was full, they took it to the till and Sirius paid. His purse was indeed considerably lighter when they left the shop. “Silly bugger.” Remus laughed at him at the same time as he took Sirius’s hand in his and entwined their fingers together. “Right I still need quills, then I’m all yours.” Sirius looked down at their hands and couldn’t believe that this was real. He felt ten feet tall and so happy he could have floated off without the assistance of the fizzing whizzbees.

[butchersboobs]

Twist (Part Two)

A Billy Butcher POV fic

You may need more tissues.

NSFW under the cut- MDNI

READ PART ONE HERE

-------------

I musta been 'ere at least three hours now, an' I swear t'God - that boy ain't stopped bombin' about once. 

'Appy little chappy, 'e is. Always yappin' and gigglin' away - eyes bright as a bloody summer’s day. 

For someone 'oo's never played a game wiv a kid before today, I don't fink I'm doin' too bad. I've bin chasin' the little bugger 'ere, there 'n every-bloody-where for the last 'alf hour, makin' 'im laugh wiv me ridiculous dinosaur noises - an' I'm fuckin' knackered. But the way 'e looks at me - like e's 'avin the best day of 'is life? Bloody'ell. Even completely fuckin' knackered feels good. Real good.

And then you walk in.

You stand there in the doorway, arms crossed tight across yer chest. And you got that fuckin' look on yer face - one I know all too bloody well. The one that says yer about firty seconds away from bustin' me bollocks over summink that's narked ya.

The whole room suddenly feels off, some'ow. Like ya sucked all the warmth and joy out the place the second ya stepped frew that door.

"Alright, Ollie, time to tidy up now," you say. Christ - even yer voice is stone cold. I bet you've been sat frew there plannin' whatever this is gonna turn into all afternoon, aintcha. Some fings never change.

Ollie’s face falls straight away. E's confused, poor lad. 'E looks up atcha like ya just told 'im Christmas is cancelled. "But me an' Billy playin’, Mummy. Five more minutes pleeease?" he asks, bless'im, holdin' five fingers up.

But you don’t care. Ya don’t even blink. "No - not today. Billy’s got to go. It’s time to go get your jarmies on. Now please, Oliver."

What the fuck ya bein' like this for? We were  'avin a whale of a time, me 'n 'im - five more minutes won'urt, surely? Are ya really that fuckin' desperate to take 'im away from me again? Jesus Christ. No need to upset the boy like this, f'fucksake.

"Can Billy come play t'morrow?" he asks, 'is bottom lip wobblin', tears in 'is eyes..

I'm about to say 'Yeah, I'd like that..' when you let me 'ave it - both fuckin' barrels.

"Billy’s a very busy man, baby. We won't see him again after today. So let's say byebye, and then get ready for bed, yeah? There's a good boy…"

Me stomach drops. The fuck you just say? I can't believe you actually just fuckin' said that. And ya never even flinched.

I can’t fuckin' fink straight. 

I just watch Ollie, me 'eart breaking. 'E runs over, wraps 'is tiny arms round me legs and just sobs. "B….bab-bye, b..Billy."

I bend down 'n pick my beautiful little boy up - little fing's light as a fevva. And I 'old 'im close t'me. I don' ever wanna let 'im go. I rub 'is back, rock 'im gently for a minute or two.

I kiss the top of is 'ead, 'n I tell 'im "There then, s'alright mate - don't you worry yerself, right? Don't you cry. We've 'ad a lovely day playin', ain't we, ay? I've never 'ad so much fun in me life! Now, listen t'me, yeah - I promise ya, I'll come back 'n see ya as soon as I can, right? You're a good lad, Oliver. Now, can you do me a favour and go play in your room, yeah? Put them dinosaurs to bed. Billy needs to 'ave a little chat wiv yer mum, OK? There's a good boy." 

I set 'im down, an' off he mopes, all dejected.

And when 'e's gone upstairs, summink inside me snaps.

I can’t 'old it back no more. The rage. I fuckin' can’t. 

Me fists are clenched that tight I can feel me knuckles turning white. 

I’ve been patient. Kept me fuckin' mouth shut in front o'the kid.

But now - I’m fuckin done. 

Done wiv you, ya fuckin' bitch.

"'Appy now, ya spiteful cunt? Some fuckin'   muvva you are. Fuck me…"

"I won't be happy 'til you get the fuck out of my house and away from MY fucking son, Billy…'

“Are you fuckin' stupid or summink? You seriously thought I’d just show up 'ere, play wiv'im for an hour, and then just fuck off like it’s no big deal?” Me fuckin' anger's still spirallin'. "You really believe that’s all I fuckin' came 'ere for?"

You just stand there, all defensive. Fuckin' arms crossed again, like you’re waitin' for me to apologise for givin' a shit about me own kid. You got some fuckin' nerve, girl, after everyfin you've done.

"You knew what this was," you say, all calm and collected, as if I’m the one in the fuckin' wrong. "You just wanted a chance to meet him properly. That's what you got. And now, you can fuck off."

I can feel the blood rushin' to me 'ead.

Fuckin'ell. 

"Yeah, I said that, didn’t I?" I snarl atcha,  steppin' closer, not even givin' you an inch. "And now, I’ve changed me mind. I ain't fuckin’ goin’ anywhere. You fink ya can stop me seein' 'im, do ya? Fink that's your fuckin' decision t'make?"

You keep yer gob shut for a fuckin' change, probly finking ya got some kinda power 'ere, some kinda control. But you fuckin' ain't. Not no more.

"You can kick off all ya fuckin' like," I yell, takin' another step toward ya. "But you ain’t keepin' my son from me. You fucking 'ear me?"

And then I see it. You’re scared. 

You're tryin' ya best to 'ide it, but I can see it in yer eyes. 

You fink I’m gonna back off, dontcha, ay? Fink I’m just blowin' steam. Well, I fuckin' ain't, I can promise you that, love.

"Who the fuck d'ya fink you are, ay? You fink ya can keep me out 'is life, like I don’t fuckin' matter? He's my fuckin' son! An' i'm fuckin' tellin' ya now - you ain't fuckin’ walkin' away wiv 'im again. Not now, not ever. Do you fuckin' understand me?"

Your face twists. You’re angry now. But I don’t give a fuck.

I ain't fuckin' interested in anyfin' you gotta say right now. I can't even bear to be in the same fuckin' room as ya. So off I fuck. I'm so fuckin' mad I pretty much rip yer fuckin' door off, just openin' it. I stand in the doorway and look back over me shoulder.

“I’ll be back to see the boy again, very soon.” I tell ya, tone bitin', venomous. "And God fuckin' 'elp you if you try t'stop me."

----------

Tags: @babyfri3dric3 @dumpy-little-nobody @bohemianblasphemy @smallsadjellyfish @frank3nfag @noonwardmoss @rebelled-angel @karlurbanism @jax-the-oregonian @chocolategiverzombie @scxrchedearf @bluemerakis @enchantedflameandflower @allirose18 @chiefcreatorcreation @bobabilbil

[weeesi]

Experiment - May Prompts (16)

“Am I obliged to consider this tryst of yours an experiment, brother mine?”

Sherlock snorts. “Trawling Silver Singles again, Mycroft? Surely an ancient recluse like you can find a suitably geriatric goldfish to, god forbid, woo or something—oh! bugger—” Phone haphazardly cradled between cheek and shoulder, he accidentally drops the pipette of sulphuric acid in-between his thighs. 

Mycroft clears his throat. “Hardly polite before the second date.”

“Good lord, spare me.” Sherlock curses as he hastily knocks over the chair to avoid splotching the corrosive substance onto bare skin. It’s a sheet day. There’s a lot of bare skin. “Humour doesn’t suit you. Better stick to whittling the stick up your arse.”

The chair’s a total loss. 

Mycroft sighs. “What are you doing, Sherlock?”

“Working,” he snaps as he readies the beaker of sugar. He’s bored and he’d watched a demo video last night whilst he was dredging the bottom of the YouTube barrel and he’s trying not to think about what will happen in approximately three hours.

