#give them guy fawkes’ sentence | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lady-divine-writes · 3 years

Text

Good Omens - “A Christmas Without Santa” (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock comes home from school, he's in a foul mood. Through a little sleuthing, Nanny finds out that her young charge has been confronted by an unfortunate truth. And she gets to deal with the aftermath. (2299 words)

Notes: Written for the wonderful @theantichristmaszine 2020 :)

Read on AO3.

Warlock comes home from school in a foul mood.

He’s in a foul mood because he’s had a foul day.

He stomps up the walk after his chauffeur drops him home, completely bypassing the inflatable snowman, the animatronic skating penguins, the singing elves, and the laughing Santa in his giant snow globe. Nanny watches him from the kitchen window as he scowls at the cheery decorations, blowing by them when he would normally stop a moment and stare in awe. Mrs. Dowling told Nanny Ashtoreth that Warlock had picked out those decorations himself, and that the Santa snow globe had been his particular favorite. Indeed Nanny has seen him sit cross-legged in the snow to stare at it. He’d be there for hours on end if Nanny didn’t scoop him up and make him change into dry clothes.

But now he seems angry at it, and Nanny cannot imagine why.

“Hello, dearest,” she greets him as he marches through the door. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” he grumbles, taking off his backpack and tossing it in a corner. The zipper opens when it lands, a corner of his math book having wedged between the teeth. She hears his bedroom door open, then slam shut. She should take him his afternoon snack - a glass of milk and a plate of chocolate biscuits. But she holds back a moment, eyes fixed on the backpack, its contents spilled over the floor.

Nanny isn’t snooping. She’s tidying. There’s a difference. Mrs. Dowling would be cross if she came in and saw Warlock’s things on the ground. And with the day he’s had? He doesn’t need disciplining right now. Nanny doesn’t necessarily object to snooping, especially where the Dowlings are concerned. In her mission for Hell, it’s sort of expected. But she isn’t snooping nonetheless. And while she’s not snooping, she comes across a note.

A note that makes her blood boil and her amber eyes burn red.

She finishes her tidying, then takes the note, clenched in her fist, and heads out the door.

“Brother Francis!” she calls out, picking her way through a once green garden covered in a rare blanket of snow. “Brother Francis! Where the Heaven are you?” She spots his beige coat-covered rotund figure waddling out by the hedges. He’s heaping layers of mulch on the spot where the dahlia tubers are hiding below ground, to keep them warm till the spring thaw. Nanny stamps her foot and turns up her nose. Brother Francis is doing exactly as he should, but he didn’t ask for her advice. He looked it up for himself in one of those gardening books he brought along with him when he was hired.

Typical.

“Brother Francis!” She waves to get his attention. When he smiles and waves back, she calls out, “May I have a word?”

“For you, my dear? Two.” He lays his shovel against a wheelbarrow filled with composted bark, steam rising from the mound into the crisp, winter air.

“How very gracious.” Her words shake, which, if asked, she’ll blame on the cold when, in fact, she doesn’t feel it a bit. The tremble in her voice comes entirely from watching Brother Francis perform anything that even hints at hard labor. He has the sleeves of his coat rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms not normally visible through his disguise.

Bulging, muscular forearms that belong entirely to the angel hiding underneath.

Seeing them like this raises Nanny’s temperature enough to melt the snow around her into a puddle.

“What’s wrong?” Francis asks, misreading the pinched expression on her face. “Is it Warlock? Is he ill?”

“Here!” She thrusts the note in his hands when she can’t string together a coherent sentence. “I found this in Warlock’s school bag.”

Brother Francis begins to read, but an anxious Nanny doesn’t let him get far. “They called him a baby! And a few other things for believing in Santa Claus! They all signed it, the little plague rats!”

“That’s very organized of them considering they’re only eight. Surprisingly neat penmanship, too.” Francis tsks. Children. How can they be so cruel? Who teaches them to behave this way? Where’s the sense in sending Warlock to a fancy, expensive school if this is the caliber of student that attends? “What have you done about this?”

“Nothing yet. But I swear to you, revenge will be swift!”

“Nanny, no …”

“Their class has a pet. A rabbit that bit Warlock once so I don’t think he’d be upset if I boiled the blasted thing in oil and left its skin hanging from the blackboard.”

“Nanny, dearest …”

“Oh, I won’t let Warlock see. I’ll take him to the zoo that day, go visit the jackals, the lions, other animals he likes, while we plan the personal take down of every student who put their name on that blasted note!”

“Nanny! That’s not what I mean! What did you tell Warlock?”

Ashtoreth looks at him and grimaces. “What do I tell him?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You have to tell him the truth.”

“And what’s that? Hmm? That the world is a cruel place where nothing magical ever happens even though both you and I are, in fact, supernatural, and could snap up a jolly fat man in a red suit because we have powers!?”

“I understand how you feel, my dear ...”

“Do you!?” she snaps. “Because last I checked, the gardener isn’t expected to take care of Warlock! I am! I feed him his dinner! I help him with his homework! I tuck him in at night! And when it comes down to it, the dirty deed falls on me here, doesn’t it?”

Francis sighs. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You are going to bear the brunt of this. But I’m willing to help in any way I can.”

Francis peeks up at Nanny with apologetic eyes, and she softens. “That’s very kind of you.” She reaches out and gives his arm an indulgent squeeze. “But I have a plan.”

***

Nanny Ashtoreth’s plan is more of a tactic.

She decides there will be no problem if they simply ignore it.

If they don’t talk about it, it’ll go away.

If she can get Warlock caught up in the excitement of Christmas, then maybe he’ll forget the whole sordid affair.

Nanny does everything she can think of to distract Warlock.

They color.

They drink cocoa.

Lots of cocoa.

They finish making Mr. and Mrs. Dowling’s presents.

They bake cookies.

And even though Nanny consistently reminds Warlock that tonight is Christmas Eve with all the enthusiasm she can muster, she knows the poor boy’s heart isn’t into it.

When the time comes to tuck her charge in that night, she caves. “Warlock? Is there something troubling you? You don’t seem at all yourself today.”

Warlock stares at his red tartan comforter, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully, wearing the look of a person preparing to make a choice they know they’ll regret. “Nanny? Is there a Santa Claus?”

“Warlock …” Nanny sits on the edge of his bed and leans in close “… I’m going to be completely honest with you. Because you’re a smart boy, and you deserve no less than the truth.”

Warlock’s breath hitches. “That means no … doesn’t it?”

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “But there is a silver lining to this.”

“Yeah?” Warlock sniffs. “What’s that?”

“Now that you know, you get to carry on the tradition.”

“Of what? Lying to kids?”

“No, my dear. Of being Santa Claus.”

Warlock stares at Nanny with puppy-dog eyes.

The saddest eyes Ashtoreth has ever seen.

“I don’t understand, Nanny.”

“Santa Claus isn’t so much a person. He’s a symbol. He represents everything that’s good about the holiday season. Everything that’s good about humanity, too.”

“B-but how am I supposed to be Santa Claus?” he asks, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I’m only eight!”

“Every culture has had a Saint Nicholas of sorts - a kindly gentleman who hands out presents to those who deserve them. So when you give a present, what does that make you?”

Warlock stares at her in confusion. But when he catches on, he squeezes his eyelids shut and shakes his head, looking more angry than comforted.

“But why do adults do it? Why do they lie?”

Nanny sighs. She is at an impasse, caught between a rock and a hard place.

Her duty to Hell versus doing what’s right for Warlock.

As a demon, Nanny knows this conversation should go in an entirely different direction. She should be sowing seeds of resentment in the boy so that he grows to distrust and distance himself from his mortal parents. That would be an easy way to reap his soul for the Master, put him on his path to his inevitable destiny.

But Warlock, anti-Christ or not, is a little boy. A sweet, innocent boy … for the time being. And tonight is Christmas Eve. It’s a time of love and joy and family … even if God herself handed her only son over to the masses to be nailed to a cross.

But that’s a story for another holiday.

Nanny can always sow seeds of hatred and resentment on a less family-centric occasion, like bank holidays or Guy Fawkes Day.

“Because you need to believe in something, Warlock. It makes this world we live in tolerable, gives us a reason to wake up in the morning.”

“So … there is no Santa?” Warlock asks with the sad finality that comes with acceptance.

“No, dearest. I’m sorry. There’s only one man in a red suit in your life, I’m afraid.”

“And who’s that?” Warlock asks, looking at Ashtoreth with watery eyes.

“Your father.”

Warlock sniffles. Then his eyes twinkle, his face screwing up with laughter. “You’re so weird!”

“Oh, my little love,” Ashtoreth says, leaning forward to rub their noses together, “you have no idea.”

Footsteps on the roof capture their attention, causing Nanny and Warlock to freeze.

“What was that?” Warlock whispers, lower lip trembling with fear but his eyes bright with hope.

A hope that Nanny is wrong, that there really is a man in a red suit who travels all around the world giving out presents to good girls and boys. And that Warlock, even with his B-minus in math and his propensity to ‘forget’ to make his bed in the morning no matter how many times he’s told, may be among them.

Nanny startles for a second until the golden threads of a familiar holy aura rankles her senses. “That, my dear, is questionable decision making, I’m afraid.”

The footsteps continue their way across the shingles, heading for the gutters over Warlock’s window while a resounding “Ho, ho, ho!” announces their arrival. Nanny and Warlock sit still, listening as they progress. “Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! Ho … ho … ho-no, no, no, no … aaahhh!”

Nanny and Warlock’s heads snap towards the window where a bulbous red blur streaks through the drift of falling snow, landing somewhere out of sight below the sill with a painful-sounding thud. Warlock’s eyes go wide with shock while Nanny’s head finds the palms of her hands and buries itself there.

“Nanny? If there’s no Santa, who’s that then?”

“That, my love, is an idiot. But he’s our idiot.” Nanny plants a blood red kiss to the boy’s pale forehead. “Everything will be all right,” she whispers earnestly. “I promise you. Get some sleep. And when you wake …”

“Everything will be different.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” she says without thinking, a lump forming in her throat when the words sink in.

“Goodnight, Nanny,” Warlock says, rolling onto his side as Ashtoreth gets up and begins to leave.

“Goodnight, Warlock.” She turns back and catches Warlock staring at the window, smiling like the child he was on Christmas Eve last year.

She holds her breath and prays (for the first time in centuries) that smile lasts.

***

“What are you doing!?” Nanny whisper-yells as she races through the snow towards a reddish lump buried under a foot-and-a-half of snow.

“I’m stuck,” Francis mumbles, rocking back and forth in an effort to free himself.

“I can see that.” Ashtoreth snaps her fingers, sitting Brother Francis bolt upright.

“Oof! Thank you, my dear,” he says, brushing at his arms. “Big help that.”

“What were you thinking!? I thought we were meant to tell him the truth! That there is no Santa Claus!”

“Well, yes,” Francis says sheepishly, twiddling the thumbs of his thick, fleece mittens. “But I got to thinking - he’s still such a youngin, and believing in Santa is so much fun! The anticipation, presents underneath a tree full to bursting on Christmas Day, the stockings, the pudding!” Francis’s eyes twinkle so heartily when he speaks, Nanny wonders if he’s ever imagined what it would be like to be a boy growing up in a human household, experiencing the wonders of Christmas firsthand. “B-but I think the way you handled it was better. You always manage to do what’s best, r-regardless of your job description.”

“I don’t know that I did or not,” Ashtoreth admits. “Either way, I think your little stunt helped buy him another coupla years of what if. So huzzah! The magic of Christmas is saved, and we didn’t have to use a single miracle to do it.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes,” she says fondly. “It’s a very good thing.”

“Well then,” he says, gleefully patting the snow, “I suspect I should get out of this kit, eh?”

Ashtoreth grins. “Don’t. you. dare!” she demands, putting both hands on his chest and pressing him back into the snow. “I do believe I have a thing for men in red suits.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale #crowley

18 notes · View notes

pandaioh · 4 years

Text

POLY!ROADRAT WITH MUTE!FEMALE READER CRUMBS

“Damn it, escortin that payload was a crock a shit!” Junkrat and Roadhog had just landed back on base with the rest of the Overwatch crew that was sent on yet another “Payload” mission. This mission in particular was almost a complete failure, if Junkrat hadn’t used his RIP-tire on the omnic drones right at the last minute, almost completely obliterating him. Luckily for the Junkers they left with only a few scratches and bruises, obviously used to the high octane violence. Now that their mission was completed, they can earn their pay and be on leave for the rest of the week, letting some other poor sap get blown to smithereens.

They both limped and hobbled through the halls of Gibraltar, heading to their living quarters, where they could finally be rid of their explosives and weapons for the time-being. The walk there, however, was a tad unpleasant considering some of the dirty looks and awkward expressions the Junkers received as they walked on through the base’s multiple corridors. Junkrat lowered his head as he heard the quiet and curt murmurs of the other Overwatch personnel. He could’ve shouted, could’ve thrown a punch or use his grenade launcher and put those sorry bastards out of their misery, but he was too damn tired to really care. He just wanted to relax. Aggressive snorts and snarls escaped Roadhog as he lifted his hook threateningly.

