mood. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
adisastergay) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2020-08-04 05:17 am
adisastergay) wrote in bakerstreet2020-08-04 05:17 am
Entry tags:
shipping picture ♡ ｐｒｏｍｐｔｓ
picture prompt meme
SIMILAR TO THE PICTURE PROMPT MEME & THE SMUT
PICTURE PROMPT MEME ONLY FOR SHIPPING.
i. COMMENT WITH
CHARACTER
ii. OTHERS LEAVE A PICTURE (OR TWO OR THREE....)
iii.
REPLY TO THEM WITH A SETTING BASED ON THE IMAGES.
Link to an image: | Embed an image in your reply: | You can control width and height of your pictures: |
no subject
Which then, naturally, leaves the question of how much of Sebastian's hand is worth showing. Nate would buy him a drink even without the truth-- some things in life will always be constant -- but the truth of it is that Sebastian has felt a little like he's been chasing his own tail since he put his boots down on the island. This isn't his area and they both know it and that Nate is here proves two things:
1. That Sebastian is much closer to where he needs to be than he actually realized, which is a relief and an annoyance in equal measure.
2. Short of killing him where he stands, Sebastian has a greater chance of being crowned the next King of England than he does of finishing this job without Nate stomping through his plans with all the grace of a drunk bull to do whatever it is he came here to do.
His tenacity would be admirable if it didn't so often have the side effect of sending things tits up for anyone stuck inside a 5 mile radius of him.]
You know what they say. Idle hands are a son of a bitch. Maybe I figured it was time to pick up a new hobby.
[Most details are better left unsaid. Sebastian isn't alive today because he has a habit of running his mouth more than he should.]
So how's about we call it two drinks and I'll keep what's left of them from getting close enough to blow you off the island?
no subject
There are only so many reasons that a professional trigger man would be in a godforsaken place like this, and given their previous run-ins Nate would bet money that their paths are intersecting for a good, valid reason, like having similar and/or conflicting interests. Why else would he be sweating (and shooting) bullets in the jungle? There's nothing around for miles except the prospect of millions in gold.
Sebastian defers because he's at a loss and it sends a sudden thrill through Nate to know he has the advantage, even if it's not something he'll make a point of explicitly exploiting. They've technically worked together before, if only in the grudging capacity where it suits both parties to rid themselves of more enemies together. A hurricane is more effective than a couple of thunderstorms. ]
Aw, that's sweet. Back me up so you can swoop in at the last second and try to snipe the prize.
[ He doesn't elucidate what the prize is. There's a strange, tacit understanding that they don't require certain information to know what's really going on.
Still, it would be nice to have some extra help to alleviate some of the pressure while he's trying to work through whatever mechanism will undoubtedly require solving. Sebastian is lethal and Nate isn't so stupid as to think that his assistance wouldn't be missed. He chews his lip for a long moment, debating, before lifting one shoulder in half a shrug. ]
Two drinks, but only 'cause I like you.
no subject
There's no point in wasting time on artful deflection when Nate is well appraised of how quickly Sebastian can(and has) turned on those who've run the course of their usefulness for him. He hasn't killed Nate yet, or even tried to with any kind of concentrated effort, and that probably says something about the odds the other man has of walking back out of the jungle by the end of this.
Sebastian chooses not to look at any of it too closely.
He tongues the split in his lip and snorts.]
Like my aim, you mean.
[Sebastian has met few people as skilled as Nate at saying things in a way that straddles a razor thin line between mockery and sincerety so effectively, and the only way he's found to approach most of what comes out of his mouth is swift dismissal. Even if Nate meant it, which feels laughable, being well liked has never been at the top of Sebastian's priority list.
The gunfire has stopped, which Sebastian assumes to mean that what's left of the army has finally wisened up enough regroup for a new attack strategy. As much as he doesn't expect a better performance out of them, sitting out in plain sight isn't much his style, either.]
Come on, then. No sense in making it easy for them.
no subject
They make swift work of the mercenaries: Nate up close and personal, Moran from the shielded vantage of a ridge over the last encampment. He realizes with grim recognition that they've gotten close to the site he thinks might serve as the entrance, an air shaft cut into the bedrock and tunneled all the way down into the earth. The brush remains, they haven't disturbed it, but they got close. Must have thought it was a sinkhole, a cenote, and not intentional. While the hyper-accurate patter of Sebastian's bullets pick off the last of the guns-for-hire Nate hastily scribbles coordinates in his sketchbook, marks a location and makes a quiet note to return when it's light out and he's gotten a change of shirt. The current one is spattered with blood, no thanks to Sebastian blowing the head off a mercenary about five feet away from him.
He knows that was intentional.
The walk back to Nate's set-up takes about two hours, all told, a tiny village at the edge of the jungle with colorful buildings, dirt roads, and a single watering hole staffed and patronized by locals. It's evident in the way that he carries himself - and the familiarity with which he is approached - that he's known by residents, has been here before.