“Tedium doesn’t suit you—”

“Oh shut up.”

“John Watson is moving his things into Baker Street this evening.”

“Yes, somehow your low-budget abduction and performance as Warehouse Gremlin Number One failed to deter him.”

“You want to play happy families with a complete stranger?”

“Flatmates aren’t family, Mycroft.”

Little did he know.

+

Sherlock is doing a real experiment here - I should know, I watched a YouTube video.

Thank you to @calaisreno for the fun prompt series! Tags in replies. Thanks for reading! <3

[atlasascending]

So I just finished young royals and Oof, what a show. If you haven’t seen it yet watch it because it’s great BUT ALSO can I please just take a minute to say I love how much all the characters just hug? There’s so many hugs? I love it. Of course it’s Wille and Simon the most, but I adore how much a normal gesture of intimacy it is for them all. It’s so sweet to see.

I actually also think this show kind of perfectly strikes the balance of Teenager™️ wherein you can’t focus for the following two scenes after kissing someone you like (shout out to that one post) but you can also do drugs and drink and fuck around and somehow these things are not mutually exclusive. Just honestly 10/10

AND the writers and director(s) give the characters so much SPACE. It is so unbelievably refreshing to not be rushing from scene to scene all the time like most American media does (and sadly UK media is heading the same way). Truly reflect for a moment and consider when was the last time you watched something that had so much silence in it, so many pauses, so much room to breathe? And by god do you need it, because all the characters are such forces coupled with the intensity of the plot that you’d be buggered if the characters (read: actors) were barrelling on a mile a minute too

I think it’s a really well written, INCREDIBLY well shot show and that more people should watch it

[bingusmode]

Roses are red, Sniper is Blue

Blue Sniper x Reader

AN: Your class name is Assist in this story

Blue Sniper could hear his teammates dying. Even worse, he could see the Red Team heading towards his current hiding spot.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Sniper hissed, quickly taking into account his weaponry.

Sniper rifle? Out of bullets

Machete? Currently sticking out of a red scouts body

Jars of piss? He has a surplus of them.

He ran through the options in his head, he could fight. Which depending on which red team member he was facing, meant that he wouldn’t be blessed with a quick death.

Or he could hide, seemingly a better. More risky option.

Sniper shoved his body behind a stack of Mann Co. barrels. Squeezing his body in-between the cheap metal and the wall.

Seconds later, the door was kicked in. Sniper could see it bounce off the wall before the Red Medic strolled in, syringe gun at the ready.

Sniper immediately started sweating, remembering how Blue Spy couldn’t respawn for a week because Red Medic kept his head in the fridge. Who does that?

Following the Medic was someone he saw plenty of, but didn’t know much about. Assist.

“Doc, you’re sure he’s here?”

“Of course I am! I saw the reflection from his rifle”

Assist step further into the room, spotting the dropped sniper rifle

“He might have already ran-“

“And leave his weapon?”

“If he was desperate enough, he has no backup. Blue team is gone expect for him,”

Assist only confirmed what sniper already knew.

He tried to keep his breathing even, doing his best not to he seen.

He had only seen Assist through his scope, and while she wasn’t bad to look through his weapon. Sniper realized she looked even better in person.

And while he prides himself of distancing his emotions from his work. A pretty girl is a pretty girl, and Sniper can appreciate that. He is only a man after all.

He counted the seconds off his head, hoping they would leave soon. Assist stepped closer, moving around boxes.

“Medic, I don’t really think he’s-“

She kicked over a barrel, just catching Snipers shades in the shadows.

“Here…”

“Did you find him?”

Assist just stared at him and Sniper stared back. She blinked, Sniper could see her weighing her options in her head before taking a breath.

“No,”

Sniper watched with confusion as she placed the barrel back where it was. Once again, hiding him completely.

“He’s not here Medic”

“The coward probably ran…and I needed new organs too”

Medic whined, holstering his weapon.

“There’s literally a dead Spy outside, you killed him”

“His organs aren’t fresh…and I already have his spleen,”

“Gross”

Sniper watched as the two walked off. Opting to stay completely silent until they were a safe distance away.

He drug himself up from his hiding spot, taking a deep breath of fresh air as he did so.

He was sweating, his heat beating too fast and his hands shaking. Somehow he knew it wasn’t from the close encounter with death he just had.

“…bugger”

Sniper considered himself a rather sane individual, but what he was doing was anything but the sort.

Sneaking into Red Base at night? Might as well be signing his death warrant.

He didn’t even know why, he was doing this, it just felt right. From a distance, Sniper quickly set up his scope, peering into the glass. From across the way he could see the Red Lounge, every team member either relaxing or nursing their wounds after todays fight.

There was only one member Sniper was concerned about. Assist was dozing off on the couch, Sniper all too familiar with how Red Team runs her ragged during battles.

And so he waits, he waits and waits until Assist drags herself up, stretching to get her blood flowing.

Tracking her through his scope, he watches her bid her team goodnight and exit the lounge. From there it wasn’t hard to follow her movements to her quarters. Through the slits in her blinds, Sniper could just make out her form. If he wanted to, he could have increased his scope and glanced at her changing into nightclothes. Using restraint, Sniper put down his scope and lay still, not daring to move until he saw the light in her room go out.

It was easy enough shimming up the drain pipe to her window, placing a Blue rose he had stolen from Pyros garden on the edge of it.

‘There, we’re even’ he thought while running back to his own base. This was settled, no more sneaking up to a pretty girls window. Whatever debt he owed to her was paid.

That’s what he kept telling himself anyway. During battles, Sniper had a habit of “checking in” on Assist. It was only natural to keep tabs on your enemy.

“Just to keep her in sight” he mutters to himself, following her figure around the war zone. Red didn’t have the lead this time, Blue team was back for blood. And blood they did have.

The ground was soaked in it, the hot sun doing little to help. Sniper adjusted his scopes on Assist, getting to view her closer.

He frowned, sucking his teeth when he saw she wasn’t doing well.

Assist had backed herself into a semi hidden corner, using the shelter to patch her wounds up.

Sniper took his gaze away from his scope, looking around the field for her teammates. It wasn’t often she was left alone, especially if she was insured.

He got his answer when he spotted his Pyro lighting a bonfire with the bodies of Red Team, all but missing one of course.

Quickly switching back to his scope, to his shock, Assist was gone.

“What the hell?”

Sniper reevaluated the field, trying to spot any glimpse of her. The fight wasn’t called off yet, so she was still alive.

“Come on Bird, where are you?” Sniper muttered, his focus on his own team gone.

He received his answer once the door to his sniper perch was broken into.

Assist dragged herself up through the door, covered in blood and god knows what else. How she made it up the latter was a miracle itself.

Groaning and spitting curses to herself, Assist seemed preoccupied in shutting and locking the door again, placing a crate over it for safety. Not realizing her real threat was in the perch with her.

Sniper just watched carefully, he knew she wasn’t the type to give up easy, but this was a whole new level.

It wasn’t until she started to move a second crate that he spoke up.

“That’s really not necessary”

Assist shrieked at the sudden voice, nearly losing her balance whipping around to face Sniper

“How long have you been here?”

“The whole match, how long have you been bleeding?”

“The whole match”

Assist went to grab her hunting knife but remembered she didn’t have it, she didn’t have anything. Sniper felt a twinge in his chest, he didn’t want her to see him as a threat. He could be nice, he could be gentlemanly.

“Calm down Bird, it’s just us up here”

“That’s what I’m worried about,”

She was a smart girl, not being quick to let her guard down.

Sniper slowly set his rifle down, and kicked it across the room. Skidding to a stop against the wall.

“There, and I don’t have my machete on me either, I’m not gonna hurt you,”

He put his hands up to show he wasn’t a threat. Of course he still was, who else was picking off her teammates during the fight.

It took a minute, but Assist relented. Dropping like a rag-doll to the floor, leaning back against the crates. Sniper joined in, sitting across from her.

“Feeling friendly today?”