“Save it, Roadie.” Junkrat hushed hoarsely. “S’not worth the time or day, not when we have our misso to get back to….” Junkrat grinned slightly. Roadhog sheathed his weapon and went back to accompanying his partner. Underneath his heavy intimidating mask, he too, grinned slightly at the idea of the both of them going home to their beloved treasure; you.

You were the only one that saw past their unrestrained exteriors and their pitiful pathos. It was you that gave them the second chance of living that no one, not even anyone of their own kind would ever think to give two lowly bruisers. It was you that gave them that little glimmering light of hope and happiness that there was and is someone out there that actually gives a damn about the both of them. It was you that took both of their hands and held on for dear life and lead them into the path of vindication and equity. You, unknowingly, saved them. And the two Junkers would forever be in your debt because of that.

After a couple more steps, they finally walked along the hall that lead to their and your living quarters. Hoisting his grenade launcher over his shoulder, Junkrat spat onto his fleshed hand and with that, used it to slick his hair back, parodically for a more suave look, wanting to impress you. Roadhog rolled his eyes under his mask and placed his Scrap Gun, back into his hoister.

“She sees you everyday, Rat,” Hog grunted. “Don’t need to try an’ impress her.” “Says you!” Junkrat scoffed. “If I want ta groom meself for our lil love, than groom I shall!” “You know, grooming actually requires more than just your spit,” Hog responded. “It requires basic hygine, which we both know isn’t your strong suit.”

Junkrat felt disgruntled at his partner’s straightforward response, he huffed and stomped to the front of their door. “Well,” He started. “We’ll just see what Y/N thinks about the hard working, handsome, strong rouge that is Jamison Fawkes!” He manically giggled as he reached his prosthetic hand to knock on the door, but found that it swung open to reveal your face covered in unknown substances and by the look of it…sprinkles? You quickly placed your hands on his face and kissed him. Wide eyed and completely taken back, Junkrat wrapped his arms around you and placed another tender kiss on your forehead. “Well that was a fine ‘how do ya do?’ sweets!” He grinned wildly and you giggled as his face turned a flush of red. You then turned to Roadhog, who was already in the process of taking off his infamous mask, revealing the tender yet broken-scarred face you’ve come to adore and love.

“Hey, Y/N…” he softly smiled. He took you into his big arms and kissed you deeply, parting and then placed a small kiss on your nose. His massive index finger caressed the side of your smooth warm cheeks, sketching your face into his memory. Something, however, caught his eye and took a small grain of a colored speck off your cheek. It was comically, too small for him to carry in between his thumb and index and it broke into dust. You had little particles of these colored grains in patches of your short curly pixie cut, on your blouse, on your apron and some on your jeans.

“Speakin’ of ‘sweets’,” Junkrat spoke. “Got hundreds and thousands all over ya, love. Like a sweety treat I want to eat.” He hugged you from behind, but hearing that sentence prompt you to whip around and sign them to close their eyes. The Junkers looked at each other and back to you, unknowing of what you had in store for them.

You signed to them with body language, placing your hands over your eyes and peeked through your digits. Junkrat tilted his head confused at what you were implying.

“Ah huh, ya playin peekaboo with us? Yer too adorable, y’know that?” he chuckled as his flesh hand ruffled your curly hair. Making an irritated noise you shook your head, indicating that wasn’t what you were saying. You took Junkrat’s hand and placed it over his own eyes. You made an adorable little noise up at Roadhog who smiled lightly understanding what your motive was.

“Got a surprise for us?” He whispered. You chirped and nodded your head excitedly. “A surprise!?” Junkrat exclaimed. “I love surprises, lil love! What is it? What is it!?” You blew the lanky junker a raspberry, placing as hand back over his eyes so that he dared not to peek. “If she told you,” Roadhog grunted. “It wouldn’t be a surprise.” Placing his own hand back over his eyes. You made a sound agreeing with the goliath junker and took both of their free hands, leading them into your living area. Whipping your head back to see if their eyes were still closed, you saw that they were and you smiled and giggled. You lead them to two seats and had them sit down.

“Can we look yet?” Junkrat asked almost too quickly, trying to peek through his fingers Roadhog placed his free hand forcefully on Junkrat’s face and he heard his partner grumbling lowly. They heard the sounds of dishes being placed on the table in front of them and liquid being poured into glasses. A few seconds later, you straightened your apron and grinned proudly. You made a noise, indicating that they could open. Upon finally having to look, they were both greeted by an all too familiar Austrailian snack, two tall stacks of bread with sprinkles scattered on every piece and two glasses of milk for them to drink; Fairy bread. You surprised them with fairy bread. Anyone outside of the old aussie tradition would’ve scoffed and given you a grimace, but the Junkers, to them, this was absolutely harmonious. It was this little act of goodwill and affection that just made them fall for you even more than what they already have. You even went the extra mile and placed a vase with a flower in the middle along with a note that read;

“~For all the wonderful things you do for me.~” Y/N

“Tah dah!” you shrieked and then bashfully looked down at your feet, swaying side to side, awaiting to hear the responses from your two favorite men.

“Hooly dooly, love.” Junkrat said flabbergasted. “You did all of this, for us?” You nodded your head, making your way over to him and gave him a big hug. “To you.” You signed. Junkrat looked back at his stack of fairy bread, practically drooling over. “This is fantastic love, you’re the best, sweets! Wow, you really do live up to that nickname, don’tcha? Sweets to the sweet as the old sayin goes!” He took a piece of bread, sprinkles already starting to fall off the top. “Oi, Roadie, bettah start munchin on this, Y/N probably took forever to make this all fo-“ He was cut off as he turned his head to face Roadhog, expression immediately gone from happy to worried.

There was Roadhog, still sitting there, staring at his stack of fairy bread. Not moving, not budging, mouth slightly agape. He was completely froze, save for the staggering anxious breaths he breathed out. He tried to remain still but felt this new wave of anxiousness override his body and started to shake. Junkrat, leaned back in his seat, not knowing of what his partner would do. Junkrat never recalled a time ever in his life seeing Roadhog this distressed and perturbed. It was almost as if the big guy saw a ghost that gave him a spook. It almost gave the younger junker a spook himself.

You now looked just as worried as Junkrat, wanting to be by Roadhog’s side, but not wanting to interfere if he needed space. The both of you watched as Roadhog reached a gigantic palm out to grab a piece of fairy bread, and trembled even more as he brought it closer to him. He opened and closed his eyes a few times, making sure if what he was seeing was real or not. He opened and closed a few more times, just to be for certain. The next few times he opened and closed was when he felt warm wet streaks glide down slowly on his cheeks. He took a bite into the bread, tasting the sugary sweet beads of the sprinkles, the smooth creamy texture of the margarine and the flakey yet satisfying starch of the bread. All at once, the memories came flooding back into his head.

“Mako…”

He shoved more bread into his mouth, like a starving dingo.

“Mako?...”

Crumbs and sprinkles were scattering all around his feet and chair.

“MAKO!...”

He slammed his fist into the table and sobbed out loud uncontrollably. He remembered who he was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A rather large woman with long dark braided hair, a long white farm apron on top a floral patterned mumu dress, waddled her way through the dirt path of her small one cottage, two barn farmland, carrying a plate of fairy bread and being accompanied by a tiny trotting micro piglet, snorting and squealing merrily as it followed it’s master.

“Mako?” the woman cried out. “Mako!”

Making her way inside one of the barns, she opened the barn doors and looked all around the inside, finally catching glimpse of who she was trying to find. A small chubby boy curled up in a fetel position, laying on a big pile of hay, sniffling and lightly sobbing. Her expression softened with sympathy as she sighed and waddled her way to her son. When she got to him, she slowly tried to sit on the pile of hay with him, almost getting winded and out of breath. However, this didn’t seem to phase her and trying to comfort the little one.

“Taku tama,” she said softly. “Why are you all dirty?”

“Kaiwhakaweti…” a young Mako hiccupped.

“Karanga ahau poaka….toru paru…” he peeked his chubby face up at his mother, revealing that his face was too covered in mud along with the rest of his clothes. His mother took part of her apron and lifted the boys chin up to face her, wiping away the debris of mud and tears off his face. He still sniffled lightly and looked up at his mother completely torn and broken hearted.

“Mako, He hae ratou I to aura,” she began to speak in their native tongue. “He poto noa iho te hunga whakaweti.” Mako looked up at his mother intently, listening and holding on to every single word. “Tuhinga ka whai mai. Engari ko te aroha me te tiaki mai I te whanau me nga hoa ka mau tonu.”

Mako stared at her wide eyed and continued to listen.

“Ma te whanau e tiaki koe.” She continued. “Ana ka tae ki tetahi ra me tiaki e koe.”

Mako looked down at the micro piglet now sitting in front of him, still happily and snorting away.

His mother picked up the piglet, and placed the adorable snorting baby in his lap, planting a kiss on his forehead. “Kia maumahara ki taku tama,” she said softly. Mako looked up from petting his piglet.

“Nui toku aroha ki a koe…” She picked up the plate of fairy bread and handed it to him. He smiled and happily ate the bread with his little piglet taking small nibbles out of a few pieces. He felt so much better now, he felt as if he could stand on top of the tallest mountains and swim across the deepest and farthest of oceans. He felt as if every little worry on his mind was fading into each bite of fairy bread his mama made especially for him. He felt all the cares and worries and griefs dry away along with his tears. He chewed and chewed and he felt…. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miserable…he felt miserable. His fist was balled tightly on the cracked table top. His hair was out of his pony tail and his eyes were red with puff and irritation. You and Junkrat were huddled together in a corner at the very oppisite end of the room were Roadhog was. You had tears stream down your face and you hiccuped a few anxious breaths. Rat on the other hand held on to you, practically sheilding you from the gigantic man in fear of what he might do next.

Mako unballed his fist slowly and shaking, revealing the wad of sprinkles and crumbs in his massive palm. His breaths were deep and asthmatic.

More flashbacks appeared in his head, more of his mother, the omnics taking over, the Australian Liberation Front, Bruce the Engineer supplying him with his “Hogsygen”, the shitty queen and her shitty people practically dancing on top the countless graves uncaring of how they died protecting their land. It all came back to him, and it all came back to him in that slowly unballing crumbling piece of fairy bread.

You didn’t mean to, but a loud sob slipped from your vocal chords and you ran to Roadhog, so concerned and apologetic for placing him in such a wretched state. You ran right to his side and cried over his shoulder. You didn’t know how to put into words that you were so sorry for making him so upset. He slowly looked up at you, his eyes still red and puffy but he took you in his arms, perhaps to quickly and harshly.

Junkrat imediately ran over thinking that you were in some sort of danger. But as quickly as he ran, he stopped. He saw his partner take your hands into his large ones and placed them over his face. Your thumbs wiping away the tears out of his eyes. You looked at him full of fear and wonder, and watched as he leaned his head into your hands, like a cat in need of affection. Junkrat, taking a deep breath of relief walked over to his two partners and placed an awkward pat on Roadhog’s shoulder.

“Uh there…there, mate,” Junkrat said softly trying to in his own way express sympathy on behalf of his depressed partner. “Yea sometimes, we all need a good cry now and again…you jus’ let it all out…”

Roadhog took the opportunity to pull his lanky partner in with you and him in a warm loving embrace. It startled Junkrat at first but then warmed up to it when you placed your hand onto his arm. There, the three of you were, at the kitchen table, holding on to one another, comforting your much bigger partner and letting him cry out the last of his tears.

“Toku whanau…” he stuttered softly. Both you and Junkrat looked at him, with your hands placed back onto his warm wet face. “I love you with all of my heart and soul. And I will protect you always. Tena kaua e wehi I ahua…”

He took you and pulled you in for a deep kiss. And he did the same for Junkrat, although this took the junker off guard but was more than happy to reciprocate his feelings. He had you both on either side of his lap. And the three of you cuddled together there all the while. You signed to him when he looked back up to you. “I’m so sorry…”

“No aroha, s’not your fault,” he said. “It was overwhelming, yeah, but I loved it…a lot. Haven’t had it in a…long time.” His head leaned onto your chest, and you ran your fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, well how’s about the next time Y/N gives us a surprise, you don’t have another mental breakdown arroight?” Junkrat replied jokingly.

“Yeah that sounds good,” Hog replied as he chuckled.

The three of you stayed like this for a little while longer, uncaring of the mess at the table. Uncaring of all the sprinkles and crumbs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Maori dialouge in English:

“My son” “Bullies…called me a pig…threw mud…” “Mako, they are jealous of your aura. Bullies are fleeting. Bullies will come and go. But the love and protection from your family and friends is forever. The family will take care of you. And then one day, you will need to protect them. Remember my son, I love you so much.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~ “My family.” “Please don’t fear me.”