Hotels barely exist in this part of the world and because of that he's traded a wad of cash for a couple weeks' stay in an empty house at the edge of one of the agricultural properties. ]
Hope you're not picky.
[ He quips, pulling out a plastic chair at one of those wooden cable wheels, turned onto its side to be utilized as a table. ]
Pisco's pretty much all they drink out here.
no subject
He's made a point to avoid people where he can, trading the vague potential of local knowledge for the security of anonymity in hostile territory, and while the village Nate brings him to isn't one he's happened upon himself just yet, they're always the same. Small and close-knit, smart enough to veil their wariness of strangers with a distant welcomeness until they can get a feel for what they want, but he can't say he's exactly sorry to have the opportunity to drop some gear and settle in somewhere outside the maze-like sprawl of the jungle.]
Can't be any worse than some of the swill I've had.
[A drink is a drink,after all, and Sebastian can at least concede Nate never said it would be a good one.
Almost immediately there's a cigarette in his hand, shaken from a pack that has seen better days, and Sebastian's lighter taps almost thoughtfully on the makeshift table before he dips his head to light up for a long drag.]
So you've been here a while, I take it.
[It's conversational if not for the way it's a not-so-subtle probe, said with his teeth around the filter, and Sebastian leans back to consider Nate through the haze of smoke he blows out. It had been impossible to miss the familiarity that greeted Nate here, but somehow Sebastian can't bring himself to be surprised by it.] You seem comfortable enough.
no subject
Sebastian's hooded eyes watch his cigarette and Nate watches Sebastian, curious, observing the way he inhales deeply and seems to suck the smoke in before replying. He digs the way any inquisitive man might, going around the subject before planning to shunt the shovel beneath the roots and lift the entire thing out of the ground.
He doesn't trust Sebastian, but that might be the most self-preservation oriented decision he's made in some time. ]
I've been here a couple times.
[ Understatement. He knows the town's de facto mayor and the little girl who lives around the corner, the mamita who presses containers of slow-cooked pork into his hands when he passes by, the artists who paint the walls of the town. A thin, reedy citizen ambles over with a bottle and two small glasses, and Nate flashes him a smile that is immediately returned.
He pops the cork and tries to ignore the way that Moran's sharp blue gaze cuts through his skin like a razor, like artillery. After pouring two helpings, he slides one across the worn wood. ]
Staying at a nearby farmhouse. Nicer than letting the bugs eat me alive out in the jungle.
no subject
The problem with people like Nate is how easily they draw others into them, which could be mitigated well enough if he didn't also seem the type to establish a relationship of some kind with just about every person he so much as trips across. As Sebastian watches a smile crack open across his face for the man who brings their bottle, warm and bright as sunshine, familiar in a way that goes beyond one or two chance stopovers, he realizes with no small amount of irony that even he's included in that despite the best of his earlier efforts.
Not that it couldn't be just as likely that Nate has simply sped along the process of establishing himself amongst the people here through nothing more than the sheer force of a natural, irritatingly affable sort of personality, but Sebastian thinks he could probably use it either way. If Nate is welcomed here, accepted and trusted here, the suspicion that comes with being a strange fox in a new hen house is cut significantly by virtue of a visible, friendly association over a shared drink with him. It wouldn't be the first time the ability to fall back on the fail-safe of a tightly linked community happy to protect itself and those they consider theirs has saved him by the skin of his teeth when he least expected it and it's not something he'd turn his nose up about now.
And, anyway, Nate might have a point. The god forsaken bugs crawling under every leaf and buzzing through the thick walls of air crushing in on all sides have been a bitch.
He huffs a breath through his nose that's almost a laugh, and reaches for his glass.]
Yeah, you might not be wrong about that. Salud.
[He's had it before, he thinks as the pisco washes over his tongue and cuts a hot path down his throat. In Chile, maybe, or Peru, drinking what was put down in front of him without really caring what it was or what it was called, but bizarrely the first place his mind goes to is the heat of an Afghan desert he lost more than a little bit of blood in. He'd traded just about anything that wasn't nailed down for green raisin moonshine and shitty cigarettes back then, and, to his own personal delight, even turned a healthy profit on both even after shaving a bit of a finder's fee off the top.
He's not sure it's a memory warm enough to count as nostalgia, but he's not sure it's anything else, either.]
So, [For all that his body language is relaxed-- more relaxed, really, than it has any right to be considering the carnage they've left behind them to rot in the undergrown -- regarding Nate through a gaze that could be called lazy by the casual observer, his eyes hold the sort of critical assessment better reserved for laboratory specimens being vivisected under a microscope than for two men catching up after a long stretch apart.] I don't suppose the odds of you telling me anything useful about this treasure that's got everyone hot and bothered are much in my favor.