“Just towards you Bird,”

Assist smiled, using whatever little energy she had left to do so.

“Aren’t you sweet,”

“Just returning the favor”

She laughed and Sniper wanted to hear that sound more, preferably off the battle field.

“I have a strange suspicion that you were the one to drop off that rose,”

Blood was soaking the wooden floorboards now, whatever medpack she had gotten only helped minimally.

“Had to pay off my debt somehow,” Sniper took off his hat, setting it down beside him

“Women like flowers don’t they?”

Assist nodded, her smile still lingering

“I do, but I prefer babies breath myself. Roses are my third favorite”

“Only third?”

She hummed in confirmation, Sniper saw her getting ashen by the minute. It wouldn’t be long now with her rate of blood loss.

Assist blinks over at Sniper, a question lingering in her eyes.

“Does that make us even? A flower for a life?”

“Not even close Bird, I think I still owe you”

Not that he minded owing her, especially if it meant seeing her more often.

“Mm, maybe we could make it even”

“I’m listening,”

Assist took a deep breath, a rattle forming in her ribs.

“Win the match for your team” she nudges her head towards his rifle

“A life for a life”

“I don’t think you wanna do that Bird”

“You would be doing me a favor sending me to respawn, better than letting me bleed out here…on this dirty ass floor.”

Sniper laughed, but it didn’t distract from the pit forming in his stomach. He had taken out her teammates no problem, but her? He wasn’t sure he could detach himself from that.

“Bird-“

“Just made it quick, and make sure my next flowers are even prettier”

“And how are you sure you’ll be getting flowers?”

“Just a hunch”

She winked at him, a playful smirk gracing her lips.

He hated how he was willing to go along with her plan, just because she asked.

Slowly, Sniper stood up and retrieved his rifle. The pit in his stomach getting bigger and bigger with each step he took towards her.

“You sure about this Bird?”

“Just make it quick, you can pay me back later,”

Assist tipped back her head and closed her eyes, completely relaxed.

“…I’ll get you the biggest bouquet at the store”

A shot rang out and Blues victory was declared. Victory was sweet, but not for Sniper. For the first time in years, he could feel his hands shaking holding his rifle.

Assist stepped out the respawn machine, stretching her aching muscles. Scout immediately threw an ice pack at her, Assist barely dodging it

“Well there’s princess, taking your sweet time huh?”

“Give me a break Scout, I held out longer than you did”

Engineer clapped her on the back, guiding her towards the mess hall

“Good work today, we’ll get them next time”

Assist thought wistfully back to her conversation with Sniper, she wouldn’t mind a next time. Maybe with less blood loss though.

“Yeah, next time,”

It took her awhile to get back to her room, after a long day. All she wanted to do was curl up and sleep. Until she got a glimpse of something on her windowsill. Opening the window, she retrieved a Bouquet of babies breath tied with blue bow.

She smiled to herself, looking out to see if her admirer was still watching. Assist leaned over the windowsill and blew a kiss into the night air. Hoping he saw it wherever he was.

Snipers cheeks burned at the gesture, as he made his way back to his own base.

All he could think about was how he could leave even prettier flowers at her window.

[tgrailwar-zero]

If we’re dropping ourselves into the water as bait, we better hope we can stop this whale next turn. Otherwise, I think we’re done for.

ADMIRAL: "Probably. Have fun!"

You were tied to a rope-- a more sophisticated device would probably be less unsettling.

CREW: "Heave, ho!"

Fwish.

You were thrown overboard.

And then-- down into the water you went.

You could see MUSASHI deeper down, thrashing against the whale. She stabbed her blades into the uninjured eye of the beast as it let out a horrible noise, roiling back and forth.

You probably had two Emperors with chronic migraines at this point, yes.

The whale, while blinded, seemed to be using echolocation to help guide it. However, the sheer amount of stimuli barraging it at the moment was far from ideal.

Still, the yelling did the trick.

It began barreling towards you.

There was a very real feeling that the second that monstrosity made contact with you, you were dead. Honestly dead. Gone. Consumed by a program and then broken down into data and deleted.

The whale opened it's massive maw, closing in.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

You felt a heavy tug on the rope as you were yanked upwards and out of the water.

You spiraled in the air, feeling yourself a hair's breadth away from being whale food, before slamming onto the deck.

The massive Attack Program breached the water, MUSASHI hanging on with her blades plunged into the left eye of the monstrosity.

The ADMIRAL cackled, stepping forward.

ADMIRAL: "We're not going to get a cleaner shot than that! Hey, you damn whale! You're showing your belly- is that a surrender? Unfortunately, I take no prisoners!"

ADMIRAL: "Alright, you picaroons! Show me you have the stones to pull this off, and let's blow this waste of data space out of the water! Fortune is mine, and mine alone! Mine to spend and mine to gain! By this lucky coin of mine… Pseudo-Noble Phantasm, 'Agni Gandiva', charged to 75%! We can either get the perfect shot, or hope we can make do with what we've got!"

MOBY DICK is within incredibly close range of you and your ship.

SHIP STATS

The ship took some damage from MOBY DICK breaching the water so close!

SHIP'S HULL: [ X / X / X / X / X / X / X / X / / / ]

MAGICAL ENERGY: [ X ] [ X ] [ X ] [ X ] [ X ]

'LUCKY SHOT': [ X ] (Power: Stage 3)

[blubushie]

DEAR ARTISTS

(Cheers to @kreidxpriz for asking this in the replies of my other post!)

Many people don't actually know what a bullet is.

These are not bullets. These are cartridges.

THESE are bullets.

Bullets go into the casing to make a cartridge. Inside the cartridge are what the bullet needs to operate: gunpowder and the primer. The primer pushes inward, strikes one side, and that ignites the gunpowder which explodes and propels the bullet out of the barrel of the firearm.

This is what they look like separate. (Those coloured tips on the bullets are polymer points that assist in cutting through the air which lessens the amount of tumbling and also with penetrating the target. The colour isn't important and is often different depending on who manufactures the bullets.)

That piece on the bottom is calling the casing or shell. That's what ejects from the bolt of a firearm when you cycle it. Some firearms cycle automatically (the automatic family of weapons which includes automatic and semi-automatic, where pulling the trigger will fire a bullet, eject the spent casing, and automatically chamber another round), and some have to be cycled manually (bolt-action rifles, where pulling the trigger ONLY fires the bullet and you have to pull back the bolt to eject the spent casing and allow another round to move into the receiver, then pushing the bolt forward chambers that round).

Why am I explaining this to you? There's different between a bullet and a cartridge. So, dear artists: YOU NEVER PUT A BULLET IN YOUR MOUTH. Many bullets do NOT have metal jackets, meaning the bullet is not fully encased in metal, most commonly copper. The casing is usually brass. Why encase the bullet to start with? Inside the bullet is usually lead. Lead is soft and doesn't penetrate very well, so full metal jackets (FMJs) and total metal jackets (TMJs) are used for better penetration. Because the lead is encased and doesn't "fold," they also have much better trajectory and strike more accurately. Point is, don't put a grey bullet in your mouth unless you want lead poisoning.

Additionally, holding a bullet in your mouth will bugger up something we call ballistics, which is how the bullet travels through the air on its path to its target. Any scratching on the surface or minute dents from your teeth that you can't even see will effect the aerodynamics of the bullet, causing the round to tumble. This throws off accuracy and affects how the bullet strikes.

On that similar note: PEOPLE DO NOT CARVE ANYTHING INTO BULLETS UNLESS IT'S ON THE BASE OF THE BULLET. That's this flat part. (Note that this is a TMJ. An FMJ leaves an exposed bit of lead at the bottom of the bullet.)

The flat part is the ONLY part on a bullet that isn't influenced by aerodynamics, so it's the only "safe" place to carve. That said, it's a small bloody space, so good luck carving anything into that. TMJs are VERY difficult to carve and can only be effectively "scratched." FMJs are easier to carve thanks to their exposed lead, which is a much softer material. VERY rarely you'll see people carving an "X" into the very tip of the bullet so that it fragments better, but this takes time and buggers up the accuracy so it's very uncommon (and when it is seen, it's usually only in handgun-calibre rounds where you're not firing over long distances).

