titusnowl: (TF2 Spy)
The first arrival almost went unnoticed.  Scout just happened to catch a glimpse of a figure on the road outside as he ran past the main gate in mid-battle, and he backpedalled to look.  "Hey, guys," he said over his radio, "there's somebody walkin' out here."

"What's some mad bugger doing, waltzing all the way out here?" muttered Sniper (doing anything BUT muttering would be pointless, since Scout was the only one with a microphone).  He scanned the field until he located his teammate, then zoomed past him into the usually-empty bare fields and dirt road that stretched for miles between the base and the nearest town.  Well, there certainly was somebody out there.  Probably been in a car wreck or something, the poor sod - looked a bloody mess, literally.

Meanwhile Scout had stopped to stare, his attention easily diverted by something new.  "Hey, fagnuts, what the hell do you think you're doin' out here?  Kinda far for a fuckin' Sunday walk, ain't it?"

The pedestrian stopped the aimless wandering at the sound of the shouting voice, pausing for a moment before breaking into a surprisingly-fast sprint.  As the distance closed, the figure became clearer - a woman in jeans and a t-shirt, blood streaked over her face, wild-eyed.  She slammed into the bars of the gate at full force, shrieking and gibbering.

Scout stepped back, just out of range of her clawing arms.  "Ooooookaaaaaaay.  Medic, you might wanna come have a look here.  I think this is fucked up."

thinking aloud )
titusnowl: (TF2 Spy)
this is what i've been doing (well, this and band practice) instead of meeting online social obligations for about a month now.  it's not finished but it's almost there - i have to write the big action/adventure sequence at the end and then bring it to a successful conclusion that leaves it open for sequels, since it was primarily envisioned as something cinematic. 

it began as tf2 fanfic but it isn't really tf2 fanfic at all.  i think all the information that's required to understand the setting can probably be inferred from what has been written. it's... kind of a humour piece, i suppose? character-driven genre satire

i took out the graphic sex for this post.  :V

The Fabulous Adventures of James & Bond, wip, part 1 )
titusnowl: (bloody cavalry)
Engineer: i bet there's a pool
Engineer: 'when will one shag the other'
lechuza: THE WAY IT HAPPENED:
lechuza: It was because of those bloody tents.Read more... )
titusnowl: (Simon Templar)
If you've never met the Saint, you can understand him quite readily by absorbing the simple idea that, although he is what one would consider a thief, he is not a burglar; audacity is always preferable to slinking out the back way.  For instance, the ideal way to rob a bank is by making an appointment with the bank manager, sitting in the office, sharing a cigar, and then saying in a conversational tone: "By the way, this is a stick-up."Read more... )
titusnowl: (cup of tea and a lie-down)
Found this elsewhere, don't think I ever posted it:

I can readily imagine Psmith getting into a sort of Plunkett and Macleane style highwayman act - I shall write in the second person for ease of pronouns as otherwise there'd be an awful lot of "he"s - you may imagine that the "you" is Mike.

"I cannot bear to see you wasting the best years of your life toiling away, back bent over your work, hair gone grey with the factory-dust, grown old before your time," he would say to you as the two of you walk home from your jobs at some sort of dull grim Industrial Revolution thing.  "Two such masterminds as we ought to strike out for ourselves.  You may say what you will about the glories of Industry, Commerce, et al., but I see the utility of Entrepreneurship.  Be what you make of yourself!  I've a fool-proof plan, you see."  He explains the scheme to you with grandiose phraseology and deceptive turns of phrase, but you get the gist of it, which is that he shall attend all manner of glitzy parties, classy gambling dens and society events, ingratiating himself to the upper crust and sussing out the particularly rich and stupid, and you shall rob them.  It is unclear whether he intends to assist in the physical robbery, and you have a vague uneasy feeling that you're getting the short end of the stick, but he convinces you anyway.

All is well for a while, and it turns out that he does, in fact, assist in the physical robbery - seems to enjoy it, actually, although he acts terribly bored and blasé about the entire thing if he's called on it - and the two of you are soon enough sitting on a pretty little sum.  Yet when it all falls apart, and it inevitably does, it is you who are arrested and he who disappears without a trace, leaving you feeling more than a little bitter and abandoned.  But before you are brought to trial, the gaoler releases you.  You haven't the slightest idea why until you pass a cryer hawking broadsheets which explain in lyrical format with accompanying woodcut illustration (which makes him look far more romantically handsome than he is) that the Gentleman Highwayman has confessed all - the man they'd caught before was an innocent bystander, a mere decoy - his wild adventurous tale told in full - and he is to be hanged today.

At noon.

Which was at least twenty minutes ago, by the first watch you find.

