I decided to take the criminal lack of statham-adjacent material on this site into my own hands and fix it. I realise this may mean I'll still lurk alone on the tags, but I'd rather take the risk and if on the other side I'll meet more people who like him and his characters, all the better - actually, please, do come forward, come on this journey with me, it's cold and lonely on these empty tags
on this blog you may find:
headcanons
fanfics
playlists
edits
rbg material
possible rp [if there's a character you'd like to see or if you have an idea, please come forward. strictly +18. I am a seasoned rplayer, so I won't preclude myself from the chance to do it, but I am highly selective, possibly lacking the commitment/time and don't guarantee anything. won't do real person rp.]
requests [it's a possibility for most of the above, but I won't make promises. I will take it into consideration based on what/if I receive anything and act accordingly.]
I will cover most of jason's characters, particulatly:
deckard shaw (fast & furious franchise)
adam clay (the beekeper)
lee christmas (the expendables)
orson fortune (operation fortune)
mason hargreeves (wrath of a man)
arthur bishop (the mechanic)
joey jones (redemption/hummingbird)
parker (parker)
tom brant (blitz)
frank martin (transporter)
michael mason (shelter)
danny bryce (killer elite)
I realise this is niche, but I am desperately looking for my people, I'd love to make this a small hub of sorts where we can lose our minds together about these characters -- cause how do you explain it to people who don't watch statham's movies?? never be afraid to reach out, but please be mindful and respectful.
one thing needs to be clear about mason: there is a before and an after in his life. before, he was a more or less regular man, a criminal and warlord, perhaps, but nonetheless a man with a business to tend to and the goal of being a better father to his son than his was to him. it can be all ground down to this: before, above all else, he was a father; now, in the after, he is consumed by grief and revenge.
mason fears touch. more of, he fears intimacy. he is extremely avoidant and secretive and likes to keep people at arm's length, compartmentalising any kind of relationship just like he does with every aspect of his life. everyone is an asset. he wouldn't seek closeness unless he needed to exploit it for gain. he would rather get skinned alive than look for comfort in someone else.
he doesn't fear anything. not the law, which, for obvious reasons, he doesn't trust, firmly believing in personal justice. not death itself, he has already lost everything worth living for. he considers himself the biggest shark, and most times, he is.
he didn't use to be, but ever since losing dougie he suffers from hymnsomnia. in the rare occasions he sleeps, he is riddled by terrible nightmares, seeing his son's death happening over and over again while unable to do anything to save him. as resault of the panic and terrible distress such nightmares cause him, he always wakes up frozen in a state of sleep paralysis. nobody knows it, but when he sleeps, he does so curled on himself with a baby beanie from when dougie's was a newborn tucked under his pillow.
his biggest fear already presented itself.
his greatest regret is that his son had to pay for his crimes and he has accepted he will have to live with that guilt to consume him alive for the rest of his life.
despite appearing in complete control with his thoroughly planned vengeance path he is set on, as mason thinks he can deal with his grief through bloodshed, he isn't dealing with his loss in any other way, repressing and annulling all of his emotions and feelings down, effectively becoming a ticking bomb.
he avoids looking at himself in a mirror or any reflective surfaces, hating the man he sees and considering him the real culprit to his son's death.
he hasn't cried yet. probably never will.
he doesn't remember the last time he laughed either. is convinced he never will do that either.
just like loving another or let himself be loved. mason is convinced he is done. his emotional side is being completely consumed and muted. though, precisely because he is avoiding feeling anything, he is missing how desperate alone he is.
he believes he is searching for vengeance, blinded by his own rage, but, reality is, mason is desperate for absolution and redemption.
requested by: @deckardshawsgirl I hope you like it love đ
character song: micro pleasures, by farveblind & sebastian monti
star sign: virgo âď¸ | symbol: the maiden | element: earth | house: sixth, cadent | tarot card: the hermit | ruling planet: mercury, retrograde
archetype: hephaestus "the orphan" | vidar | horus, harpokrates, "the child" | shiva
character traits: Â analytical, meticulous, grounded, loyal | stubborn, cautious, withdrawn, doesn't like change
curios/misc:
he doesn't like loud noises, crowds or music, though complete silence bothers him. he became somewhat fond of the ocean sounds, finding particular comfort in the sound of wind and waves, even violent ones.