What people DO sometimes do (if they have a real grudge) is scratch into the CASING of the round. Some places even imprint them for mementos. This has no real effect on the round or how it fires, so it's safe to do.

Point here is that people don't hold bullets between their teeth. If they're holding anything, it's the cartridge. When I need to reload quickly, I hold the cartridge between my LIPS with the primer against the flat of my canine tooth or incisors so it doesn't get tapped by accident.

That's all and happy drawing!

As always, if you have any questions feel free to send me an ask!

[lyricalt]

[tf2 minific] LSF: with your invite

fem!(Sniper/Spy) - rated T

Note: I must confess, I’d been trying to lead up to Sniper pulling that sick 10 second bit from the music video, Top or Cliff (at 2:50 in), which is great fun to watch.  Couldn't really commit to a whole fic but I decided to just write the fun part anyway.

[Part 1] | [Part 2] | [Part 3]

+++

The final piece of Sniper’s rifle is hidden under a dresser on the third floor of the mansion. She gets down on all fours, ignoring how blood congeals at her side. Her knee pulls at the hem of her dress, getting caught under a pointed heel, and when Sniper bends further down, she hears a faint rip from the seams. Poor Demo’s never going to get her dress back. The dry cleaning alone would be a nightmare.

Sniper gropes beneath the dresser until her fingers find cold, hard metal. She closes her hand around the missing barrel for her rifle. Half of her wonders how the hell Spy managed to squirrel it away with all the other pieces, hiding them throughout the mansion. The other half is just happy to finally have it. When Sniper attempts to pull it free, one end bumps against something soft. Sniper frowns, adjusting the angle, and sets the barrel aside before reaching back in.

She pulls out her own pair of boots, along with a note tucked inside with handwriting that she is very familiar with.

The note reads, ‘You have 45 seconds.’

Sniper lets out a huff of laughter. She sits back, pulling up her dress and happily kicking off those bloody heels. Bugger all three inches of them. She snaps the heels off, shaking out two bullets from the hollow into her palm, before tossing the shoes over her shoulder. Thank fuck, she’ll not have to wear them out.

It takes ten seconds to stomp her blistered feet into her boots proper. The next thirty-five seconds are for putting her rifle together. Luckily, she’s gotten most of it already assembled on her way up. It only cost her a stab at the side from a very pissed maid, but Sniper’s been stabbed plenty times before. No need to fuss over it.

She shakes out her stupid glittery clutch for the scope attachment, and blissfully feels more like herself the moment she slaps it on. 

All in all, Sniper is about five seconds late once she goes to the balcony, hiking one leg up against the railing for support. She loads up the rifle and rests the end of the barrel against the balustrade.

Five seconds late means that Spy has done more sweet talking than she would have liked. The mark is a sharp-eyed man, older but still quite handsome, if Sniper had to make an opinion. Spy looks good, clinging at his arm and steering him into a more open part of the gardens. There’s a red lipstick stain at the corner of the man’s mouth. He tilts his head for more, and Spy has to stand up on her toes to give him another kiss. She angles him perfectly.

Sniper inhales, slowly, and adjusts her aim. Pretty, she thinks, and isn’t quite sure if she means the clear sightine, the mark’s forehead, or Spy.

At the apex of her breath, she squeezes the trigger. There’s not a doubt in her mind that she wouldn’t miss.

Spy doesn’t get that second kiss in. 

Sniper catches the beginnings of a grin on Spy’s blood-splattered face before she has to look away to reload. Mark’s mark marked. Shot clear right off.

“Hrm,” Sniper muses, pulling the bolt open and shut. She takes out the furthest bodyguard with her last bullet while Spy dispatches the second one with just her bare hands.

Turns out she definitely meant pretty for Spy.

+++

The SMG isn’t where Spy told her it’d be. Sniper peeks behind the kitchen counter for a third time before ducking back as bullets ricochet off pots and pans and various other kitchen things.

“Bugger,” Sniper says, miffed. Her rifle rests in her lap, a little bit useless now in close quarters combat. She tips her head back, letting it thump against the cabinet. There’s the sink in front of her. Above it, a rather large and shiny pan with a nice mirror reflection shows the number of people shooting into the kitchen. Sniper stares at it, glumly. Four. The odds aren’t too great. 

Just as Sniper starts to contemplate using the frying pan as a weapon, she hears the sound of her own SMG fire a full round into the kitchen. Sniper waits until the noise putters off. The only sound that comes after is the steady taps of heels walking closer.

A couple of seconds later, Spy peers over the counter. Despite the blood over her face, she looks significantly less bedraggled than Sniper. Probably because she’s the one with the extra gun. 

“I didn’t have time to hide the SMG,” Spy says, by way of apology. She tosses the gun to the side, empty and dry.

“S’all right,” Sniper grunts. She doesn’t much like using the SMG in any case. Spray and pray, for good reason. “How’re we lookin’?”

“Fine,” Spy says, which could mean anything. “There’s a sniper covering the front entrance. I saw the muzzle flash from the second story. Third window from the right.”

Sniper glances down at the rifle in her lap. She lets her legs stretch out. The razor cuts have started bleeding again, along with the other lacerations she’s managed to get. Real gashes from broken glass and blades, at least. “Out of bullets, darl. Unless you got one in that ample brassiere of yours.”

Spy rolls her eyes. “Your rifle barrel took up a lot of space.”

Sniper smirks. “...Or are you just happy to see me?”

Spy reaches for her. At first, Sniper is almost convinced Spy really is hot and bothered enough to start fooling around right this second—at this point, she wouldn’t put it past them—but Spy’s hand finds the back of Sniper’s head, drawing her in. It’s an impersonal gesture, completely professional when Spy slides her fingers through Sniper’s braid and pulls off the golden hair brooch and pin. 

Sniper’s face heats up anyway. Bugger.

Then she flushes in a different way when Spy unscrews one of the decorative tassels and tips out a third sniper bullet from a hidden slot.

“You didn’t tell me?” Sniper says flatly, holding out her palm. “Thought you said it was a knife.”

Spy places the bullet into her hand, fingers lingering in Sniper’s grasp. She smiles. “Yes, I did not tell you.”

“Anythin’ else you’re not telling me?” Sniper asks, sarcastic, and loads the bullet.

Spy hauls her up, as unrepentant and steady in her heels as ever. 

“Plenty,” she promises.

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

I’ve kinda already written about this before with the college AU I started a while ago but I have a mighty need for a life drawing workshop with Ghost and Soap.

Like maybe Soap runs some classes in a local bar venue space or something and he puts out ads every so often for models. Ghost meanwhile is discharged from the army with a shitty shoulder injury and no where to go. After going for a pint with Gaz to commiserate, and drown their shared sorrows of having to leave army life, Gaz tells Ghost about a new side hustle he has going ever since he’d had to leave months prior.

Ghost snorts out a laugh at first “are you bloody joking? You. A life model?”

Gaz pretends not to get too offended, but rolls his eyes and take a drink.

“It’s not as weird as you think. You stand in a couple different poses-“

“With your kit off,” Ghost chuckles.

“Yes, with your kit off,” Gaz huffs. “You get told how to stand and what props to use and then a bunch of people draw you for a couple hours. It’s totally painless and you get decent dosh for it. I do Soap’s class twice a month and Alex’s class three times - it’s easy money, plus it’s cash in hand so HMRC don’t have to be any the wiser bout it.”

“Hang on a minute, Soap?” Ghost says, shaking his head. “What kind of a name is Soap? He gives you props as well? What next, does he ask you to dance for him too? Give ‘im the old dazzle dazzle, do you?”

“Fuck off Ghost.”

“Aw, im only messing. ‘Sides even if I wanted to do little poses for your art class, I wouldn’t be able to. My shoulder’s buggered remember? I wouldn’t be able to hold a lot of positions for long.”