#poly!roadrat #Roadrat #junkrat and roadhog #roadhog and junkrat #overwatch jamison fawkes #overwatch mako rutledge #overwatch fanfic #overwatch junkers #self insert x canon #self insert fic

51 notes · View notes

septembercfawkes · 5 years

Text

The Story Shape that Permeates Just About Everything

We often think about story structure happening on a large scale, but it also happens on the small scale, within scenes, paragraphs, sometimes even within a sentence. Here is how that works. Also, you'll get to read two poems I wrote for a college class years ago 😆

I've been working on a scene this last week for my next book, and it's been giving me some grief, so last Thursday I decided to sit down and focus on figuring out why I was having such a difficult time getting it on the page. (The starting of the scene came fine, but then I got to a section that was not coming together.) Some of the reasons I knew right away. The magic system in and of itself is innately difficult to write about, because of the subject matter I chose it to be about (and the lack of vocabulary we have about said subject within the English language doesn't help). I had certain plot restrictions and subtext I needed to get on the page with a careful hand, which can be really tricky if I don't want it to be annoying or blatant. And finally, I realized this section, of perhaps a half-dozen paragraphs, needed a Freytag Pyramid to work right.

You see, we often talk about the Freytag Pyramid as an overall story structure. Sure, we can talk about plot point, midpoints, and more advanced forms of story structure, but at the bare bones, a story needs to follow Freytag's Pyramid (you've heard me talk about this before). Rising action, climax, falling action. Don't underestimate the basics people! I run into writers once in a while that mock Freytag's Pyramid today, because of its simplicity. But just about every successful story structure today fits within that bare bone structure.

The longer I work in this industry, the more I realize that this structure doesn't just fit overall story structure. It fits just about everywhere in smaller sizes. As I wrote about in another post, it fits into almost every single scene. Right now I'm watching Stranger Things, and guess what? Basically every scene follows that same shape in some way: setup, rising action, climax, falling action. It's just shorter.

What's crazy is that this isn't limited to writing. Freytag's Pyramid is all over the place. You can find it in dance performances: setup, rising action, climax, falling action. You can find it in music: setup rising action, climax, falling action. You can find it . . . elsewhere ;) (hey, if I didn't acknowledge it, I knew someone would be stuck thinking it). You can find it within relationships. You can find it in storms. You can find it when you are getting groceries in the grocery store. It seems to permeate just about everything in the universe, even our sun's life cycle.

In writing, it happens over and over again. Sometimes even within paragraphs, which was exactly what my scene needed. Heck, it can even happen within sentences. Freytag's Pyramid has motion. And sometimes when I feel a scene or a part of a scene starting to go stagnant, it's because it doesn't have that shape.

Now, does Freytag's Pyramid literally need to be in everything? Of course not. There are always exceptions.

But it can happen on a very small scale.

It can happen within dialogue of a scene:

Setup

SHERLOCK: Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words.

MOLLY: What words?

SHERLOCK: I love you.

MOLLY: Leave me alone.

Rising Action

SHERLOCK: Molly, no, please, no, don’t hang up! Do not hang up!

MOLLY: Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?

SHERLOCK: Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me.

SHERLOCK: Molly, this is for a case. It’s ... it’s a sort of experiment.

MOLLY: I’m not an experiment, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: No, I know you’re not an experiment. You’re my friend. We’re friends. But ... please. Just ... say those words for me.

MOLLY: Please don’t do this. Just ... just ... don’t do it.

SHERLOCK: It’s very important. I can’t say why, but I promise you it is.

MOLLY: I can’t say that. I can’t ... I can’t say that to you.

SHERLOCK: Of course you can. Why can’t you?

MOLLY: You know why.

SHERLOCK: No, I don’t know why.

MOLLY: Of course you do.

SHERLOCK: Please, just say it.

MOLLY: I can’t. Not to you.

SHERLOCK: Why?

MOLLY: Because ... because it’s true.

MOLLY: Because ... it’s ... true, Sherlock.

MOLLY: It’s always been true.

SHERLOCK: Well, if it’s true, just say it anyway.

MOLLY: You b------

SHERLOCK: Say it anyway.

MOLLY: You say it. Go on. You say it first.

SHERLOCK: What?

MOLLY: Say it. Say it like you mean it.

SHERLOCK: I-I ...

SHERLOCK: I love you.

SHERLOCK: Molly?

SHERLOCK: Molly, please.

Climax

MOLLY: I love you.

Falling Action

(Both John and Mycroft heave out noisy sighs of relief. Sherlock also sighs and buries his head in both hands. In her kitchen, Molly closes her eyes. She puts the phone down and raises both hands to her mouth.)

It can happen within an action:

(I'm using a poem for this one. Brackets mine. Also, FYI, you aren't actually supposed to pause at the end of each line when reading poetry, unless it has a natural pause there.)

Kissing a Horse [Also, in a lot of poems, the setup happens in the title.] By Robert Wrigley

Of the two spoiled, barn-sour geldings we owned that year, it was Red— skittish and prone to explode even at fourteen years—who’d let me hold to my face his own [<--setup][rising action-->]: the massive labyrinthine caverns of the nostrils, the broad plain up the head to the eyes. He’d let me stroke his coarse chin whiskers and take his soft meaty underlip in my hands, [<--the description, the detail, leads up to the moment] press my man’s carnivorous kiss to his grass-nipping upper half of one [<-- climax] [falling action -->], just so that I could smell the long way his breath had come from the rain and the sun, the lungs and the heart, from a world that meant no harm.

I consider that section the falling action, because it shows the consequences and changes from the climax.

It can happen with a single brief subject in a paragraph:

(This is a prose poem I wrote for my poetry class in college years ago. Poems are easy to grab as small-scale examples.)

Considering the Pointe Shoes By September C. Fawkes

Whoever called them slippers, never put them on. Those boxes of cloth and glue, cage your toes and stink of fabric scraps and string bits. The ribbons snake around your ankles. The shanks jab into your soles as you, with duck feet, waddle to the wings, a hollow clunk, clunk, clunk. I once smiled when I jammed my feet inside—it was something revered, wearing Pointe shoes; something I have done more than once, more than twice, more than three years. I pressed my silk sneakers into the floor, held my breath as my insides fluttered, and, tensing my muscles, elevated to my toes, lifted one foot, and balanced in passé while my palm hovered over the ballet barre. One time at a theatre I watched a ballerina glide across the stage and leap into the air. The Pointe shoes curved in crescents, molding to her feet like leather. For a moment we all soared with her: the audience, the usher, the technician in the control box; our chins lifted, our eyes shining, our lips slightly parted. Everything silent and serene, like the flight of a falcon bathed in sunlight.

I feel kind of weird talking about my own work to you guys, but hopefully this illustrates the point. The title sets us up for the subject matter of the paragraph. The paragraph starts with sort of "first experiences" or "beginning" experiences with Pointe shoes. It then rises from walking around in Pointe shoes to actually practicing them at a ballet barre, then the climax happens when we see a professional ballerina in them on stage.

When talking about processes or working within descriptions a nice trick to use is an extended metaphor that is introduced, then rises, then climaxes. In here, I tried to use bird and bird-like terms that way:

cage your toes you, with duck feet, waddle held my breath as my insides fluttered my palm hovered I watched a ballerina glide For a moment, we all soared like the flight of a falcon

So we move from being caged, to walking around with duck feet, to fluttering, to hovering, to gliding, to soaring, to flying like a falcon.

But on a smaller scale, there are other rising actions. Notice the progression within a single sentence.

I once smiled when I jammed my feet inside—it was something revered, wearing Pointe shoes; something I have done more than once, more than twice, more than three years.

When working on the small scale, you can also create Freytag's Pyramid within beats and rhythm.

Here is another poem I wrote for that same class that is essentially nothing more than a description of a candy shop. (Remember you don't pause at the end of the lines, unless it naturally happens. If you do, it will change the rhythm and may not illustrate my point.)

Sweets By September C. Fawkes

Where the door jingles open with a greeting and shuts with a creaking, an assortment of jelly beans— yellow, blue, green, red, purple, striped, swirled, speckled, very cherry, French vanilla, tutti fruitti, lemon drop, and Dr. Pepper —burst from jars,

suckers, Congo squares, saltwater taffy spill out of baskets, and the heavy scent of cocoa hangs in the air.

Where saliva thickens and greedy customers grasp handfuls of licorice and lollipops, wrappers wrinkle, crinkle and twist, glisten like linoleum, and are peeled away like wax.

Where English toffees crunch, cementing teeth shut, and truffles melt across the tongue like dark velvet— so rich it make your mouth tingle,

where bags and boxes are bunched together, where the tinkling of glass containers permeate the room,

where sticky fingers dig into pockets, seek change for chews, chocolates, brownies, bon-bons, butter cups, caramels, candied apples, coated nuts, and haystacks,

sits a man. With white hair, creases in his face, bifocals on the bridge of his nose, and donning a sugar-stained apron.

This is a little trickier to talk about (especially since I'm not musical), because its the beats. Hopefully (if college me did a good enough job), you can hear a kind of crescendo. Particularly at the climax:

where sticky fingers dig into pockets, seek change for chews, chocolates, brownies, bon-bons, butter cups, caramels, candied apples, coated nuts, and haystacks,

sits a man.

And then the falling action sounds much calmer (calmer than any other stanza):

sits a man. With white hair, creases in his face, bifocals on the bridge of his nose, and donning a sugar-stained apron.

But still, you could break this process down further and look at smaller pieces, like within just the first stanza, which is actually not even a full sentence:

Notice the rhythm before the first comma seems rather calm. When we get to describing the actual jelly beans, it becomes more intense; this is in part because of the names, but it's also in part because it's such a long list. We aren't used to lists going on that long in creative writing, so it carries a kind of tension (when is it going to end?). It also moves from general to specific: yellow, blue --> tutti fruitti, lemon drop, and Dr. Pepper. General words often carry less . . . weight? (Not sure on the word.) Than specific words. General words are more . . . invisible, than specific words, so they pack less punch.

When writing a book, you can create similar effects, increasing the intensity in beat and rhythm as a sort of "rising action" before you hit the musical climax.

Anyway, needless to say, once I realized my paragraphs weren't working in part because they needed Freytag's Pyramid shaped within them (in my case, these paragraphs are describing an important, significant process so I couldn't skimp out on it), things got better from there. I mostly have that figured out now.

Do you really need to be this detailed and intense? Not necessarily. I just sat back and wrote down what wasn't working in order to figure out how to make it better. And in that situation, that was one of the things I needed. But I certainly think it's helpful to be aware of how Freytag's Pyramid works on the small scale and can be something we can utilize.

Unfortunately, neither of my poems that I shared today were ever picked up by any magazines when I sent them out years ago, but I'm still happy with how they turned out (even if I do see some potential flaws in them), so it was nice to finally share them with someone outside my college's English department.

P.S. Another way to look at this might be tension --> release, tension --> release, if that works for your brain more. But for me, that's too linear and not specific enough. Tension and release isn't enough to make the story work. You need to build up the tension. And often you need to set the stage. So I like setup, rising action, climax, falling action. Although in some cases, the falling action may be cut off.

#Writing tip #writing tips #writing tips and tricks #writing reference #writeblr #fanfic #fanfiction #writing help #writing advice #creative writing #author #editor #poetry

40 notes · View notes

skippyv20 · 5 years

Text

Imprisonment at the Tower exhibition

Within the Beauchamp Tower

When

Open daily

Learn why people ended up as prisoners in the Tower of London, in the very rooms where some of them were held.

‘Take him to the Tower!’

The Tower of London’s history as a state prison has captured the public’s imagination for centuries. For many, the Tower evokes images of grim underground dungeons, but the real experiences of Tower inmates ranged hugely.

While some prisoners languished in gloomy cells, others could move freely within the Tower grounds; their treatment and fate often depended on their crime and social status. Some were even afforded luxuries such as comfortable bedding and servants.

Discover a different side to London’s castle

Visit Imprisonment at the Tower to learn more about life as a prisoner in the Tower of London. Explore the many different stories of people who ended up here, including

Elizabeth I,

Guy Fawkes,

Anne Boleyn and the Krays.

Explore the Beauchamp Tower

The Beauchamp Tower to the west of Tower Green was built in about 1281 during the reign of Edward I, as part of the Tower’s inner defensive wall.

The Tower takes its name from Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who was imprisoned here at the end of the 14th century for rebelling against Richard II. The building has been used to house prisoners throughout its history.

See graffiti carved by Tower prisoners

Many prisoners in the Tower had to endure long hours in their cell and some were already condemned to death. Under considerable psychological strain, many inmates suffered from depression and acute boredom.

Some prisoners sought ways to express these feelings, and carving graffiti into the Tower’s walls ensured they would be remembered after death. Many carvings (also known as 'graffito’) in the Beauchamp Tower can still be seen today, and give us a permanent connection to the stories and beliefs of the prisoners held here.

The stories behind some of the Beauchamp Tower graffiti

Robert Dudley (later Earl of Leicester)

A young Robert Dudley, childhood friend of the Princess Elizabeth (later Elizabeth I), was imprisoned in the Tower of London in the aftermath of his father’s plot to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne.

Dudley was probably placed in the Beauchamp Tower, alongside his three brothers. Visitors to the upper chamber can see an intricate carving depicting a plant for each man – roses for Ambrose, carnations (known as gillyflowers) for Guildford, oak leaves (robur in Latin) for Robert and honeysuckle for Henry.

Another, much simpler, inscription reading 'Iane’ (an older spelling of 'Jane’) also survives nearby.

Thomas Abel

Thomas Abel was Chaplain to Katherine of Aragon, first wife of Henry VIII. Henry imprisoned Abel in the Beauchamp Tower after he published a treatise stating that it was unlawful for the King to divorce Queen Katherine.

