#cw: usage of firearms

[brewed-pangolin]

Here. Have some cool headed Mason to finish up Super Soap Sunday

cw: usage of firearms

"Center down the sights. Keep both eyes open. And don't forget to breathe."

Mason's soothing direction calmed the subtle yet unsteady tension licking like fire through the fibers of your muscles. Index finger propped carefully along the trigger guard, remainder of your hand grasping firmly around the 9mm's rubber grip as you followed his command. Eyes focused through the sights and aligned with red circular target.

"How's my stance?" You ask, only the slightest shrill rolling off your tongue.

"Shoulders are good. But you need to square off your hips a bit."

Before you had a chance to adjust, Mason's hands landed on the sides of your waist to guide and maneuver the position of your posture.

The sudden feel of his chest against your back causing you to jolt beneath your skin. Feeling a puff of hot air from his lips as he humored your silent reaction.

"Easy, trigger. Remember what I told you."

"Focus on the finger."

"Exactly. Aiming comes with practice. First, you gotta train the finger."

He spoke with a cool headedness that you assumed was acquired through years of training and daily life in the field.

His fingers ghosted along the edge of your shirt as they meandered northward, rolling your shoulders back against him to relieve the growing strain in your posture.

"Ready when you are." He affirmed before pulling away, letting you regain focus as the coolness of his absence flowed under your skin.

"What's the first thing to look for?" He asked quizzically with an undertone of a smile.

"Make sure the safety's off." You replied quietly with a growing air of confidence.

"Good. Now breathe. Steady finger on the inhale."

Following his direction, you expand your chest for a cleansing breath as your finger effortlessly moves to rest on the metal curve of the trigger.

"Hold it. Center down the sights. Pull on the exhale."

As the air steadily left the cavern of your chest, a calmness flowed through the fibers of your skin as his voice guided the movement of your muscles. Pulling your finger back, feeling the vibrating mechanics beneath the pads of your fingertips as the trigger made connection and exploded the bullet through the chamber.

-

Omg, that last paragraph is so clunky. I can't describe action to save my life, but at least I'm trying.

And I'm now officially writing for Alex Mason. Goddamn.

@deadbranch @ohgeesoap @efingart @writeforfandoms

Pockets Full of Stones Masterlist

[whump-a-la-mode]

what about caretaker finding/rescuing/getting back whumpee and they are so (pissed?) that whumper is terrified like full out /terrified/ of them :)

Thank you so much for clarifying what you meant by this prompt earlier! This is a little short, and I don’t usually write traditional whump like this, but I really hope you enjoy nonetheless!

CW//Firearms, blood, wounds, dehumanization, cages

Any adjective that could be used to describe Hell could, too, be used to describe the building.

Horrid. Dark. Cold. A concrete shell of a home, a torturous construction that seized and heaved under its own weight.

Well, maybe Hell was a little more fire and brimstone, but Caretaker had never been much of the religious type, anyways. That didn’t mean much. Even if they did believe in a god, it wouldn’t do them any good.

Not in here.

In their white-knuckled hand, their flashlight bounced, hardly keeping up with their sprinting movements. They knew they should have been more careful, of course they should have been more careful, they’d been reminded as such so, so many times. The home was far from being up to code, in fact, it appeared quite the opposite. A single slip, a missed step on old, pock-marked concrete, and Caretaker could be out for the count.

It was worth the risk. They’d take a world of pain before Whumpee had to be alone for another second.

The hell that spoke of itself as a home was labyrinthine. Stairs to nowhere, dead-end hallways, and plastered-away windows all stood framed in terrible, plain concrete. As they moved, they could hear the others, a thousand thundering footsteps, looping and curling about their own, Their team. Even as they could not see them, their presence offered a certain comfort.

To go down the stairs alone was far from an intelligent move. Yet, when Caretaker saw the grey steps, leading downwards to an abyssal eternity, they knew that that was exactly the move they were going to make. With a stampeding gait, they took the stairs in two’s, torch refusing to penetrate any further into the shroud before them.