You run full-tilt to Tyburn, where you find with a flush of relief that they'd made the mistake of asking him if he'd any last words.  You fight your way to the front of the crowd and he sees you; his bombastic speech falters for the barest instant, then he smiles at you reassuringly - never a care in this world or the next - and finishes his statements to a roar of applause from the gathered audience.

A moment later the drums start, and the world goes silent except for that dread tattoo.

He refuses the mask.

He complains to the hangman that the rope is too tight the first time he puts it on, eliciting one small, final smattering of laughter from the assembly.

He never takes his eyes off yours or loses his slight smile.

Then the drums stop, and up he goes, trying not to kick - but there's not enough starch in the world to keep an upper lip stiff through a hanging.

For a moment you're frozen, unsure of what to do.

Then you do something very brave, and somewhat heroic, and incredibly stupid.

And because the crowd, bloodthirsty as they are, are even more thirsty for mayhem and a poke in the eye of the law, it works.

Somehow you save him, and get away in the press of people, half-carrying and half-dragging him and hoping you weren't too late, but of course this is a story with a happy ending, and you weren't too late, and he is fine after a while (though not as soon as he wants you to believe).  He tells you he never doubted you for a moment - he knew if he got you sprung you'd spring him too - he'd the utmost faith in your abilities as a man of action - and he keeps going until you're red at the ears and ducking your head, though he never actually says "thank you." 

"There was," he says, "the most amazing view from up there.  I had never before appreciated how small this country is.  Far too cozy for me, I think.  We should emigrate.  There's more of a chance for advancement for the self-starting man in the Americas..."

titusnowl: (WOT)
title: A Modern Prometheus, If That's The Greek Chap I'm Thinking Of: A Romance
by: [livejournal.com profile] chikkiboo
fandom: P.G. Wodehouse
characters: Mostly original, using characters from Psmith's world, and also cameos from characters from The Saint
rated: G
for: [livejournal.com profile] all_hallows_fic
prompt: monster: Frankenstein's Monster
disclaim: The characters of Euphonia Smith and Beatrice Van Walden belong to me.  All others are the property of their respective creators.  No infringement upon the rights of P.G. Wodehouse, Leslie Charteris, Mary Shelley, or anyone else is intended.  Do not take internally.
notes: The horror element is very understated.  Also, it's about 3,600 words, so you might want to get a cup of tea to drink while you read.

It all started when I accepted that invitation to stay a few weeks in Shropshire... )
titusnowl: (dallas 1937)
"Well, if this ain't just the snake's hips."  My sister's voice cut through the crowded air of the speakeasy and hit me in the ear as effectively as if she'd walked over and physically smacked me upside the head, which I reckoned she was fixing to do momentarily.  Me, I was caught like a deer in headlights, froze up on my way to the kitchens still hugging a crate full of bottles that claimed to be Crown Royal and tasted like legitimate grounds for abdication.

Beth worked her way through the mess of dancers, trailing a sallow, ferrety fellow behind her like one of those wooden ducks on a string.  "If our parents knew you were here," she was saying meanwhile, and if I'd had any sense I would've ducked out while she was still getting her toes stepped on by foxtrot agents.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded when she got in range.  So far as I knew, Beth didn't even drink.

"Stewart invited me," she said, drawing herself up - I hate it when she does that, because she's taller than me; and that helped me place the ferrety fellow.  Her fiancé, the accountant.  I looked at him.

"Your name's Stewart?  I thought it was Stanley."

"It's Stewart," he said shortly.

"Are you sure?  Because I really, really thought it was Stanley."

"Jim, I can't believe you forgot his name!"  She was really setting up to fume.

"I know!  The only guy you've ever landed - I ought to remember it just on account of the novelty!"  She looked like she would smack me for that crack, so I switched tacks.  "What would Ma and Dad say if they knew you were in here?  And you!"  I rounded on Stanley.  "Leadin' my sister into this-here den of iniquity and vice - you got a goddamn nerve - "

Beth wasn't having any of it.  One finger shot out and pert-near poked me in the nose, so's I went cross-eyed trying to keep track of it while she wagged it and her jaw in eight-to-the-bar time.  "What are you doing here?  Pa'll tan your hide six shades of red when he finds out - "

Jerry, one of the boys in the kitchen, poked me in the arm on his way by just then and said something fussy under his breath.  I had to get moving - couldn't stand around on the job.

"I don't know what you think you're up to - " Beth was saying, and I cut her off.

"I'm - " a goddamn genius, that's what I was.  I looked 'em both straight in the eye for a second, then glanced real furtive-like at Jerry disappearing into the kitchen and said in a quick rushed whisper: "I'm undercover.  Don't throw up dust or I'll get busted like a Jersey mug!"