Graffiti depicting the name 'Thomas’ above a bell with an 'A’ on the side still survives in the upper chamber of the Beauchamp Tower.

Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel

Queen Elizabeth I imprisoned Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel, in the Beauchamp Tower for 10 years. As the leading Catholic peer in the country, he was seen as a threat to national security and was sentenced to death in 1589.

Arundel’s name is carved into the wall of the Upper Beauchamp Tower, along with the words, 'The more affliction we endure for Christ in this world, the more glory we shall get with Christ in the world to come.’

He lived out the next six years under the daily expectation of execution, but eventually died of an infection in 1595.

Hediho....Hediho.....off to the tower she goes!

Thank you😁❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

33 notes · View notes

keithebrainrot · 6 years

Text

Bombs Away [Junkrat x Reader]

This was the third time this week your training coach had left you standing in a cold field in the middle of nowhere. Honestly? You were getting sick of this bullshit. You had better shit to do with your Thursday afternoon than stand around in a field in the middle of October.

"Goddammit Junkrat..." You kicked a half built bomb on the ground which let off a few sparks and crackles.

"Y/n." A deep raspy voice startled you out of your little tantrum.

"Jeez.." You clutched your chest. "Roadie! You gotta stop that, man"

"Sorry... The rodent sent me." He started to gather the empty bombs you'd been tinkering with. "He told me to tell you he can't make it..." He pulled you onto his back and carried you across the field. This was nothing unusual, the first few times it had freaked you out but it was pretty comfy nowadays. You rested your arms on his head head and scoffed.

"Did he say why?" You took in the tree lining the field as Roadie jogged across the field.. He was silent for a big dude.

"No. He just told me to 'Find the Sheila and tell her what oi said.'" The base was coming into view already. Too soon for your tastes. "I'll take these bombs to our workshop and finish them up for you."

"Roadie, you don't have to do that!" You hugged around his neck against the chill in the air.

"You go find Jamison. Find out what's goin' on." He came to a stop outside the door to the base and set you down on the ground gently. "Don't tell the rodent I said this. He sounded... off..."

Before you could ask what Roadhog meant he was walking away from you towards their workshop. The doors of the base slid open and Tracer was stood on the other side.

"Oh, Y/N! Hiya love!" She was chipper as ever and her accent rang melodically through your head.

"Hi Lena! How are you?" You couldn't help but smile when Tracer was around.

"I'm good thanks, y/n. Say.. Have you noticed something off about Jamison?" She placed a hand on her hip and tilted her head. "He never showed up for dinner and he's not in his workshop."

This would make the second person to mention Junkrat's mood to you. This was worrying indeed.

"I was just on his way there actually.. He ditched our training again." Tracer raised an eyebrow at that. Junkrat wasn't the most dependable but this was downright odd.

"Y/N, find out what's up with him would you? It's quiet with out him around. As irritating as he is." You jokingly saluted in response and Tracer smiled. "I have to head out. I'll see you later!" And with that she was gone.

You strolled through the maze of the base accommodation halls until you got to a sterling white door with a gold name plate which read "Jamison Fawkes." You tapped on the little touch screen to alert the person inside you were there and instead of answering back through the telecom you heard an Aussie accent soaked "WHAT?!" come from inside.

"Jamison, it's Y/N. Let me in." You tried not t shout too loud as to not alert the other people in their rooms. When you didn't get an answer you tried again. "You've skipped the last 3 training sessions with me. You owe this to me at least." You tried to make your voice sound stern but traces of pity were seeping through. Jamison obviously sensed.

"I don' owe you jack diddly squat, sheila." He started off angry but you heard a little crack in his voice at the end following by some muffled sniffling. You were leaning defeated against the door when Winston came down the hall and pulled out his master key card that was mainly used in emergencies.

"Psst! Y/n!" He raised the card with a questioning look and you stepped back from the door nodding so he could let you in.He swiped the cards and the doors slid open to let you in.

Jamison's room was tidy, surprisingly, but the curtains were closed and the only source of light came from in between the curtains of evening sun. You scanned the room for Jamison, who was stood in front of a mirror, his mechanical arm lay on his bed.

"Junkrat what the...?" You meekly moved towards him and the voice that left him startled you.

"Don't." His voice was broken and he just stared blankly back at himself in the mirror.

Every trace of anger evaporated looking at him. His eyes were ringed by red marks and his skin was almost white against the black soot which seemed to permanently stain his skin. Where his prosthetic arm normal was were scratches, some oozing red. You gathered your courage and tried again.

"J-Jamison?" He didn't make you shut up this time but shifted his gaze to you. He looked visibly hurt at your expression. You eyes traveled his body assessing new and old scars.

"Sheila." You'd never heard Jamison speak so quietly, it didn't suit him. "I can't.. I don't..." He looked so defeated, he was even struggling to string a sentence together.

"Take you time, Jamie..." You watched as he dropped to his knees and sobbed. He was wailing and the sound broke your heart. He sounded like a wounded animal. You knelt down in front of him and tentatively placed your hands on his shoulders, which were shaking violently. He wailed louder and he fell against you as he cried.

"Shh.. shh... It's fine. Shh." You hushed him and soothed his back. His wails were quietening down as he curled against you. He was just quietly sniffling. "Can you move to the bed?"

He nodded quietly as he clung to you as you both stood and walked to his bed. You moved his prosthetic arm carefully to his dresser next to the bed and sat him down and took a seat next him.

He looked dead ahead without really seeing anything as your hand traced his biceps soothingly. He took a deep, albeit shaky, breath as he tried to talk again.

"I'm sorry." He said it so quietly you only just caught it.

"For what?" You looked at him and he slowly turned to look at you, looking at you as if you should know what he meant. "For that?! Jamison.. It's fine. Everybody has moments like that."

For some reason this seemed to anger him. He shot up off the bed and pinned you against the wall with his one arm, getting in your face.

"Not me! I don't! I'm Jamison Flaming Fawkes." He raised his voice and spittle flew onto your face. He was unpredictable and unstable, you had to be on your guard. "I don't have these... these... feelings!" He pushed away from you and began to claw at the spot where his metal arm usually attached. "I blow up what I want, when I want. I don't care about anyone or anything." You could see the tears passing by his manic smile.

"Jamie stop! Stop! You're hurting yourself" You grabbed at his human arm and tried to pull his hand way from his amputated limb. "Stop! You're scaring me!"

He stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned to look at you, gripping his arm, hyperventilating and tears threatening to spill over. The cogs slowly turned in his brain as he sat you down on the bed, only he laid down and pulled you onto him and then moved to re-attach his prosthetic arm to hold you in place and use his human hand to stroke his thumb across your cheek.

"Shush, shh, shh, Sheila. It's OK. Nuts, Sheila. I'm sorry." He calmed your breathing first and then turned you to pull your face closer to his. "Please don't have a panic attack. It's OK shush." His thumb was still soothing your cheek. He searched your eyes and you searched his for peace and tranquility. His mechanic hand had moved to the small of your back to hold you flush against him and a light pink blush was dusting his cheeks under the soot.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on, Jamie?" You whispered. He guessed he owed you that much.

"I... Y/N be honest. Am frightening?" His head was propped backwards against the headrest.

"When you get mad you can be..."

"Tha's not what I mean." He took a deep breath "When I fight.. When I'm doing normal things just.. walking around. Do I look hideous?"

You were taken aback that the ever-confident Jamison Fawkes was asking you this.

"What? No!" You propped up to look at him. "Jamie, what's goin' on with you?" He looked away, looking a little embarrassed.

"Well.. I just. I don't look like the other guys here... Just. McCree or Hanzo always have girls crawling all over them but with me.. They look the other way." His gaze fell on his peg leg, which was slightly bent at the knee for comfort. "I'm just a freak." He sighed sadly.

"Jamison Fawkes no." You turned his head to look at you. "You are a kind, unique, crazy individual and we would have you no other way. You've got a good heart... A thieving.. anarchist heart but.. A good one. Overwatch would be lost without you."

He searched your face for any trace of a lie.

"Y'mean it Sheila?" He looked at you like a lost little puppy. You gave him a short, solid nod. "Then..." He pulled you forward and planted a soft, ashy kiss on your lips.

It took you a second to kiss back but when you did he pulled you even closer to him. Funny that the safest place you've ever felt, was in the arms of a criminally, insane pyromaniac. He rolled you over to be on the bottom so he could look down at you.

"I love ya' Y/N." His eyes were bright and shiny and he had the cutest little smile on his face, not his usual manic grin. "My little time bomb." You gave him a sleepy smile.

"I love you too, Jamie." You kissed one more time and then pulled him to lie next you. He pulled up the covers which were covered in soot, by the way, and threw them over you both. You were asleep immediately and Jamison smiled down at you, giving you a sweet little kiss on your forehead.

"Bombs away, Sheila. Bombs away..." He laid his head down and pulled you close to him and drifted off to sleep.

[BONUS ENDING]

Later on, Roadie walked through the door to see if the rodent was doing any better. His gaze immediately fell to the two of you snuggled against each other on the bed. He picked up the blanket which had fell off and placed in back over you. Junkrat's eyes opened slowly and he saw Roadhog in the dark and smiled at him. Roadie raised his thumb and gave you both a quiet chuckle and left. Jamie looked down at you and gave you a sleepy peck on the cheek before falling back into the embrace of sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: So I had just got Overwatch when I wrote this but I had adored Junkrat for a while by this point! I hope you guys liked this! I know it's cheesier than a bag of wotsits but I had to write this side to Junkrat! I love my Aussie Shrimp Pyro! <3 Potential smut coming sooon ;)

#my fic #junkrat #fluff #junkrat x reader #tooth rotting fluff #bless this man honestly #give him all of the huggles #kink rat writes

75 notes · View notes

rileyomalley · 6 years

Text

Curiosity Kills (A JunkHop Fic)

Chapter 1 cont! Previous Entries: [x] [x] Word Count: 4228 Rating: General (theres just a bunch of BOOMS in this part) Pairings; Roadhog/Mako Rutledge x Junkrat/Jamison Fawkes x Overwatch OC

So as it stands, Hopper found herself in quite the situation. Despite how desperate she was to pull some stunt and escape mid ride, she couldn’t help but be focused on the pain in her wrist…and she hadn’t much experience with jumping out of high speed vehicles.

There was only one time…and it was not pretty.

So now she was faced with being an infamous duos captive, lord knows what that would entail. At the very least she found some relief knowing who they were now and how to potentially use that to her advantage later.

For now though…she was being stared at by the two of them. It wasn't long before they'd arrived at this supposed hideout and Hopper and been sat down for questioning. She idly looked between the two of them before speaking up.

“…you just gonna sit there or…” not that she wanted to question what plots they had in store for her, but Junkrat spoke promptly after.

He looked to be scheming…real hard as he looked her over.

“Since we got you now, we have a few questions and ground rules. Gotta make most of keeping you captive. Seemed reeaalll important considerin.” might be able to strike a deal with her as bait. A trade perhaps for loot or some nice upgraded tech.

There was a lot going on in that head of his, which only left that grin to curl all the more. An important agent, a spy of sorts, a tracker maybe? Whoever she was…she may be their ticket to all they need.

His companion on the other hand thought otherwise. His arms crossed before his chest looking over Hopper.

Small. Only potentially an issue in terms of fighting, more than anything he saw her as a liability. He wouldn’t admit out loud that he agreed there was potential there for their own gain, but last they needed was someone making their operations all the more difficult.

Junkrat did that enough on his own.

Before Hopper could say much else Junkrat pointed a prosthetic finger right in her face.

“Alright sheila, who you work for?”

Hopper pushed the finger out of her face.

“That is unfortunately classified. As much as I would love to tell you…I really cant.”

Roadhog gave a grunt. Junkrat furrowed his brow. “And why not? Could always get it out of ya by different means…”

“A waste of time…” Roadhog chimed in. Hopper just quirked a brow at the large man before shirking away at Junkrat close vicinity to her now.

“Ah..well I mean, I cant mostly because its potential breach of my contract. By doing so that leaves me with uh…the possibility of being stuck out on my own. No contact.”

Well better late than never to start lying about you and your employers. Maybe shed be able to get on their good side before finding a way to separate from them. Lie out your ass, girl.

Junkrat was still staring.

“…not only that there’s a hiiigh possibility that if they learn where I am, they’ll find you and it’ll be more if an issue than uh…a fruitful solution, yeah? So..”

The agent started to fiddle a bit. Why did he have to BE SO CLOSE? She almost felt claustrophobic.

Actually, it was legitimately making her nervous.

“SO UH – I guess it all depends what you're looking for?? I mean...” She cleared her throat. Don't lose your cool girl. Think of something.

Junkrat gave a hum, rubbing at his chin almost exaggeratedly looking Hopper up and down. The way he was looking at her did not make her any more comfortable. She leaned away as best she could until she nearly fell off that chair. “Look-I have to apologize. I've only been in so many of these situations with brilliant criminals like yourself and...well. I'm rusty. So...I guess what I'm getting at is-maybe we can come to some middle ground? You don't do anything to me, I don't do anything to you, and maybe I can put in a good word for you as...long lost colleagues? I mean...d-don't think I wasn't seeing you eyeing this tech.”