“Soap’s pretty understanding. He can pick poses that suit your body and he can adjust the times so that you don’t have to stay still too long if you can’t take it. You just have to tell him about your injury and he’ll be understanding.”

Ghost shook his head again and took another gulp.

“Fuckin’ Soap.”

“He’s an eccentric guy, but he’s cool,” Gaz shrugs. “Do you want me to speak to him for you? He’s usually on the lookout for new models.”

Ghost would say he’d need to take some time to think about it, but Gaz would take that as a yes. So a few days roll by and soon enough Ghost gets a text through telling him that Soap would be ‘well up’ for meeting him and said he should come by the next evening before class.

Ghost - I told you I’d think about it, you twat. Not to go on ahead and tell him I wanna join his little cult.

Gaz - show up or don’t, you can think about it all you like between now and then. You’ll thank me later 🤪

After that last text Gaz then sent him a picture of a wad of cash and few coins spread out over a blotted bar top. Ghost would sigh, but as soon as he saw that money he knew his decision was made. He needed something until he was able to figure out what to do with the rest of his life, something to tide him over till he received payments for his injury.

He’d turn up for Soap’s class with a flustered air around him and would step through the shadowy doorway to the bar with soft unsure steps. It was still early, there wouldn’t be many people inside. He’d ask the barman where the function room was and sullenly walk through the curtain, raising his brows when he’d finally lay eyes on Soap.

Ghost wouldn’t know what to expect but it’s not the mohawked barrel of a man that’s lugging chairs around the room and running around like a little worker ant. His eyes would linger on the muscles that were exposed from Soap’s paint and charcoal stained tank top and he’d watch on wordlessly, widening his eyes when Soap would finally notice him. He’d dig his nails into his palms to try to stop himself from blushing in embarrassment.

“You’re a bit early for the class’ mate,” Soap would huff, settling another chair around the raised stage. “Looking to join?”

“Uh sort of,” Ghost would say, frowning as he struggled to find words around the bodybuilder/artist. “My friend Gaz, uh Kyle you probably know him as - he said you were looking for more models and that I should come by…”

Soap’s eyes would light in recognition and he’d smile warmly, striding over to greet Ghost properly. Ghost wouldn’t be prepared for the warm grip in Ghost’s handshake and he especiallly wasn’t prepared for those big blue crystalline eyes to be roaming over him as if they were mentally taking him apart.

“Simon right?” Soap would say, revealing a perfect white grin. “I’m Soap, John’s my name, but I prefer Soap so you can go with that, yeah? Kyle mentioned you had a shoulder injury and that you weren’t sure you could hold certain poses.”

Ghost would straighten up then and nod, pointing out which one it was. From then Soap would take him through a few positions and would discuss the technicalities with him, were Ghost to join. Apparently it was easy to make accommodations for him, and Soap would be more than pleased to have him as a model, and like Kyle had already mentioned, the pay was pretty good.

Ghost would grow interested the more he would hear and eventually Soap would wear him down enough into taking him through a few practice ones. They would be relatively easy, and Ghost would find himself realising that Gaz was right - it was easy money. Plus Soap was no bad company either.

He’d be convinced into watching the class that night and getting to have a little taster of what he would be doing. The model that night would be a tiny little thing, a dancer, and would hold the most intricate stances for the eager artists to draw, contorting themselves into pretzel like shapes that Ghost couldn’t possibly hold. They’d capture his attention for a minute, but Ghost would always find himself staring at Soap right after.

He’d watch the way he directed the model, stroking the air to dictate how he wanted them and guiding them gently into form all without physically touching. He’d encourage the artists, complimenting a few people, and helping anyone that needed guidance. His favourite would be when the others would fall silent and Soap would take to gathering himself a pencil and paper and drawing for a little bit. The immense concentration, the way he’d clench his jaw and narrow his eyes would be so captivating and there was nothing that could stop Ghost looking away. Nothing that could stop him from wondering what it would be like having Soap’s eyes on him like that.

As it turns out it would almost steal all the breath from his lungs. Ghost would be sitting on that same stage the next week, stone faced and gritting his teeth through the slight chill in the air. He’d be used to resisting the cold, though he wouldn’t be used to all the eyes on his naked body, most of all Soap’s as his furrowed brow stayed glued to him. Ghost would swear that Soap could read his thoughts, could strip his mind just as easily as his body and he would know that Ghost was developing a stupid obsession with him (he’d refuse to think of it as a crush).

He’d look purposely look away on the next pose and would still feel Soap’s eyes on him still. They’d warm a path from the bones at his collar, all the way down the ridges of his pecs and right down to the pit of his belly. Butterflies would dance where his empty stomach should have been.

He’d love and hate it in equal measure, barely feeling the eyes of Soap’s gaggle of students because of the intensity of their teacher, but he would still show up again the next week and the next after that. Just hoping that maybe one night it wouldn’t be his own hands pulling the cord on his robe, perhaps he could embrace a pair covered in charcoal and graphite and entice them to touch instead of trace the air. He’d want to break through Soap’s page and show him new colours, tear the world as he knew it apart in only the way that Ghost could.

[fairy-writes]

MY JOLLY SAILOR BOLD

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): William James Moriarty x Gender Neutral!Reader

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Pirate AU

Notes: This is unintentionally sort of like Pirates of the Caribbean, but we’re rolling with it anyway, lol

__________________________________________________________________________

Your first meeting with pirate William James Moriarty was less than favorable. 

Mainly because one of his crewmates kidnapped you and brought you aboard their ship: “The Nobleman’s Anchor.”

It had been late at night when you were awoken by the sounds of screams from your maid. You bolted from your bed and nearly threw open the door when you heard the sound of a gunshot. Immediately, you backpedal and go to the walk-in closet, flinging it open and stuffing yourself inside just as your doors are quite literally blasted off the hinges by cannon fire. There are men’s shouts of surprise. 

Was it unintentional?

The ammunition creates a splintered hole in the wall, and you flinch, shoving your hand over your mouth to swallow your screams. 

You hid amongst your clothes, backing up until you tripped and smacked your head against the wall. 

The sound was almost deafening in the silence. 

All voices outside the closet quieted, and you heard footsteps stomping their way to the door. The footsteps were heavy, a faint jingling noise coming that signified that there was a coin pouch somewhere on this person’s… well… person.

Your breath came in short quick gasps that you kept quiet by keeping your hand over your mouth. 

Were you going to die here?

The door is torn open, and you come face to face with a very tall man. 

His hair and eyes are dark, and he’s dressed in a shirt that’s unbuttoned a few buttons and shows off his bare chest. The shirt is tucked into a pair of loose trousers, and his boots look to be made of leather. He has a pistol clutched in one hand, a finger hovering over the trigger but not pulling it just yet. 

A head peeks over his shoulder. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a mole on his right cheek.

Another pirate. 

You recoil as the taller man reaches into the closet and yanks you out by your ankle. You shriek, and he winces at the sound, pointing the barrel of his pistol in your face. That shuts you up real quick.

“What do we have here?” He asks. You don’t answer. The blond man puts a hand on the other pirate’s shoulder.

“Now, now, Moran. No need to frighten them.” He says, and “Moran” shrugs his hand off.

“Bugger off. I do what I want.” He snaps and yelps when you bring your foot up swiftly between his legs. He doubles over with a wheeze, and you spring to your feet, dashing toward the door. 

Almost there. 

Just as your fingers brush the edge of the door, you being intent on slamming it shut, a hand catches your wrist, and you are spun around. 

Moran looks furious, his cheeks flushed red, and his teeth bared. 

“You’ll die for that.” He snarls, and again, the blond pulls him away, obviously hiding a laugh.

“Why don’t we take them to William? He can decide what to do with them.” He says, and Moran mulls it over before nodding.

“Fine.”

The Nobleman’s Anchor is grand—with three soaring masts and sails that billow in the nighttime wind. The Jolly Roger flag flaps in the wind, and you shudder at the sight of the skull and crossbones. You can see the cannons and barely have time to count before you are hauled aboard. You spotted at least fifteen or twenty just on one side. 