The landing came both too late and too suddenly. In a way, it was like falling-- the chute agonizing, but the end moreso.

In some paradoxical way, the basement was more terribly shrouded than the somber hellscape above. A hallway. Only a hallway. Two walls and the doors they owned.

It took Caretaker only a moment to recognize that the color of the concrete was not attributable to shadow. No, it was far more evident as grime. In places, that dirt had a notable red hue to it.

Even in the hallway.

Their team was upstairs. Their friends. Their whole world.

Except the missing piece. The missing piece was right here, behind one of these doors. Somewhere in this horrible place.

And Caretaker could not wait another instant for it.

The first door showed a closet with the contents of a medieval torture museum. The next, cleaning supplies in equal number, cobwebbed as they were.

The third?

By all means, it was a room with the intent to contain some sort of beast. Taking their chances, Caretaker moved the slightest half-step within, leaning to either side of the doorframe. Kibble bags were scattered in great number, some spilling their contents to the floor, only to be intermixed with rodent droppings and leavings.

Upon one wall, a leash dangled-- a choke-chain at its end, prongs taut and fixed inwards. Upon another, a device they did not recognize, with a pair of prongs at its end.

And, against the back, a cage.

It wasn’t exactly sizable, perhaps made to fit a Great Dane at its very largest. Yet, who would keep a canine in such a condition? Who would put in the effort? A thousand thoughts tumbled through the bingo-ball spinner of their anxious mind. A bear? A tiger? Worse? What could be worse than a tiger?!

A really, really big tiger.

It was with a terrible instinct that Caretaker withdrew their firearm from where it had been tucked upon their hip. They had hoped to such heights that its usage would prove unnecessary, a worthless precaution, and, yet, if this animal managed to free itself-

Of course, it was at that very moment that a second animal decided to enter the room. A back entrance revealed itself, behind the cage, as shrouded as its contents, in the same moment as it creaked open. The sound felt to break their ears-- how in the world was this building still standing?

By the same horrid magic that most certainly had allowed Whumper to go so long without being strangled.

The creature that so dared to speak of itself as human bore every mark of a fox. A curled tongue flashed over white teeth as they sauntered into the room on dainty paws, clever, gleaming eyes breaking the shroud as much as the flashlight.

“All this?” The fox voice slithered. “All this effort, all this time, just to shoot your little friend? I didn’t take you as the vengeance type. Come on, tell me, what did they do? Break your heart?”

Before, upon entering the terrible room, Caretaker’s mind had ignited the neurons of prey. The horror of entering a predator’s den.

Now, they were the predator, and this was a rabbit’s warren.

The gunshot was loud enough to make the ancient, rusted pipes within the room’s walls ring. The bullet’s casing exploded a mere two inches from Whumper’s right shoulder.

“Hey!” The fox yelped, lurching its spindly body backward, figurative tail prickling in fright. “Trigger discipline, kid!”

“Where are they?” Caretaker’s voice was just about as soft as a concrete landing from a thousand foot drop.

“Ya’ blind? Use that bloody little torch a’ yours and look with ya’ damn eyes!”

The cage.

Though they didn’t dare lower their firearm for a split second, it was a very lucky thing that humans had two hands. The flashlight leapt to shine itself upon the cage.

Whumpee...

If they had any remaining clothes, they could be described only as the most scant of rags, though that wasn’t to say that the rest of their skin was bare. No. It was well decorated by all manner of hues-- red and brown representing dried blood, and greenish-purplish tones speaking of blunt force trauma.

Yet, it was their eyes that showed the greatest pain. Their twiggy limbs barely managed to hold their body up, even as they curled themself to the cage’s back corner.

Terror. Utter, unmistakable terror.

Another gunshot.