Okay. Seemed to be catching their attention. Or at least Junkrat's.

“I mean...sure I could have tried my best to get out of here once you guys gave me an inch but...I'd rather not go a mile into death and destruction, at least for a little while.” She tried to give her best grin, hopeful that they'd consider the offer. First chance if she saw it she could get out of this joint.

The Junkers sat, Junkrat tapping his peg leg and Roadhog just idly watching Hopper. It was one thing for Junkrat to be eyeing her as much as he did practically BORING holes into her skull, but...not being able to see the face behind Roadhog's mask, or even a semblance of eyes was...unnerving. He didn't speak up much either, and when he did it sounded like a stance of indifference.

Junkrat sat up in his seat. “Alright sheila, we'll be considering this deal. You're lucky you got what you do, otherwise we might not. Me and the hog will have to discuss it further. You got a pretty good way of wagerin' in all. Now...” The lanky fellow stood from his seat, pacing back and forth before stopping near his companion. “We got a set of ground rules you'll be followin' while we have you here.”

Roadhog sat forward resting on his forearm.

With a flourish of that prosthetic hand, Junkrat begun. “Rule numbah 1, you gotta behave and follow what we tell you. You will be taken care of here in our hideout but that doesn't give you full reign of everything.”

Roadhog raised a large finger. “Two, don't even think of escaping unless you want a death sentence.

“I've got all sorts of surprises around here, sheila!

So chipper about it, wasn't he....she just grimaced.

“Rule numbah three! While we have you here, you gotta make your way in helpin' us score some loot. Not getting off scott free just cuz yer captive here.” Wait...how? “-which is why we'll be putting your tech to good use on heists!!”

UM.

Even if they were running over any others cockamamie rules they had, Hopper was stuck in her mind thinking of what exactly they were planning on using her for. She was in more than what she thought. Hoo boy.

Hopper just took a deep breath. “Alright. Fair enough. As long as you're fine with giving space I can follow these rules.” As screwy as some may be to her, fair or not. Junkrat moved over with a quirky grin. “Good! Glad to have you aboard then! We'll be setting out in the next couple days. Got some good word about a rather rich place we can hit up next! Eehehehe~”

That laugh was going to be the end of her. God give her strength.

After everything was settled the whole group stood, Roadhog making his way off in one direction without a word, Junkrat doing the same until Hopper piped up. “Ah...not to ask too much but...you guys got a shower? All that travelin' out in the desert got me sweating like a mother.” She was to the point of waving out her pits. Junkrat perked looking over his shoulder at her.

“Oh sure. Just over there to the right, can't miss it. Will warn you though, don't take long. Last we need is ol big Hog mad cuz of low water reserves.”

Hopper just nodded watching as he made his way out. Must have been with the larger man for some time now. Probably got on his bad side more than once himself but...that was fair. Last she wanted was to be caught up in this and screw it up right off the bat. She would try to keep any thoughts on escaping to the back of her mind. For the time being she had to play captive and follow what they said no matter how ridiculous it might be. The only things she'd deny was them looking at her tech.

That was her own and she was going to fight tooth and nail for it.

One thing Hopper had to be thankful for was showers. It was one of the most relieving luxuries human kind had and she wasn't sure where she would be without them. Even when she had to bath under a waterfall, it still felt refreshing. A renewed sense of self washing away the days dirt and grime. Keeping it as short as she could running through that long, long hair of hers she finished up and made her way out. Her clothes were still a little sticky, but she had to deal since she didn't have any way of washing them immediately.

Donning her casual wear she made her way out, hair up in a towel and prosthetic legs hooked back on, she decided to wander a little through their hideout. At least to the main areas she felt were safer than say, a workshop or potential bedroom. Might as well familiarize herself

Despite the messy look of this shabby shack, there was an odd bit of charm and a lived in feeling that could only fit those two men. It wasn't overly cluttered, but enough to show they'd really been around and had probably scavenged for a long while. She wondered how much making way to the kitchen to see what their food reserves were like.

Surprise surprise. Probably the worst judge in the world, it looked to be they'd done pretty good for themselves out here, considering the amount of canned foods, baking products and various snacks that lined the cupboards. Even the fridge looked to have plenty to drink with a good stock of water. She bit her lip—would it be too soon to play to her captor's stomachs? She wasn't particularly hungry herself, but a good gesture was always nice, albeit fishy looking depending who you ask.

Before she could consider reaching for a few items Hopper was halted by the sound of heavy footsteps making their way to the kitchen, the gentle jingle echoing through the air. She looked a might silly with the cupboards still open upon looking, yet her eyes looked straight to Roadhog.

Crap.

“What are you doing...?”

Hopper was thin lipped and wide eyed, moving to close the cupboards and step back a bit. It was ridiculous but she couldn't help in feeling like she was being stared at by a wild animal. Having to tred carefully both in her movements and next choice of words.

“Just looking mostly. Curious. Wasn't gonna take anything. Considered maybe making you guys something if you were hungry.” Her words were a little shaky, stepping out of the way when Roadhog moved over towards the counters. He gave her a silent look, a low rumble in his throat before looking through the cupboards himself. She kept her hands behind her back, idly watching him.

“...that is a way I can help around here. If you guys don't mind.”

“I usually cook. Don't let Junkrat near the kitchen.”

That was understandable on so many degrees. She shifted from small foot to small foot.

Roadhog looked to be pondering over that food, she wasn't sure if he was getting a snack or if he was starting up already.

“...do you need any help?”

“Go sit down, metal legs.” He muttered in a low tone. Hopper just sighed, not fighting it for now and moving over to the table to take a seat. “Alriiiight...you're call, big guy.” Roadhog just snorted in response. She wasn't gonna push it but hey, can't say she didn't try.

This however did leave her fidgety waiting patiently. She wasn't really sure if she could just get up and walk out for a moment before returning when it was done.

“Guess you got exiled from the kitchen too, eh?” Junkrat's voice called out making way to the kitchen. Hopper looked behind her chair and settled back when he came over.

“Seems like it. Offered to help but guessin' he's the head honcho in this regard?” Pointing a finger at Roadhog, Junkrat just snickered plopping down.

“He doesn't like anyone else fussin' about the kitchen, so he does all the cookin' himself. Barely let's me do anything even if I keep tellin' him otherwise.” Well duh, idiot. She knew why. She pretty much resonated with the large man in that regard as if that was the only wavelength the two of them had.

They both knew Junkrat was a hot mess.

“Last you need to do is make a mess of the kitchen, for all he knows you'll probably set anything aflame.” Junkrat just squinted at her with a small frown. The two of them went on like that for a while.

Roadhog grunted. “That's enough out of the two of you.” He'd throw you both out if he felt like it. He not only had one headache, but two to deal with .

Junkrat just shrugged in his chair before idling by, watching Hog move over with the food he'd been making all the while. He couldn't help but look at Hopper curiously, the woman as calm as ever. Most captives weren't like that...

“So how come you ain't scared about all this, eh? You get captured a lot before?” Hopper just rolled her eyes crossing her arms over her chest. She just shrugged.

“Either I'm desensitized enough by situations like this or my training actually did me some good. I know when and when not to do something stupid and I mean- sure if you guys really wanted to do something bad, you'd have done it by now?” Don't let her calm and cool attitude fool you – of COURSE she was scared. She was plenty nervous about the next few steps from here on out, and whether or not her disappearance would be picked up by her employers. It was all part of the job, unexpected. It didn't deter the scary aspects of it however.

A soft thank you came from her at the last disbursement of food receiving a 'hmm'. Everyone finally settled in to eat their food. Most of what kept her from doing the wrong things was being as observant as she was. The two settled right in on their meals, so of course she followed. She took it slow, poking at the strips of what looked to be steak and soft potatoes, melted butter dancing about the fluffy texture. There was a bowl of rolls but she'd be careful not to get too greedy.

She was more wary over Roadhog than Junkrat.

Dinner was fairly quiet, dishes being picked up and taken to the sink. Between the two men she piped up that she could take care of the load if they have business elsewhere. Surprisingly enough she at least got to do that without much hassle, as much as she had goddamn eyes at staring at her from just about everywhere it felt. Nonetheless, she was being cooperative, that's all that mattered.

Get on their good side.

Now was the matter of where exactly she was gonna be staying for the night. Seemed Junkrat saw the confusion on her face. “You'll be stayin' right there on the couch. S'not great but it'll do for now until we can get you set up with something better.”

Set up with something..better? Did you assume she was going to stay here for a vacation?? The expression on her face only made him laugh.

“Wot? We're not gonna throw you into some cage or nothin' like that! Least we can do while we keep you here. Can't have you bent out of shape.” It was surprising, she had to give him that. A nod in response thanking him, she looked over to the couch.

It obviously had seen better days...but if she was to compare it to anything worse, it was better than laying in that cave. She had a napsack she could fashion over it if need be. So far this wasn't too bad. Unexpected, a little weird, maybe awkward....but not bad.

She takes it back, it's actually worse.

By the time evening came Hopper hit the hay early uncertain of what she was going to face tomorrow. Better to bed early than to be thrust into madness at a moment's tired notice. Probably was going to happen anyway but hey, no harm in preparing for the worst.

The unfortunate circumstance however, was that no matter how she tried to rearrange that couch or her items, it was still uncomfortable as HELL. She found herself more kinked than she was last, tossing limbs here and there to the point she fell off the damn thing. Luckily it wasn't too loud or she'd probably be agitating the others in their room.

Sleep to no avail, Hopper sat up and looked around the low lit hideout. It was never easy for her to get to sleep easily. By the looks of it there wasn't any other potential spots she could try, unless she wanted to curl up in the sidecar of the motorcycle. That brought on worrisome thoughts so she pushed it from her mind. A loud huff she stood and popped the kinks out of her body. Looking around again she saw a top level window or...door? Maybe gazing up at the stars would help. ..

Making her way up their quietly, and carefully remembering what Junkrat had said about 'surprises', she looked out the glass windows at the night sky. She was able to see the moon just a ways up, bright as ever can be.

There was a pang in her chest suddenly, resting her forehead against the glass. She'd been cool up to this point, but Hopper couldn't deny that she was going to miss her own bed. Her safe place, seeing the faces of her coworkers and....she had to keep it together.

It wasn't long that she was up there before she returned to the couch and found before her was a slightly larger nest of her napsack, pillow, blanket and...pillows...and...more blankets?? That...was unexpected. She looked about to see if anyone else was awake, with no sign of either of the Junkers. She could only assume they heard her flopping, so they decided to help make it a bit better?

Either way Hopper was going to make use of this nest. She had a big day ahead of her, and after that was....

A heist.

The day prior seemed only a bit of preparation for the Junkers and Hopper and surprisingly they hadn't looked much into what Hopper had. Other than the obvious she mentioned she'd done a couple sneaking missions, intel search and may or may not have some skill into hacking. It wasn't her expertise but in the last resort she had to do so to prevent becoming swiss cheese in heavily armed locations.

Turrets were a fucking bitch.

The place they were heading to however by what Junkrat told Hopper, was a heavily barricaded and locked bank of sorts. Obviously not a local reserve, but apparently it was owned by some big wig who lived just some miles away in the desert lands. None she knew of since that wasn't part of her database, as far as she knew anyway – they had been hoarding quite a bit of their economy hidden out where most wouldn't dare to travel.

Most weren't as dangerous. Or stupid. Or a little mix of the two.

She wasn't entirely sure how this was going to go, but it seemed they wanted her to sneak in to give them the general parameters of the area. See about shutting down any security that she could to make it easier on them to get inside and get out fairly quickly. Hopper questioned why they didn't want to just take an abrupt and obviously explosive resort, to which Roadhog chimed in about subtly. As much as Junkrat ENJOYED making a scene, they actually needed to lay low. They also needed money.

In her mind she knew this was wrong of her to do, but in retrospect if this person was as potentially sleezy, high stakes and narcissistic...it couldn't be that bad of a job, right? Sure it wasn't what she was hired to do in her original line of work. She technically was freelance,-

Hopper are you seriously trying to rationalize this entire situation as okay? Girl has the sun melted your brain?

She just shook it off with a grimace, reassuring Junkrat that she was fine when he gave her a rather quizzical look. A couple hours passed...and she found herself in a situation that was quite a tricky one. She wasn't trained to sneak in and break in to places like this—but she had to keep up the cooperative facade until she could either relay a message to her employers, or escape.

Hell she even tried to do so in the middle of hacking a couple of the reserves' networks before being interrupted by the agitating australian's voice. Goddamn he didn't have to SPEAK SO LOUD. She was starting to regret making the suggestion of communicators. Hopper just sighed, making her way through

Everything had been going to plan with a few tricky moments, but Hopper seemed to be keeping up her end of the bargain. She'd get brownie points as far as the Junkers went and...admittedly she was learning a little more in terms of her skills. Who's to say she couldn't apply it to better things than, oh, you know, breaking and entering into someone's personal bank??