How big was this ship?

Moran nearly shoves you down the multiple sets of stairs until you are thrown into a jail cell. It slams shut with a resounding ‘boom.’

“You can stay in the brig until the Captain gets back.” He says gruffly, and the blond man shrugs apologetically before waving and trotting back up the stairs. The trap door shuts, and you are plunged into darkness with a single candle lighting the room. 

Normally you’d be terrified, but not now. Not when your life depends on not being killed by pirates. 

So you reach into the pocket of your sleeping trousers and miraculously find a hairpin left by your younger sister. Her hair had always been long, and she commonly used pins to keep it out of her face. But, unfortunately, she also had a terrible habit of leaving them everywhere. 

She might have just saved your life. 

You had never picked a lock before, but it couldn’t be that hard, could it? You had read plenty of books about it in dashing chases and the like. But you found out very quickly that it was quite hard. 

But you weren’t one to give up, so you persevered. 

Eventually, the lock ‘clicked’ and swung open. The hinges squealed, but when no one came running, you crept from the cell and up the stairs. You made it almost entirely through the ship and into the hold before you heard footsteps. 

Ducking behind some barrels of gunpowder, you peeked out between the barrels. You watched as an unfamiliar man made his way down the stairs. 

Golden blond hair, brilliant red eyes, a handsome face. Dressed in a crimson coat with a white shirt tucked into black trousers and boots.

Who was this man?

Was he the captain?

It was almost as if he could sense your staring because just as he was walking by the powder barrels, he abruptly stopped, crouched, and looked you directly in the eye. 

“Well, well, looks like our little prisoner escaped.” He said. His accent was beautiful. The soft British lilt almost making you relax. 

Almost. 

“How did you find me?” You whispered, eyeing the pistol on his belt. It glints in the candlelight that illuminates the hold. The man hums before reaching between the barrels to brush his fingers against your necklace that hung at the hollow of your throat. The silver medallion. It had been a gift from your older brother. You never took it off. 

Just as your sister had saved your life, your brother was your downfall. 

You weren’t taken off the ship. With the crew raising the anchor and setting sail before you had any chance to do anything. You were searched and thrown back in the brig until the man would “find something to do with you.” 

Part of you wondered if they were going to kill you. 

A full day passes before you see anyone again. 

The golden-haired pirate came down to your cell, a tray in hand with bread and a flask of water. It didn’t look like much. But after a day of not eating, you were starving. The pirate didn’t say a word as he slid the tray under the bars, and it slid across the wood until it bumped against your sitting form. 

You don’t touch it.

“Do you surrender?” He asks, leaning against a cane he had previously tucked under his arm. 

“Are you going to kill me if I do?” You say, voice cracking with misuse and dehydration. The man shrugs, 

“No. Now, governor’s child, what do you know about Lord Lucius Aldridge?” 

After you tell the man—who you learned is the famed pirate William James Moriarty—everything you know about Lord Aldridge, you are let out of the cell and allowed to come up on deck.

The open ocean is absolutely stunning. 

Your breath is taken away, and you rush to the ship’s rail and lean over as the wind carries the massive vessel through the waters, the boat's bow cutting through the open sea like a knife. 

“If you are done looking, I’d like to introduce you to the crew.” Came William’s voice, and you whip around, confusion coloring your features. 

“Are you not going to take me home?” 

He shakes his head. 

“You have valuable information on lords and ladies. We need that. And you are going to help us.” He replies, and before you can say a word, Moran butts in.

“What are they doing up here?!” He demands, and you can tell he still hasn’t let your first encounter go. But, of course, you probably wouldn’t either. 

“They are helping us take down Lord Aldridge,” William says simply, and you can see Moran clench his fists. You swallow. 

Should you sleep with a weapon under your pillow? 

Was he the type to kill over a grudge?

Soon, you are introduced to the crew. 

There’s Albert Moriarty, the quartermaster and second in command. He has a kind face, if not a bit stern-looking. He does what William asks without complaint. Which is a common theme amongst the rest of the ship members. His emerald green eyes bore into yours, but his handshake was not unkind. 

Then there’s Louis Moriarty. The boatswain, the man in charge of keeping the ship in tip-top condition. He watches you with scrutiny, his eyes a shade darker than William’s. 

You already knew Sebastian Moran, but you discover he’s the master gunman and in charge of the forty or so cannons aboard the ship. You are quickly introduced to the blond, who you figure out is nicknamed “Bonde.” He doesn’t say his role aboard the ship, but he’s kind nonetheless. 

“The name’s Bonde. James Bonde.” He says with a wink. 

Fred Porlock is the last to be introduced. He’s the navigator and map expert of the ship. He’s quiet and a bit shy. His fingers are littered with papercuts from handling maps and documents. 

“Welcome aboard the Nobleman’s Anchor,” William says with a grin that makes a shiver run down your spine.

Days turn to weeks, to months, until suddenly, you’ve been aboard and part of the Moriarty crew for nearly a year. 

And strangely enough, you don’t regret a moment of it. 

You learn all kinds of things. Moran teaches you Poker and Liar’s Dice. Fred teaches you how to read maps properly. Bonde teaches you how to shoot a gun. Louis and Albert both teach you how to keep up with ship maintenance. 

And then there’s William.

What about him?

Well… you found yourself having a crush on the pirate captain. 

Initially, you denied your feelings. Because, of course, you did. That would be inappropriate, wouldn’t it? A captain and a crew member in a relationship.

Hah.

That was laughable. 

Until… it was almost like he loved you back. 

He taught you to steer the boat, his hand at your back and his other pointing to things like shoals, coral reefs, or whales breaching the water’s surface. 

His hand was warm on the small of your back, unexpectedly gentle as he leaned in close to speak in your ear. You always shivered when his lips would brush the rim of your ear. But it wasn’t in an uncomfortable way. And he knew that, his smile turning smug whenever you’d cough and move away. 

It seemed he fully took advantage of that because he started doing it more often. 

When you would sit together for meals, usually after everyone went to bed because you hated people watching you eat—but never minded when it came to him. 

When you would use old glass bottles as target practice, and he would correct your stance, hand always at your back and his head near your shoulder. 

And when it was just the two of you alone one night. You had volunteered to guide the ship through calm waters while everyone else slumbered below deck. Your eyes watched the stars and horizon, occasionally glancing at your compass and maps to make sure you would make it to port safely and on time. 

“Having fun?” Came William’s voice, and you jumped, turning slightly to where he was ascending the stairs toward the helm of the boat. He had shed his crimson coat, leaving him in his trousers and shirt. His boot buckles jangled with every step until he stood at your side and slightly behind. His hand comes up to rest at the small of your back. 

“Of course I am. Nothing like being alone on the open ocean. And in the middle of the night, no less.” You say, and he lets out a quiet laugh. The puff of air causes the telltale shiver to run down your back. You swallow thickly and take a step away. 

At least you try. His grip slips around your waist and pulls you close, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. 

“Why do you move away?” He whispers, ignoring your previous comment, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

“It’s inappropriate.” You try, and he chuckles again.

“When have you ever cared about what’s appropriate?” You shrug, jostling his chin, and he straightens, his hand leaving your waist. 

You almost regret making him move.

“Ever since you’re the captain, I’m just a lowly crew member.” You say, almost bitterly. You love him. You had long come to terms with it. You loved him so much it made your heart ache and thunder in your chest. 

Suddenly, William spins you around and looks you in the eyes. They’re dark crimson with an emotion you can’t quite define. 

“You are much more than a crew member.” He says seriously, and you let out a nervous laugh,

“I was just kidding.” You say. He raises an eyebrow, and eventually, you sigh. 

“It’s all I am. Really. I’ve not been much of a pirate. I’ve been on this boat for barely a year.” You continue, and he presses a finger to your lips, effectively shutting you up. 

“It’s enough for me to fall in love with you.”

Your brain stalls. Caput. Poof. 

In love?

William notices your confusion and lets out a deep sigh. 

“Surely you realized?” He says hopefully, and you have to think back on it before nodding.