Another miss.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” Whumper shrieked. Ghost thoroughly given up from the coward’s body, they took a shuddering step backwards.

“What’s wrong with you! What did you do to them?!”

“No, no, no, kid. What did you do to them? Who exactly allowed them to get captured in the first place, hm?”

The third bullet was enough to scare them off. The fox’s tail disappeared in an instant through the back door, nearly pinching itself with how quickly it slammed shut.

Caretaker could fix their aim later. With a dozen teammates swarming the hellish building, it was inconceivable that the monster would get out.

Speaking of escape...

They thought momentarily of dropping their firearm, before thinking better of such, and sliding it to their covered holster. On quiet feet, the rescuer approached their target’s containment. The strength of their trembling and Caretaker’s distance away seemed to be directly related, and they could not bring themself to move further forth once they were perhaps a yard away.

Terror.

Unmistakable terror, twirling in their blood-shot eyes.

Caretaker couldn’t wait to see that look upon Whumper’s countenance. Yet, for now, they had a Whumpee to save.

[beetlebrownleaf]

#FFxivWrite2020 - Prompt #11 - Ultracrepidarian

[Entry Masterpost]

A fun little thing with Zenos and Sephonine from my Companionship AU. ~500 words. CW for usage and discussions of firearms.

Sephonine had only recently settled into the palace, and was rather excited to use the shooting grounds. She had gone off on her own, pistol holstered, to try the clay pigeon contraption there for herself. 

Zenos, was, as usual, not far behind.

Though firearms still made him uneasy, he felt much better now that he was prepared for it.

“Ah! Zenos,” she said, upon greeting him, “Fine day for shooting. The sky is remarkably clear. I thought I’d give the clay pigeons a shot. Hah, pun not intended.”

“Oh, have you shot before?”

Sephonine gave a tongue in cheek smile.

“A little bit,” she said, with a hint of sarcasm. Sarcasm that apparently went completely over his head.

“Well, you know, they trained us to use gunblades in the Legion, as I am… sure you know,” he said, attempting to sound knowledgeable. He did so hate using firearms, greatly preferring bladework.

Sephonine folded her arms, amused.

“Oh? And did you use them often yourself?”

“Ah, before I took up the blade, yes,” he said, “You know if, um, if you don’t mind I can give you a few words of advice - they can be quite dangerous, after all.”

Sephonine smiled, trying not to laugh, though he could not tell.

“Indeed?”

“Well, yes, uh, well on the field, if you did not count your bullets correctly, that could have been the difference between life and death.”

“I can imagine.”

“There were six, you know - I mean, that is how revolving gunblades work,” he stuttered, “B-but the most important part is that you check to make sure each bullet is loaded correctly, and that the safety mechanism is disengaged before you fire.”

Sephonine nodded.

“Well, thank you for that. But actually, with this model, there are no mechanical safety mechanisms that prevent the trigger from firing. And it uses magazines, not individually-loaded bullets. You have to check the magazine,” she said, taking out her pistol and dislodging the magazine, “and then check for stray bullets that may have been chambered, but not fired.”

Zenos stared blankly.

“I, uh, right---”

She quickly put the magazine back inside.

“Now, mind your space!”

She pulled the contraption, sending the clay pigeon flying into the air. In an instant, she aimed and fired, shattering it. She pulled it again, and downed the next even quicker, and then another, and another-- and several more in a row, shattering each one before they had even begun their descent downward. Zenos stood there, mouth agape.

“And of course,” she said, fiddling with the gun, “Always check if it is clear when you are fairly certain you have fired all your bullets, in a pistol such as this. Let us see -  magazine clear, chamber clear. Unloaded and safe, ready for another loaded magazine.”

She holstered it, smiling at him, while he cleared his throat.

“...Well, I’ve just made an arse of myself, haven’t I?” he said, embarrassed. 

Sephonine giggled.

“I think the term I’d use is ultracrepidarian,” she said, smugly, “But, just a bit.”