She really hoped this person was as bad as they were or else she'd feel a heaping helping of guilt right about now. There was unfortunately no time for that right now. Her eyes widening when she finished relaying her location to the Junkers, there was a faint humming coming from behind her. Her body tensed, eyes wide as she slowly turned around. Through her orange visor she saw a large quadrupedal robot, pointing it's red LED sensors right at her. It was warming up to shoot what she could only assume was going to be-

CRASH! A second longer and Hopper would have been vaporized, nothing but a splatter left on that metal ground. She was dashing and bouncing as quickly as she could, screaming as she tried to escape it's line of sight. Because of this she was coming over the communicator which alerted the Junkers to plan B.

Completely obliterate any entryways and head to the core!

This place once filled with silence and calm now was being utterly THRASHED by robots, guards, and Junkers alike. Bombs and explosions as far as the eye could see and hardly any survivors lest they ran for their lives with their tails between their legs. It wasn't a problem for either of the men, especially not Junkrat who seemed to have an endless supply of bombs and tricks. Roadhog was a master with knocking heads, tossing and snatching with that hook, cackling as he was causing just enough carnage.

It took some time but they finally made it to the core of the bank reserve where the commotion originate from and Junkrat began to call out to Hopper. She seemed nowhere in sight.

“Hoppah! HEY HOPPAH! WHERE YOU AT?!” Was she taken out? Damn, that would be a shame since she had done so well getting them this far...despite the sudden change of plans but hey, he couldn't complain when he got a hand in on it apart from breaking into the vault.

Once the two rounded the corner they saw the massive robot Hopper had been screaming about, the area around the vault completely and utterly messed up with laser lines, cracks in the ground from it's stomping weight...the two readied themselves to take it on and make way, sure the woman had been taken out. The robot screeched and rattled in a way that was agonizing to the ears, still together despite what shitty condition it looked to be in. That armor was pretty much on it's last limbs yet the thing kept on, targeting the Junkers and readying it's beams for a heavy fire.

Within a flash something came falling from the tall ceiling out of the shadows, a loud scream to follow. Before Roadhog and Junkrat saw a fierce look in the eyes of the familiar tiny woman, now wielding rather LARGE robotic gauntlet that thrust themselves with a near erupting force, the sheer power flying off them as they made impact with the robot's head. Those red lights flickered frantically as it's entire body shuddered. That was the last blow it needed it would seem as the large robot nearly crumbled underneath her.

The Junkers, safe to say, were absolutely gobsmacked.

Hopper stood on the now defeated robot breathing heavily, covered with scuffs, cuts and her own bruises, brushing back her hair with a large gauntlet hand. She looked over at the Junkers with a wheezed attempt at a chuckle.

“...you guys gonna need help with the...the vault?”

#riley writes #overwatch OC #Hopper #Roadhog #Junkrat #overwatch x OC #roadhog x junkrat x oc #roadhog x junkrat x hopper #im honestly having alot of fun writing this #so I hope anyone reading is enjoying it too

4 notes · View notes

crimsonheart01 · 7 years

Text

WIP GAME

Thank you to my bb girl @soaimagines for tagging my old and washed self.

Disclaimer: my life is a mess right now, and I haven’t been writing much. This is all stuff that I’ll probably never post.... ever.

Rules: write a sentence from any/all Writing your currently working on!

Snippet from Boss: He bowed his head, guilt flooding his veins, “I’m sorry prima.”

“Sorry won’t bring back the women you murdered.” Her accusation rang true.

Jackson flinched when she landed her first blow. It was nothing but pure, cold and heartless. Gemma screamed, her voice hoarse. From the Sequel to Welcome to Charming I’ll never actually finish/post: He smirked, “I heard I was yer Chibs.”

She lightly tapped his face but grinned.

“I always thought ya hated the name?” he continued.

She shook her head slightly, “It’s grown on me…” and without any warning she spoke his nickname, for the first time, “Chibs.”

From yet another Happy one shot I have lying around: He grabbed your hand, gingerly this time, and turned it over, opening your palm up to him. He fisted the material of your shirt and pushed it up, revealing the purple finger marks on your skin. There was a collective intake of breath and you yanked your hand away. You faked a smile, fooling no one, as tears leaked out from the corners of your eyes.

“It’s nothing.” You shook your head, “Just a misunderstanding.” An original short I have sitting in my drafts: In the dead of night they happened upon a strange occurrence. Captured it, they did. Without any qualms, or knowledge of what repercussions they were to face. Young and in search of adventure, a peculiar insect crossed their paths.

Fate intervening? Possibly. Or choices presented? Most likely. Free will compromised? Not entirely. From some real life bullshit:

They can dismiss me with their I can’t speak the way I do. They didn’t grow up in proximity. They didn’t see any of what’s going on in the news first hand. With their own eyes. They don’t know. They never will. I don’t wish it on anyone. Not my worst enemy, but don’t come at me with your ally bullshit without knowing the full story. Get off your high horses and put yourself in someone else’s shoes for a minute. They can make jokes about our side of town, to my face, but they don’t know. They’ll never have these experiences. A little something from the ending of Southside: “It’s half past three in the morning. Come back to bed, luv.” He yawned.

I startled at the sound of his voice, dropping my pen. I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to quell the burning from being up too late.

I opened them again, gazing up at my Scot, “I will. I just need to make sure I give Butler all the details I can to make this a positive case for you guys.”

Chibs pushed off the wall, walking over. He reached out, grabbing my hands in his and pressed his lips to my knuckles.

In the midst of his affections, his eyes glance over to the mess of papers on the table. “Lace… I think you’ve given him more than enough. Come sleep, it’s too cold without you.”

From a little HP one shot I hope to post one day:

“I wouldn’t say that, per se.” He pondered, “At least I don’t feel that way. Dead, I mean. More like sleeping. Yeah…. I’m sleeping.”

I swallowed, a shiver rolling down my spine. I felt the water starting to well and clamped my eyes shut. This was too much for me to comprehend. Why was I torturing myself? Why did my subconscious hate me?

“Listen – I don’t know why you’re here, or what for, but I need to get things back in order.” I cast my eyes away from him, speaking with the intent that I was talking myself out of this hallucination, “You can go about your business – whatever that may be.”

And lastly, an HP novel about a group of friends trying to survive the second war (revolving around Fred, George, Lee, Angelina, Alicia, and an OC) that will never be posted:

Minerva followed his line of sight and nearly gaped at the way Fawkes was currently perched on the girl’s shoulder. Fawkes didn’t willingly interact with anyone besides Albus himself. To earn the trust of a Phoenix was seen as one of the highest in regard. There were only two wizards in history that she could recall that had ever befriended one. Scamander, and Dumbledore.

“It’s as if he knows…” Albus trailed off in thought.

Minerva fought off her scoff, “Of course he does, Albus.” Dumbledore turned to meet her stern gaze, “Do not forget your former history lessons, Headmaster. Magic belongs to them.”

3 notes · View notes

supercomputer276 · 6 years

Text

Changeling: the Lost - Seasons Pass #13

On this chapter of Seasons Pass, absolutely terrible choices are made. The last post is here, and the full story so far is here.

All usernames have been replaced with their character’s name or “Storyteller” / “ST.” All text is unaltered aside from aforementioned name changing, italicizing quotes, and adding periods where otherwise multiple chat posts together would look like a run-on sentence; there will also be edits involved in how roll20′s /me commands are presented. All details given are publicly available to the entire group.

Storyteller: Alright, so,right now you still have two leads: Investigating the courts further or the spiritualist Red Tasha: Spiritualist might be our best bet right now. Nathan Bitwise: Agreed. We don't have nearly enough Politics to get further in the first angle. Storyteller: Oh goodie

Word to the wise: if your game master says anything to that effect, start worrying.

Storyteller: Alright, the contact information you got from Pauper includes a phone number. Calling it? Nathan: Yeah. Tasha's the one with the phone. Storyteller: Ok Tasha: Okay. Calling them now. Storyteller: Ring ring ring [other end] "Hello?" Nathan: Come to think of it, does that contact information have a name, or...? Tasha: (Do they?) Storyteller: No. Just a number Harlan Landerson: Try something like 'We got this number from Pauper, she might have said to expect a call..' Nathan: Or "we've been told you're a ghost whisperer..." maybe? Tasha: Going with Harlan's suggestion. Harlan: 'Someone said this was the number to call for a good time...' Tasha: Not that one Storyteller: [other end] "...Yeah, alright. What do you need my help with?" Tasha: "Have you heard of the deaths at (college name here)?" Storyteller: [other end] "Ah, one of those." You hear a puff, like from a cigarette [other end] "You got a grave of a victim?"

The Storyteller allows Nathan to use his computer skills to look up the location of the grave of one of the identified victims (which of the three in that category wasn't given) in the Lay Ye Down Cemetery, a name which gets a chuckle out of Harlan, which is fortunately close by.

Tasha: Then I give that location and name. Storyteller: Alright. There some clicks on the other side of the phone Nathan: Mouse clicks? Storyteller: [other end] "Yeah, alright, we can do there. Bring something that will make it worth it. Money will do." Tasha: Tasha looks at the others. "Who's got cash on them?" Harlan: Harlan looks uncomfortable but asks, "how much?" Nathan: Nathan looks at Harlan. Tasha: "Enough to make it worth his time."

Harlan goes over his finances and gets together three hundred dollars to pay with. All set, they head out for the graveyard, presumably at night because we want him to have as few penalties as possible when piercing the veil of death.

Assuming, y'know, we ever got that far.

Storyteller: Well, you drive to the cemetary. It's... well, Not much. A large open space. Lots of graveyards. A man, completely on fire. Nathan: Is it where I was when looking for Glamour before? Storyteller: Bushes Harlan: Harlan asks Red if that burning man is normal. Nathan: Well it's the tail end of winter, so I don't think it's Guy Fawkes Day. Storyteller: You know, some crows Nathan: We should probably investigate the man on fire. Storyteller: Oh, okay, you guys want to focus on the guy who is on fire Harlan: I just want to check that everyone sees it, given Harlan's lower clarity. Tasha: Maybe another Elemental. Storyteller: Yeah, he's screaming and running around Tasha: Nevermind Nathan: "STOP DROP AND ROLL" Storyteller: :D

Harlan's already running to put the guy out when he and Nathan notice someone running for the other parking lot on the other side of the cemetery. Nathan darts after him in a foot chase while the others put him out and call 911. Once he's no longer on fire, Tasha makes use of her time in nursing school to stabilize him. The chase doesn't go nearly as well, as Nathan keeps falling one or two successes short of catching up every turn, not helped by the one time he spent Willpower for three dice (which is something that I'm not sure ever occurred to any of us, as you shall soon see).

Storyteller: At least you are close! Almost enough to grab him Harlan: Bean him with whatever is in your pockets! :D Storyteller: You two have blazed across the cemetary and are in the parking lot! The guy pulls out a really big knife! Looks kind of familiar too... Nathan: I really need to get a weapon. ...This is going where I think it's going, isn't it. Storyteller: I 'unno, do you think he's gonna stab you? Nathan: We'll see.

The runner (who is wearing a ski mask) turns and skids to a stop, as does Nathan. Tasha notices Nate is probably in trouble and tells Harlan to stay with the man-that-was-on-fire while she hurries after him. However, it'll take three turns for her to get there.

Initiative is rolled, and unfortunately the runner goes first. Also unfortunately, he's very strong, and Nathan 1) completely forgot Willpower existed; 2) has no weapon; and 3) forgot he's Winter.

The entire thing's a curbstomp. Nathan does nothing to the runner while his opponent hack-and-slashes him, and in those three turns deals exactly enough lethal damage to drop him (it probably would've gone over into aggravated if he didn't Dodge on the last turn). When Tasha gets there, her ally is severely wounded (I'm not sure if the ST decided Nathan was unconscious, the rules are a bit fuzzy there) and the culprit is heading to his car to leave.

Nathan: Does she see the knife? Storyteller: Yes. It's a big knife Harlan: Was it perhaps held at her throat once upon a time? Storyteller: ...it might have been Tasha: Tasha activates Armor of the Elements' Fury and charges at the attacker. *rolls 1 success* Storyteller: ...Mmmm. I didn't expect that. I've got to check the book for what to do Nathan: Well I looked up what's most relevant to me, and I take a wound for every minute I'm unattended. That'd be... twenty turns. Storyteller: The man freezes in the middle of entering the car, staring transfixed at Red before shaking his head. He doesn't seem to want to look away but he forces himself into the car. Tasha: (Hmm... he can see through my Mask and has a thing with fire. Interesting.) Storyteller: Well, No. When you activate your contract, You actually light on fire Tasha: (Ah. Right. So he has a thing with fire.) Storyteller: Yes. Very good Tasha: (Do I make it to the car?) Storyteller: Sure, as he's starting it, door's locked. Nathan: (lockpicking a moving car, that'd be a story) Tasha: Then I deactivate the contract and go to tend to Nate.

The culprit escapes, but his little zone-out at Red's display caused him to drop something, which Red quickly pockets as the ambulance arrives. Both Nathan and their contact are loaded up and taken to the hospital.