“I suppose I just didn’t want to believe you’d actually love me.” You say timidly. He tilts his head as if to say, “really?” before leaning his forehead against yours. 

Then, he tilts his head and kisses you. 

He tastes like the vast open sea below you.

[cbssurfer]

Same spot , different lines. Time is always ticking away and yet the more things change ,the more they stay the same.

Rincon in all her glory has stayed true to her roots, being described as

“a long peeling right point that offers up barrel sections and steep workable walls”, in the 50’s .

She still offers up the cache of gold for those patient enough to bugger the muttle. (Deal with Kooks)

Top: 1964 “Richfield Island”by Ron Stoner- unidentified surfer

Bottom: 2022, Dimitri Poulos S turn bliss

Photo📸 @flykngimages

[angelswing236]

"You always have a plan!"

Fictober 24 challenge

Fandom: Downton Abbey

Fanfiction

‘Uh, oh! Quick! Run!’ Jimmy cried, taking off like lightning.

‘Where?’ Thomas panted, pounding along beside him. He glanced over his shoulder to see an unwelcome sight. ‘Bugger! It’s still coming!’

‘Tree,’ Jimmy said, pointing at the old tree on the green.

The pair of them bolted over to it, grabbing hold of the lower branches and hauling themselves up into it.

‘Ha! Now what, ya mangy mutt?’ Jimmy shouted triumphantly down at the dog that had barrelled up to the tree and was now barking up at them, its front paws braced on the trunk.

‘Shut up, Jimmy,’ Thomas snapped, already regretting agreeing to that final pint. ‘Stop antagonising it.’

‘Why? What’s it going to do? Dogs can’t climb.’ He paused, thinking about that. ‘Can they?’

‘Let’s hope not,’ Thomas said, crabbily.

‘Nah. Dogs can’t climb,’ Jimmy said, confidently.

‘This is so undignified,’ Thomas complained, trying to pull his coat back into some kind of order.

Beneath them, the dog dropped to four legs and prowled around the base of the tree, growling. Then it sat down, staring balefully up at them.

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Why doesn’t the thing just bugger off? Thomas groaned.

Five minutes later, the dog was still there, its backside stubbornly planted under the tree, growling whenever either of them moved.

‘So, what’s the plan?’ Jimmy asked, bored now.

Thomas shot him a look of disbelief. ‘Why are you asking me? I don’t have a plan.’

Jimmy stared at him, astounded. ‘What do you mean you don’t have a plan? You always have a plan!’

‘Not this time I don’t. I mean, call me crazy, but I did not expect to be stuck up a tree with a grudge-bearing dog holding me hostage,’ Thomas replied, irritably. ‘Anyway, you’re the one that got us in this mess.’

‘I did not!’

‘Who was the one provoking the dog?’

‘I was only messing. I didn’t think it could get out.’

‘Well, it could, and now look.’

‘So, you don’t have a plan?’

‘No.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Then I suppose we’ll just have to wait for it to get bored and go away,’ Thomas said, heaving a put-upon sigh.

By the time they’d been up the tree for another ten minutes, Jimmy’s short attention span had evaporated, and he was beginning to get on Thomas’ last nerve. As it turned out, in the dark, it didn’t matter how nice Jimmy was to look at when he was rambling on about God knows what. Between that, his uncomfortable perch, the biting cold, and his increasingly pressing need to urinate, Thomas was contemplating simply dropping into the slavering jaws of the waiting dog just to be done with it.

Another five minutes later and Thomas found himself wondering if weeing on the dog from a height would antagonise it or send it packing. Just then, a vision of hope and salvation appeared in the unlikely form of Mr Molesley strolling down the main street towards his father’s house.

‘Mr Molesley!’ Thomas called, trying to keep the note of desperation out of his voice.

Molesley stopped and looked around, clearly puzzled about where the voice was coming from.

‘What you doing?’ Jimmy hissed.

‘What do you think? We need help.’

‘Not from that idiot, we don’t.’

Thomas glared at his fellow hostage. ‘It’s not ideal, I agree, but do you want to spend the night up this bloody tree?’

‘S’pose not,’ Jimmy conceded, grudgingly. ‘And I really need a piss.’

‘Well, shut up, then.’ Thomas cleared his throat and called out again. ‘Mr Molesley!’

‘Mr Barrow?’ Molesley asked, a frown on his face, still looking around. ‘Is that you?’

‘Yes! We need your help.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Up the tree on the green.’

Molesley swivelled his head towards the tree and began walking over.

‘Be careful!’ Thomas called, feeling dutybound to warn the man about the beast that was keeping them imprisoned.

‘Be careful of what? Hello, boy, what are you doing here?’ Molesley said, dropping his hand on the dog’s head, fondling its ears.

Thomas and Jimmy exchanged a look as the beast that had chased them up the tree leaned into Molesley’s touch, as gentle as a puppy.

Molesley squinted up into the tree. ‘Mr Barrow? And is that Jimmy up there with you, too?’

‘Hello, Mr Molesley,’ Jimmy said, lifting a hand in greeting.

‘What on earth are you doing up there?’ Molesley asked, plainly not connecting their presence in the tree with the presence of the dog beneath it.

‘That dog chased us up here,’ Thomas said, pointing at the hound.

‘Pickle did? Are you sure?’ Molesley said in surprise.

‘Well, we didn’t climb up here for the fun of it,’ Thomas bit out, beginning to lose his patience.

‘But he’s a pussy cat. Well, he’s not a pussy cat; clearly, he’s a dog. But he’s as soft as a brush, aren’t you, boy?’ Molesley said, fussing the dog a bit more.

‘Well, not twenty minutes ago, he wasn’t. He was a howling, growling beast,’ Thomas said, firmly.

‘Pickle was?’ Molesley said, doubtfully. ‘That’s not like him.’

‘It’s possible that Jimmy might have provoked him a bit,’ Thomas allowed.

On the other branch, Jimmy bristled. ‘I just shouted a few things and rattled his gate. I didn’t do owt to him!’

‘Ah, you rattled his gate, did you? That was a mistake. He doesn’t like that. Always barks at the postman,’ Molesley said, nodding wisely. ‘He doesn’t like his territory being threatened.’

‘Do you know where the dog lives?’ Thomas enquired, eager to get back on terra firma.

‘Oh, aye. Next door to me dad.’

‘Then could you be so good as to return him to his home, so we can come down from this tree?’

‘Oh, right, will do. Come on, lad,’ Molesley said, taking hold of Pickle’s collar.

Once they were a safe distance away, Thomas jumped down from his branch, Jimmy following him.

‘Thank Christ for that,’ Jimmy muttered, unbuttoning his flies.

‘What you doing?’ Thomas asked, scandalised.

‘I told you, I need a piss,’ Jimmy said, relieving himself against the trunk. ‘Ah, that’s better.’

‘For God’s sake. In the middle of the village?’

 ‘Why not?’

Thomas rolled his eyes, ignoring his own bladder. ‘You’re a heathen.’

Jimmy grinned, tucking himself away. ‘I know. Fun, in’t it?’

‘Tonight has not been fun,’ Thomas said, primly.

‘Aw, it has. ‘Cept for the dog, obviously. Although even that was fun in its own way.’ Jimmy slung his arm over Thomas’ shoulders. ‘Same time next week, Mr Barrow?’

Thomas sighed. ‘All right. But no dogs next week.’

[onenicebugperday]

@ourmasteram submitted: I fully understand if this lack enough detail to be identifiable, sadly this is the most zoom my phone has. I’d say somewhere between 20~30 MM from back legs to front. Do you think this lil bugger on the ceiling is of any concern?

Victoria, Australia. Currently Summer.

Yeah I’m afraid I would definitely need a clearer photo. When in doubt, put it outside using the cup and paper method rather than touching it with your bare hands.

But keep in mind that even in Australia, most spiders you would find in your house are harmless. And of those spiders in Australia that potentially can have medically significant bites, fatalities are very very rare. The Sydney funnel web spider is by far the most dangerous and there have been zero deaths attributed to them since antivenom became available in 1981.