They didn't know what the hell I was saying - sure they didn't!  They couldn't, on account of I was making up lingo like a dining-car cook making leftovers hash.  But it sounded impressive, whatever it was, and they ate it up.  Beth put her finger away and Stanley put on a face that only an accountant could make and nodded real stiff.  "Sure, we won't tip your hand," he said.

"Make like a couple of eggs and scramble!" I hissed.  "You don't know me!"  And they ankled.

Not that I didn't half owe 'em one.  All the crates save the one I was hugging on were already inside, thanks to good old Jerry.  I carried my box into the kitchen and put it up and slumped against the wall to drink down an advance on my pay, and Jerry poked me again.  "Lazybones," he called me.  Hell, five minutes with Beth was enough to make me feel like I'd gone through the ringer.  "That your sister?"  He whistled, which I found kind of funny on account of she ain't nothing to whistle over.

"Yeah," I told him.  "A real damn Valkyrie.  You like her, I got a line on fifty more just like, down at the stockyards."

By the time them two figured out I was feeding 'em breadcrumbs, I had enough dirt of my own to keep 'em dumb.  That's my life with my family: a carefully-balanced pile of blackmail and bribery.  It'd be good practice if I wanted to join the mob. 

Hell, for that count, it was good practice for living in Dallas.
titusnowl: (The Saint)
A one-night liaison between French gentleman-cabrioleur Arsène Lupin and an Englishwoman named Sarah Talbot resulted in a son, and Sarah's death in childbed.  The orphaned offspring, christened Samuel, was subsequently raised by his grandmother at her country home in Essex.  His boyhood was a happy one, if rather lonely, for although his grandmother raised him with care he had no playmates; however, he was blessed with a vivid imagination, and entertained himself by absorbing every adventure story he could lay his hands upon.

Following his grandmother's death when he was ten, he was sent to an orphanage; being nimble of both mind and hand and cleverly charismatic even at that tender age, his tenure there was not the misery that others have experienced in similar circumstances - although the staff of the institution were not sorry to bid him farewell when the time came, despite concurrently bidding farewell to a rather large proportion of their fenceable goods.

Upon being superannuated at the age of 16, young Sam Talbot attempted to enlist for the War, but was turned away due to his youth.  He made several subsequent attempts, falsifying his age and living, meanwhile, by theft and con-artistry, before finally being accepted near his 17th birthday, mere weeks before the Armistice.  He made it through the rather rudimentary training process to which the English army had by that time been reduced, and was, in fact, in France being shuttled toward the trenches when peace broke out; and so, not being particularly enthusiastic about serving if there were no battles to fight, he went absent without leave on November 12.

For the next year he rambled across the war-torn shambles of Western Europe under a series of pseudonyms, enjoying his own take on the traditional Grand Tour.  October 28, 1919 found him in a small town in southern France, following up on a legend he had heard regarding a lost medieval knight's treasure in the ruins of a castle there; it just so happened to be his eighteenth birthday, as well as a saint's feast day, and this confluence of circumstances combined to inspire him to take the name by which he would be known for the rest of his increasingly noteworthy life:

Simon Templar.
titusnowl: (dallas 1937)
Another boring Tuesday at the office, with lots of nothing to do and three hours before Happy Hour at the bar in the Adolphus, when in walks this absolute dream of a dame.  We're talking legs up to there, knockout green eyes peeping out from under one of those toy hats the dolls like to pin on the front of their heads, and she was wearing some sort of dress or something I guess; it had buttons down the front and how the buttons weren't busting open I don't care to imagine 'cause I'd rather imagine they were.  So I give her the old professional smile, and she walks on over and sits on top of the desk and leans over real sultry-like so's to make the most of that dress, and she says: "I heard you could help a girl out with her problems - "

And I say: "Uh-huh," or something just about as useful.

And she leans over a little further and starts toyin' with them buttons, and she says: "My fiancé - "

And I blink, and she's sitting in the clients' chair, the one with the high back to it, with her purse on her lap and her fingers fidgeting with the strap of the purse, and I take a hit of my coffee and say "Uh-huh" again.
titusnowl: (Simon Templar)
Title: Bowler-Hat and Respectability
Thingy: Gen and G-rated (S&R, not S/R).
Length: Not Much

THE FATE WORSE THAN DEATH )
titusnowl: (master & commander rum sodomy lash)
Title: Homecoming (I guess.  Hahahahahah coming hahahaha I'm 12)
Pairing: Simon/Roger, of course.  I never bother with fic-headers on anything else, apparently.
Rating: NC17 NO SERIOUSLY THERE IS SEX IN HERE I SAY THE WORD COCK AND EVERYTHING
Summary: It's been three months, Saint.  You could have called.  There could have been long-distance phone sex or something.  Or maybe telegram sex.  Although I imagine that would get expensive awfully fast.

Waiting with the orphans... )

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titus n. owl

February 2015

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