Nathan: Nate's body, I imagine, is displaying static all over, probably more intensely around the wounds. Storyteller: Yeah. Ok. Uhhh... The authorities ask if you are family or friends. Nathan: (lie your face off) Harlan: Harlan answers, "I'm a friend." Storyteller: They ask legal questions Harlan: Should I just bullshit with dice? Storyteller: Probably given that more than a few questions have no answer. Like, family. Or, who can handle legal matters if Nate goes into a coma. Also, what do you tell them happened to him? Or rather, What do you tell them happened? Harlan: Well I'd tell them as much of the truth as possible. Lies by omission really. Storyteller: For example? Harlan: We were showing up to meet a friend, we found a man on fire, a man was fleeing the scene etc. does anyone see a problem relaying these events? Tasha: Nope Storyteller: They make several disapproving noises about you chasing after a dangerous person. Harlan: Harlan seems rather upset with his friend as well. Clearly the night is not going as intended.

Nathan eventually heals his rightmost damage box, allowing him to regain consciousness in a hospital room and find himself covered in bandages. The ghost whisperer is in a different room (we later learn he'll need skin grafts for his burns; he's probably not gonna wake up for a while).

Nathan: Anyone else here? Harlan: Harlan in that calm, I am so mad at you voice, "why?" Storyteller: Apparently Harlan Harlan: Yes, my intent was to keep watch over both Nate and the other guy in case that maniac showed back up. Nathan: Nathan takes several breaths, getting his bearings. "I... I forgot... I forgot that I'm... I'm not the Hero... anymore..." Harlan: Harlan rubs his brow, "we're not slaves anymore, we don't have to die for the Courts." Nathan: Nathan leans back (further). "R-Right..." He feels like he wants to say something, but can't quite find the words. Harlan: Harlan sighs, his expression softening, "also I'm growing fond of you, I can't have you checkin' out on my like that. I'm gonna go get some food, you want something?" He reconsiders, "well if the nurses will let you that is." Nathan: "I'd like that... D-Do you think hospitals have quesadillas...?" Harlan: Harlan shrugs, "I don't know, I'll find out." Laughing a little as the tension fades, he says, "you got stabbed good man." Nathan: Nathan chuckles perhaps ruefully. "Next time I need to actually bring something to the knife fight..." Tasha: "Talk to me about that. Later." Nathan: "I will." Harlan: Harlan turns, "oh hey Red. I'll be back." Stepping out he goes to track down a nurse and find out what Nathan can eat, and if it's workable heads out to get a quesadilla while Red keeps the darkling company.

Nathan recognizes that the culprit's knife was a big hunting knife and knows he's seen something like it before, but the dice say he can't place where.

When Harlan comes back from a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint, he tries to check in on their contact on the way back to Nathan, but he's not allowed in the room because being a burn victim is nasty stuff. He finds a way to contrive being near the surgeon as close to the skin graft surgery for him as he can so he can use Favored Fate (though it only works for instant actions and not the extended the surgeries would actually be, but it's the thought that counts; it might still help).

Meanwhile, Red investigates the item the culprit dropped, which is a receipt for a rented portable grill. Their new lead.

Storyteller: Well, you find a trailer park and in the back there is a line of houses and a few big houses. It seems this place offers a variety Of choices Harlan: So me and Red? Storyteller: Yeah. Even if Nate did eat two fruits, It would just be one more stab, And then back on his back Harlan: Harlan as they walk up to the office mentions, "I've really got to get my own car." Storyteller: The office does indeed rent grills Tasha: "Well, maybe you can find one here." Nathan: (we just need a lot of our own things this week) Storyteller: And inflatable pools. Harlan: Harlan smiles, "touche." Nathan: (your need your own car, I need my own knife...) Storyteller: (One is less expensive than the other) There are also gas generators for rent

Harlan does the talking to the clerk and shows him the receipt.

Storyteller: [clerk] "Yeah, I remember this. Got anything to offer me?" Nathan: (well you've got 300 dollars...) Harlan: Harlan fishes the $300 from his back pocket, "Yeah, you got an address?" Storyteller: His eyes light up [clerk] "And a name. Lessee.. Conner... and here's the address. Don't break anything." Harlan: Harlan narrows his eyes and asks him to repeat that, "did you say Conner? Ash Conner?" Storyteller: [clerk] "Dunno their first name, they didn't come in on my shift." Tasha: (Could also be Pauper) Harlan: Harlan asks, "do you make copies of IDs or anything?" Storyteller: He snorts [clerk] "Yeah, but that's worth a lot more than $300. If I get caught giving it out, I'm fucked." Harlan: Harlan asks, "how fucked are you if you get caught giving out addresses?" Storyteller: [clerk] "I don't get caught giving addresses." Harlan: Harlan takes a softer tone, "look, we're looking for a murderer." Storyteller: [clerk] "The IDs are different." Harlan: can I make a persuasion roll? Storyteller: Yes, at a -2 Harlan: *gets 2 successes* Storyteller: [clerk] "Tell you what, I'll show it to you but I can't give you a copy, alright?" Harlan: Harlan smiles warmly, "that would be an incredible help... " he looks at the man's name tag, "Matt, thank you."

Matt unlocks a file drawer and pulls out the photocopy of the ID of - if I may remind you - the person who rented a portable grill and got the receipt of which was dropped by the guy that attacked our contact and Nathan and is obviously our killer.

The picture is of Pauper Conner.

Nathan: knew. knew it. hand in the fucking cookie jar

Since they can't take the photocopy, Harlan knocks over a cup on the counter to distract Matt so Tasha can discreetly get a picture of it with her flip phone's camera.

Storyteller: You take a picture. Remember, only mental gives a -3. Physical and social are -1. [Matt] "Dammit..." Harlan: Harlan hurriedly stoops and scoops up the cup of pens, "ah shit, I'm sorry, Matt." Storyteller: Matt begins wiping the water off the desk. He puts the ID away. Er, Cuppa pens Harlan: It could be both. One knocked over the other. Storyteller: Sure Harlan: Don't know my own strength, I guess :) Just fuckin' throwin shit everywhere, you know Harlan. He puts the cup back on the counter and turns to make his exit, with some very important things to tell Danse. Needless to say the car is going the Fall HQ. Storyteller: Om... Ok. So, You got an address. And a picture. And we're out of time Nathan: Boy has this session been a fucking trip and a half. Harlan: Indeed. Storyteller: You got stabbed. 2 beats for all in addition to the bonus beats I gave Nate and Red

The pieces are coming together, but there's still some vital gaps. Can the Autumn Queen illuminate any support, or does the web of lies go deeper? Will Nathan recover enough to participate in shutting his attacker down? Can we finally close this case after gods know how long? Let's see if we can find out... next time on Seasons Pass!

#changeling the lost #Changeling: The Lost #world of darkness #chronicles of darkness #Seasons Pass #Lone Coon

0 notes

ecotone99 · 5 years

Text

[MF] The Traitors Letter

To whom it may concern,

I’m certain that no one will read this and that if they do it will be far into the future and make little sense to whoever reads it. That doesn’t bother me now because tomorrow it all ends for me and with no outside contact I find myself needing to speak to someone, anyone, and get it all off my chest. So to anyone who comes across this I’d just like to begin by apologizing for the atrocities I’ve committed against my fellow man and against my government.

You see I was born before the war in a simpler time and I suppose that my upbringing, what little I had at least, was to blame. I blame my upbringing but I do so without using that as an excuse. I was born in Western Kentucky in ‘94 (1994 that is) to a single mother whose obsession with booze meant that I would spend my childhood out on the streets learning everything the hard way. It could always have been worse: I could have turned to drugs or gangs instead of the computer.

Either way to make a long story short the kids I hung out with after school were what you’d call “hackers.” Not the Guy Fawkes mask wearing type (if you even get the reference) but the kids who could “root” your playstation for you and put pirated games on it. Because of them I got pretty good and computer science was my obvious profession of choice upon turning 18. Hardest four years of my life up until I got put in here but I finished it and moved out West to find work at what they called “Silicon Valley.”

I ended up working for a company whose name I’ll keep to myself (not that they’re still around anyway) and did so for six or seven years before the war. Hell I even managed to get a pretty nice house with a picket fence and everything. But when the tensions rose and war seemed inevitable everything changed.

We all knew the foreign policy of the last few administrations had been blunder after blunder but when our boys went off to war in Asia it was initially just against one nation and we had the coalition. Wasn’t long until everyone seemed to become our enemy in battle. Nations that we’d been allied with for decades they said were killing our men and the draft was imposed. That’s when it all changed. I was already older than 25 and my job was in data science so I didn’t have to go fight but I saw some of the people coming back and I was, am, just so sorry for them. That’s why I did what I did that was all. But they’re right a crime is a crime.

Anyway I started “working over” every night once the rationing began since I didn’t have much to do at home and could use the companies internet to monitor the goings on overseas. I don’t know why I guess I just like the whole “great game” world news type stuff and I also saw so many people coming back I always thought the war was ending any day. My mistake was not knowing that after the Peace Act was passed my company was one of many that were rolled into the DoD and so the whole time I was being monitored by NSA guys.

I started doing the usual info gathering stuff. I would take on of the last known battles and look for towns around it then lookup newspapers from those towns. I thought this would be all I needed to do to get news from the front and there was so little being played for us here at home. Messed up thing is I never read nothing about no battles in Iran or Japan and I even wrote programs to crawl whole regions worth of newspapers and I found plenty of battles but none involving the US in either of those countries.

So I thought this has to be an error or those countries gotta be covering the war news somewhere else. Around that time I stopped being able to connect to the servers outside America and I assumed it was something the company had done so I started using a system of proxy servers to connect to the outside world. It worked at first but since I still had nothing I started looking through Cameras and microphones but after awhile I still had nothing.

So I began putting together all the information I had into a single folder and I was gonna take it to a real journalist: someone who had an idea what to even look for or who to tell. That’s when the Blackcoats got me. Roughed me up pretty good too and at that time I had no idea what I’d even done or why just that I was in trouble something bad cause they through a black potato bag or something over my face.

After the beating they through handcuffs on me and I left in a what seemed like a bus. I know there were some other people in there with me because I could hear them yelling before loud slaps shut them up. I don’t know how to describe it it was the saddest and loneliest I’ve ever felt and then a heart dropping guilt just kinda sat there in the background. After what seemed like a whole day we arrived at some facility and I was brought to a cell and the bag taken off.

I asked the guy who put me in there as he was locking the door, “hey buddy what the hell is all this for?

He just told me to stay quiet and walked away. My cell faced one of the big white brick walls so I couldn’t see anybody else but I could hear a girl next me sobbing saying to let her go. I don’t know how long she was in there but I know after 5 minutes I heard some loud footsteps and that girl didn’t cry after that. The guard brought me a nasty plate of wet food just once the whole time I was in that cell and I swear it was two whole days.

When I finally did leave they placed another bag on my head, knocked the hell out of me again, and drug me down the hall to a bright room where they took the bag off again and chained me to a large metal chair with handcuffs. In front of me was a tall blonde lady in a black dress suit and a shorter mean looking man with red hair. The man stood up over me as I sat in the chair and pulled a baton off of his side

“Name and social?,” the lady asked in a monotone voice. I told her and the man gave me an unsatisfied look as if he wanted me to tell her a lie.

“Tomorrow you are being bussed to Florence Correctional Institution where you will wait out your final sentence.,” the lady said again monotone, “If you have any questions this is your one chance to ask them.”

As the lady pulled out a pen and prepared to I guess take note of what I asked the man grabbed my hair and told me to ask quickly. I was devastated and had a million questions but the only thing I could spit out was a crying, “Why?”

The man hit me and yelled out for me to be more specific so I asked, “Why am I going to prison? What have I done?”

The Lady gave a soft sigh and put her notepad back and pen back on the table. She signaled for the man to let up on my hair and after he took a step back she began, “did you know we are at war with thirty-seven nations at this time? That hundreds of your fellow citizens are dying every day?”

“I know there’s a war,” I said, “I didn’t know who all it was against.”

“Oh?,” she immediately responded and cut me off, “you seemed to be quite the detective when it comes to the matter how did you not know?”

“I don’t even know if there is a war I didn’t see-,” the man knocked me in the stomach with the baton and my head flew forward. He grabbed me by the hair again and the bastard smacked me in the face two or three times. The lady walked up stern as the man was hitting me and rose her voice. It wasn’t monotoned anymore that’s for sure.

“This!,” she yelled as she brought her mouth right next to my ear, “is why. You are a treasoninst liar who attempts to subvert the war effort by misinformation!”

“No!,” I cried out and the man slapped me again. I didn’t let it stopped me from screaming, “No that’s not it I just wanted to know. I just saw all the men coming back and was curious why so many seemed so rough compared to the wars of my youth. I just wanted to report on the war that’s all!”

“We have war reporters and official channels,” she screamed in my ear as the man beat me for a few more seconds, “we don’t need subversive news from the likes of you.”

The both backed off of me as I cried out that I was sorry and I didn’t know. I must have swore to every god I could think of that I wouldn’t do it again: that next time I’d know better. They were having none of it and they both walked out of the room as the bag was brought over my head yet again and I was dragged out into the hallway and back to a cell.