It’s funny because you see all these articles like TOP 10 MOST DANGEROUS SPIDERS IN AUSTRALIA and by the end of the list they’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel with things like orbweavers, which is laughable.

[aramis-dagaz]

Writober Day 4: Rot, Rodent

((Jacky is from Faded Scars and used with permission))

The cloying reek told them they were on the right path.  It filled the air soon after they left town up the lonely road winding through a lightly wooded area.  Not even the drifters and vagrants set up camp here, and Jacky couldn’t blame them.  There were days when she thought she could get used to the stink of the wharf district in the heart of Bosadrith’s Rest, but that place smelled like a rose in comparison to here.  She couldn’t imagine the stench on a hot day.

She practically ran at the door of the small farmhouse when they drew near.  Without meaning to, she pounded heavily on the door.  She just wanted to get the barrels and get out of here as quickly as possible, though she feared that the smell was already stuck in her nose and wouldn’t be going away for a while.  When nobody arrived, she pounded on the door again.

“‘Ey!  Who’s that tryin’ ta knock my door in?!” a voice shouted from the large garden behind the house.  A short opossum woman in a roughspun and dirty dress and a kerchief taming her wild hair appeared around the corner of the house, a well-used shovel gripped in her hands like a glaive.  She scowled as she studied them.  “Now what you want?  I ain’t got time for city folk like you!  Say yer piece then git!”

Rails cleared his throat, which sounded like a dull knife on a grindstone.  “Mrs. Boisseau?  We’re with one of the trains that arrived earlier today.  We were supposed to pick up three barrels of your fermented conger eel and two barrels of garum at the station, but no one showed.  We were directed your way.  Do you happen to have those barrels on hand?”

“Yeah, I know ‘bout that order.  It wasn’t there ‘cuz I don’t have any to spare!” Mrs. Boisseau spat.  “Won’t have any for ya for another two months!  Now git!”

Rails held up his hands placatingly, though he was clearly taken aback by her sharp tone.  “Hold on a moment please, ma’am.  You said you don’t have any eels or fish sauce?”

“What, ya deaf as well as ugly behind that mask?  If that’s supposed ta scare me, it ain’t working!”

“Ma’am, please, I’m just trying to understand what’s going on.  What happened?  I’ve heard you made regular shipments to town, so something must have hap–”

“Damn oren got into my garden is what happened!” Mrs. Boisseau snapped.  “Little buggers dug up my eels!  So I don’t have any fer ya!  What little I have is already spoken for, and yer ain’t gettin’ any!”

“Oh, you have some reserved?  Wonderful!” Rails replied with some relief.  “The order is for a Monsieur Gaudet, maybe it’s under that name.”

Jacky felt her blood turn to ice.  Mrs. Boisseau’s scowl immediately disappeared, her shovel hanging loosely in her hands.

“What’d ya say?” the opossum said slowly and carefully.

“Uh, it’s for Monsieur Gaudet,” Rails replied.  “Do you have any orders reserved for him?  If so, we can take those barrels and be on our way.”

Mrs. Boisseau nodded numbly.  “Yeah…yeah, I think I ken spare those…I’ll go check in the barn…”  She dropped the shovel and immediately bolted behind the house.

Rails awkwardly straightened his suit jacket.  “Well, that was odd,” he said, turning to Jacky.  “What do you think got into–”

“Did you accept a job for Monsieur Gaudet?!” Jacky nearly screamed.

Rails backed away in surprise.  “Er, well, yes?  It was on the job board at Bosadrith’s Station, so I can’t say I met the gentleman.  Why?  What’s wrong?”

“Why did you do that?!  Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Wha–Tell you what?  About Monsieur Gaudet?  Why?  What am I missing here?”

Jacky grabbed his lapels and somehow managed to shake his massive frame.  “You’ve been letting us fuck around for a week with these side jobs when we’ve had a job from Monsieur Fucking Gaudet hanging over our heads?!”

“Jacky!  Calm down!  We still have a week left on the order!  Will you please tell me what’s going on?!”

Jacky let go of Rails and clutched her head.  “Oh shit, shit shit shitshitshit…”

“Jacky, please!  You’re starting to scare me, just who is–”

A scream cut them off.  They immediately turned toward the barn, looked at each other, then started running towards the building.

The stench inside was so great it nearly repelled them, but they caught sight of gang of small, gangly, orange-furred felines attempting to shovel a barrel into a hole in the ground.  They stopped, their large, blank eyes staring at Jacky and Rails.

“Oren,” Rails grumbled as he reached for his hand cannon.  “Jacky, you–”

Jacky’s revolver was immediately in her hand and pointing at the oren.  “Get away from that!” she shouted, pulling back the hammer.  The oren immediately scattered into the barn, scampering over and between several other barrels.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Jacky cried and ran into the barn.  Her head was nearly skewered by a wooden spear flying through the air from her left, causing her to skid to a stop.  She turned just in time to see an oren in mid-pounce with several more behind.  She tried to bring her revolver up in time, but it landed on her and sent her staggering backwards.  Its fellows leapt at her, managing to knock her over, her hand losing its grip on her gun.

“Oi! Gitoff uv ‘er, you–!” Rails shouted before he too was hit by another ambush.  Jacky barely registered his cursing as she thrashed to keep the snapping teeth and claws away from her face.  She swung her fists wildly and was rewarded with the feeling of knuckles impacting a jaw, sending an oren flying with a pained yowl.  Her elbow found another, causing the others to immediately back away, giving her room to get back on her feet.  She lashed out with a kick at another one, and the others scurried back, not wanting to get too close.

Jacky looked about, trying to find her gun.  A flash of orange movement out of the corner of her good eye warned her of another attack at her blind spot, but she was too late to try and dodge out of the way.  The oren swung a long, rusty metal knife at her, the blade looking like a sword in its tiny hands.  It tore at her shirt and she felt the metal scrape against her skin, but she realized that it was so dull that any injury would be minor.  Thank the Roses they were too stupid to properly take care of metal weapons.  She pinned the oren’s arm against her and punched it right in the face with her free hand, knocking it off its feet.

Two more oren flew through her field of view and slammed into the barn wall with enough force to shake some of the dust from the rafters.  “Roight!” Rails shouted, completely slipping back into his native accent.  “Who else wants some?!  I’ll krump all ya ‘eads in!”

The barn went silent as the ground began to tremble.  The oren quickly skittered away with hisses and yowls, leaving Jacky and Rails alone in the barn.

“Wot’s gotten inta–”  Rails was cut off as the ground exploded at his feet.  A huge mole-rat bigger than him erupted from the dirt, knocking him over.  Huge clawed hands pinned him to the ground, massive narrow incisors snapping at him as he desperately tried to hold it back.

Jacky spotted her revolver and dove for it.  She scooped it up and emptied the cylinder into the monstrous beast.  It shrieked in pain and rage, immediately turning towards her and using Rails as a springboard as it leapt at her.  She managed to roll away from it to avoid getting crushed, but the creature was quite agile for its size, turning and raising a claw to slash down at her.

There was a loud BOOM! and half of the mole-rat’s head exploded.  It staggered, wobbled on its feet, then lifted its claw again.  Another BOOM! and the beast flopped to the ground, lying still as blood gushed onto the ground around it.

The barn was silent once again.  Rails loaded another bullet into his hand cannon and climbed to his feet, defiant but clearly unsteady.

“Ready…” he gasped, “ready fer some more?”

The oren dithered in the hidden corners of the barn, considering their chances.  Jacky replaced the cylinder in her revolver with a fresh one and stood up, not even bothering to hide her angry growl.  “I’ve just about had enough of all of you!” she shouted, and the oren quickly fled from their hiding places, scrambling through windows and gaps under the walls.

Rails chuckled.  “Noice one dere, Jack,” he said with a grin behind his mask.  “You def–” She stabbed a finger at him.  “Not…another…fucking word,” she growled.  “Just get the barrels and let’s get the fuck out of here.”