The next day I took that bus ride with my face covered. It took us three days to get there with me being beaten every now and then and the occasional screaming off some other poor soul who had done wrong. I won’t bore you with the details of the terrible things I suffered through over the last few years since I arrived but I did want to say that if the weekly needle therapy is still around I hope you never have to go through it. Once a week for the last few years I’ve been brought to a room where I talk about the crime I committed and other crimes like it except when I do these nurses stab needles into my side and inject some kind of reverse pain medicine in me and that’s the worst thing I’ve ever felt.

Now I know it’s taken me awhile to get here but the whole reason I decided to write this was what happened yesterday. I had just came back from the daily hour I get outside the cell when the door opened and a man with a bible came in. He was the preacher see and everyone is given one last visit before you know what. He walked up and put his hand on my shoulder.

“If you wish to repent you can do it now son.,” he said in a gently voice and looked at me. You can imagine I apologized for everything I’d ever done and when I finished the preacher went on.

“I’m sure you are,” he said as he stepped back and looked up at the one small window at the top of the cell, “I know it doesn’t mean much to you now but since it’s almost over we figured we would give you the satisfaction of knowing that you’ve helped the world just a little bit.”

I looked up at him with tears in my face and said, “H-how? What do you mean?”

He gave a large smile and spoke, “The Administration has been looking for a way to rehabilitate vile prisoners in an efficient and reproducible way. You’ve been part of a test to perfect this method and I’d say are living proof that it works. Murderers, rapist and dissidents all can be churned back into productive citizens in a few years. Once the post-therapy kinks are worked out of course: but you’ll not have to worry about that.”

I was dumbfounded. Part of me wanted to scream at him but as soon as the anger came a pain hit my lower gut and a fear like that of child seeing monsters in the dark came over me. Anxiety overwhelmed me and I looked at the man, who still smiled, and with a mouthful of choking tears I cried, “G-glad I could help. So there’s no death penalty anymore? You just let people go?”

“Yes that’s correct.,” he said as he walked closer to me yet again, “well except for you and the other test subjects. You’ll understand that having people around who remember before the treatment will be a bit of a problem going forward. We can’t allow you to even unconsciously spewing such conspiracy theories as the one you were locked up for lying about.”

I did, and do, understand what the preacher meant. The state has to uphold unity in the people and I was planning to spread disinformation or at least to spread information I didn’t know was correct. I only wrote this letter for people in the future to find because they’ll wanna know how it happend. How the world became so much better as a new type of society emerged from the victor of that awful war.

Before I don’t think I would have been able to look death in the eyes without that odd guilt one gets when imagining the world without them. Today I know I leave to give a better world to the children of honorable citizens and to prevent men like me from existing. I think, though I don’t know for sure, that given the chance I’d have killed myself all those years ago even before the Lady in Black and the Red Haired man beat me. If they’d have just told me it was for the good of society.

submitted by /u/KinterVonHurin [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2YzEVzg

#Blogger #Story

0 notes

goldeagleprice · 5 years

Text

Of coins and chronograms

Reverse of Nürnberg 8 ducat whose 1721 date is shown as the chronogram MDCCVVVVI in the reverse legend. (Image courtesy Stack’s Bowers)

The top-selling lot at Stack’s Bowers’ NYINC world coin sale back in January had its date woven into its reverse legend as a chronogram. Whether or not this aspect of the coin contributed to the U.S. $78,000 price tag of the Nürnberg 8 ducat is unknown, but it sure didn’t hurt.

Chronograms have been around for a long time. They occur in many cultures. The legends of coins have provided a favorite habitat in which they thrive.

The word means “time writing” or “time letters.” It refers to interpreting specific letters in a sentence or coin legend as numerals. When these are rearranged, they provide a specific date. Both Roman and Hebrew characters are the most commonly used.

The reverse legend on the ducat provides an example. Certain letters are shown in a large font. From left to right, these are: V V D M I V C C V. Rearranging these, we have the Roman numerals MDCCVVVVI, or 1721, the date the coin was struck, where M=1000, D=500, C=100, L=50, X=10, V=5, I=1.

Clearly, when it comes to coins, it is essential to have a legend containing the letters to provide the appropriate Roman date.

Klippe of Saxony with chronogram date in legend MDLLVVIIII = 1614. (Image courtesy Stack’s Bowers)

Chronograms are quite common among European issues of the 17th and 18th centuries, particularly higher-value coins of the German states. A nice example from Saxony is provided by a klippe taler struck by Johann Georg I to mark the baptism of his son. The reverse legend contains the letters V I I L D I L I V I M in large font. These rearrange as MDLLVVIIII, or 1614.

Medals of Tsar Peter the Great of Russia frequently display chronograms. Among them, a large gold medal by Philipp Müller is of particular note. Not only does it celebrate the founding of Russia’s Baltic fleet but it also provided a model for subsequent generations of Russian medalists.

Peter the Great medal with chronogram date of MDCCIII = 1703. (Image courtesy Stack’s Bowers)

The reverse legend reads FINNIA ECCE TRIDENTEM [Finland behold the trident]. The larger letters, bolded here, give MDCCIII, or 1703.

Chronogram date of MDDCLLXXVIIIIII, or 1731, is worked into the obverse legend of this Austrian Netherlands’ jeton. (Image courtesy Stack’s Bowers)

Occasionally, the obverse legend is cunningly worked to incorporate a chronogram. This occurs in a copper jeton of Archduchess Maria Elisabeth of Austria, Governor of the Austrian Netherlands. Her title reads: ELISABETA SEXTO BELGII AUSTRIACI MODERATATRIX. This one is a bit tricky, as the “U” in AUSTRIA doubles as a “V.”

Breaking it down, we have LIXLIIVICIMDIX, for MDDCLLXXVIIIIII, or 1731.

Reverse of highly charged religio-political medal celebrating the uncovering of the Gunpowder Plot with a chronographic date. (Image courtesy Classical Numismatic Group)

A particularly fine example with a British theme is found on a silver medal struck by the Dutch Republic for James I. It commemorates the discovery and failure of the Gunpowder Plot. Amongst a design heavy with political and religious symbolism, the reverse legend contains the date within the legend NON DORMITASTI ANTISTES IACOBI [You, the keeper of James, have not slept]. Readers may wish to figure out the date of Guy Fawkes’ arrest from the bolded letters.

This article was originally printed in World Coin News. >> Subscribe today.

If you like what you’ve read here, we invite you to visit our online bookstore to learn more about Standard Catalog of World Coins, 1701-1800.

Learn more >>>

NumismaticNews.net is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to Amazon.com and affiliated websites.

The post Of coins and chronograms appeared first on Numismatic News.

#Precious Metals

0 notes

rileyomalley · 6 years

Text

Curiosity Kills (A JunkHop Fic)

Chapter 1 cont! Previous Entry: [x] Word Count: 1328 Rating: PG-13 (very lil mention of violence THUS far) Pairings; Roadhog/Mako Rutledge x Junkrat/Jamison Fawkes x Overwatch OC

It didn’t seem like the hog man was going to budge. He was just standing there staring at the woman as she hung desperately from his hook.

The only thing that broke the silence was the sound of someone hobbling over and giggling.

“Well well well, looks like you caught quite the catch eh roadies? Seems like were got a little snoop follow in our trail.”

Hopper did her best to try and look around to see the other man, only a few instances before she had to re-situate on that uncomfortable her hook.

What she did see was a slightly smaller, more lithe individual, donning a grin about a mile wide and amber eyes that held nothing but mischief. Said eyes roamed about her form in a way that left Hopper feeling exposed…

He leaned in a bit closer to her, a look of cartoonist suspicion with a cocked fiery brow. “Why you sneaking around, Sheila? Awfully strange place for someone like you to be wandering.

Someone like her? What was that supposed to mean?

“Or you’re looking to get some cash and thought to trail after us, eh? We ain’t so dub to your tricks!”

Hopper just blinked in confusion. Not that she didn’t handle criminal activity on her own, she had no clue who these two men even were - save for incredibly eccentric.

“To be quite honest with you in really not looking for trouble. I was just curious is all and…”

Before finishing her sentence there was a loud burst of static - oh shot, her communicator! Shed literally spaced she was relaying info back to HQ.

"Hopper! Come in agent Hopper! Are you alright? We heard a scream during your transmission. Is everything ok-”

It was cut off suddenly by a massive hand going around her wrist with a yank and crunch! Communications were lost now thanks to the larger man. Her wrist was also wracked with pain by his grip. Hopper looked on, mortified.

“What the hell you do that for you gargantuan jackass!?!” She begun to flail about angrily attempting to kick at him but only bring yanked further and off his chain finally.

His companion huffed scowling. “Now that’s just plain rude, Roadie ain’t done nothin to ya!”

“He literally just BROKE my communicator!”

He just rolled his eyes at Hopper. Wasn't long before that toothy grin had returned, a cacophony of giggles soon to follow. “Oh now we can’t have you give away our location now Lil ..Hippie was it? It really put a damper on our lucky streak right now.”

A resounding sigh came from both Hopper and her captor.

“First of all its Hopper, secondly..I really don’t know who you guys are and-” she made an attempt to wriggle from his grip and kick, to no avail. Goddamnit. Had her wrist not been gripped so tightly, she would probably activate her gauntlets right about now...

Curse that tricky tech that was both handy and unfortunately not always at the ready.

The thinner man gasped placing a hand to his chest dramatically, as if hurt by her words. “You don’t KNOW?? How do you not know the most wanted men across he Australian outback, the most dastardly minds and dangerous criminal-”

“Junkrat.”

The larger man spoke up in annoyance leaving Junkrat to pout with furrowed brow. “I wasn’t even finished yet!”

“Do it later. Sounds like police down there highway.”

Oh thank god.

“Right right..seems you’ll be coming with us then, Hoppah!”

WHAT.

“And WHAT pray tell gives you that bright idea?!”

He just gives a hearty laugh pulling out one of his bombs.

“Unless you’re wantin’ to try a tussle with old Roadhog here, I could always show ya how explosive these bombs are.”

Okay. Fair point.

She would really have loved it kick that damn grin off is face right about now. But that may have to wait as she was hoisted off over the shoulder of Roadhog, Junkrat not too far behind. They were making way to what looked like a large Harley motorcycle with a sidecar attachment. Without question, Hopper was placed in that sidecar like it was nothing, Junkrat squeezing his way into as well. The bike shook once Roadhog took his spot beginning to rev up the engine that...honestly had a nice deep rattling purr.

Hopper grimaced when an arm was slung about her shoulders, looking over at the grime covered junker who grinned in return. “Looks like you'll be sittin' pretty with me for a while, 'til we get back to our hideout. Was sure Roadie was going to stick ya with him up front.” To which only resulted in a low grunt from the hog.

She just groaned, doing her best to play it smart for now and just roll with it, as much as she wanted to shrug off that arm and throw the taller man out of this goddamn sidecar. Watch him tumble and laugh to herself, but promptly being murdered by his partner in crime....probably.

She could totally get away from that situation....totally.

“Not as if I had a choice but hey...” She finally muttered, causing the junker to give a tilt of his head. He pat at her roughly on the shoulder and laughed, pulling her close so they were cheek to cheek. “Awwww lil Hoppah, don't be so grumpy! You're with the best around! We'll take good care of ya!” She could only imagine how well considering his lack of hygiene. She really tried her best not to judge, gently nudging his side. Please give me breathing room you are so goddamn stinky. It only spurred his laughter more. Hopper just groaned, twisting back a bit at the sound of long distance police sirens. Welp, so much for that being her saving grace.

She just settled in, blocking out what conversation the junker beside her was trying to strike up, idly letting eyes wander to the larger man. He was the big, silent type with an intimidating appearance. Seemed usually, not too different than any others she'd seen. She couldn't help but wonder why his ensemble was heavily pig themed.

Guess he liked pigs – that's all that she could gather from it. Kinda cute, she had to admit. Cute and deadly.

“Hoppah!”

She jumped in her seat, bringing her attention back to Junkrat. “Jesus christ, what??”

“I was just askin' how you got your nice legs! They look pretty fancy, can't be cheap. Or you steal em off an omnic or somethin?”

Oh...ah...she didn't realize that he'd been eyeing her omnic prosthetic legs. She curled them a bit together before stretching one slightly with a turn. She looked down at his own. “Oh, these? Got lucky after an accident. My uh...employers were nice enough to sport me with some new legs after an accident I was in.” Junkrat looked to perk up more, curiosity dancing about those wide eyes. “What you do to lose your legs?? You explode em off accidentally? Get em run ovah? I know I had some issues myself with this ol thing. But! I made it better!” He gave a shake of his peg leg, Hopper letting out a low breath.

“Ah...I'll maybe save that story for another time, yeah? Not really a fun or pretty sort of...mmn..”

A low rumble came from Roadhog, catching Junkrats attention before he looked back to Hopper. He sunk a bit in his spot. Ahh...a sensitive subject. He hadn't meant to hit such a spot.

“No worries, mate, you don't gotta tell if ya don't wanna.” He tapped his fingers about his arm, Hopper staring off to the side.

“...but I would love if I could get a closer look at them beauties when we get to the hide-”

“Get anywhere near my legs with those grubby hands and I swear I'll throttle you myself.”

#riley writes #ocs #overwatch oc #Roadhog #Junkrat #Hopper #Curiosity Kills fic #my writing is so goofy but HEY IM TRYING

4 notes · View notes