he is completely touch-starved. pretends not to need it but craves it.
he doesn't sleep. partly too used to needing little rest as per training and life-long experience in the forces and MI6, and mostly because his lifestyle is reduced to very few inputs, and he is simply never tired. he considers it a curse.
he is terribly scared of heights.
he is superstitious and a tad paranoid, or has a touch of undiagnosed ptsd/ocd, and firmly believes conducting his life following a certain routine, dictated by specific rules, rhythm and sequence of actions, keeps him safe. the distruction of such can be detrimental to his mood.
animals likes him.
he hasn't cried in years, not because he is too hard for it but because he is convinced he had run out of tears.
his love language is acts of service.
he constantly lies to himself and has, by now, convinced himself that a lonely life is what he needs and deserves, but craves everything he could never have: warmth. he doesn't know what it means to love or be loved, but knows what blind loyalty and devotion are and would bring them to its full extent if given the chance. though he is aware he can only dream about a family.
he is the type of drunk who drinks alone to obliterate his senses, cancel himself from existing and dissociate from reality. he drinks to self-preserve and self-harm.
his life is currently made of regrets, and he has no escape from the guilt or the consequences chasing him.
he hasn't felt like belonging in a very long time. he has made of the lighthouse the hole he hid into, but it isn't a home, it's a cement cage and, likely, his grave. he knows his efforts to survive are only slowing the unavoidable process of death or, worse, madness approaching.
his grave would be likely unmarked and abandoned.
some more traits: pessimist, introvert, cautious, emotional, methodical, hardworking.
The concept of a big, manly man turning soft and gooey when you love on him just a little. Yes, heâs enormous and he knows how to take down a bulk of men in a minute but he melts when you kiss that soft spot right behind his ear. One big paw holding you flush against him- pressing you deeper into that spot, urging you to touch him. To make him feel good. Wordlessly begging, âmore, more, more.â Youâve got pretty baby chubbing up in his boxers, fat tip dripping because it feels so good to be the one taken care of.
Youâre so proud of him for taking what he wants. Usually, he's the one taking such good care of you. But as fierce and stubborn as your man is, he needs to be spoiled too.
But with time, he learns to let things happen. To let himself feel good, feel worthy of this. Worthy of you. Lets himself be pressed into soft sheets, to be kissed dumb until heâs misty eyed and needy- brain cloudy with want. Sweet boy is finally getting what he deserves.
a/n: let's kick things off, shall we? I've decided to stay on a headcanony kinda path for now as I don't feel ready to commit to a full-fledged fic - thought you could see where I was going with this. There might be a part two coming at some point. please enjoy and let me know how you like this. support and notes are always welcomed.
trigger warnings: this is a pretty tamed one, hints of fluff, kinda angsty? mention of injury, mention of drowning, death and grief, no use of y/n - reader isn't described, but she is jessie's mum so, chances are they look similar.
words: 1.9k
masterlist
vision song
Youâve heard of the infamous hermit who lived alone, confined on the island a few miles off the coast. The village was full of stories about him, and, as much as you liked to keep yourself away from gossip, knowing better firsthand how harmful it could be, you couldnât help some of it from sticking. Some called him a madman. Some swore he was so horribly disfigured he couldnât live in a community, and others said he was shunned because of it. Stories were going around calling him dangerous â for who would be able to live in isolation for years with no good reason but either shame, madness or being on the run?
A whole load of shite-, you often thought to yourself. You could perfectly imagine what would drive someone to decide to leave society. You were tired of it, too, sometimes.
Thatâs how you brought Jessie up: to always think independently, no matter what others said, to always be unapologetically true to herself, no matter what othersâ expectations were. You couldnât really be surprised to find she was growing into a curious, fearless, smart-as-hell child. And you couldnât be prouder. You did it. When everyone thought youâd cave under pressure, and all just sat watching, waiting for it to happen, you proved them all wrong. Though that never stopped the gossip from going around the village, no matter how much right you did or how good Jessie was, you were both a single mother and the pictured failure pity-party who was abandoned when pregnant.
Which was exactly why you never believed everything you heard.
Though after both you and Jessie were rescued from certain death, seconds from drowning in the icy-cold, angered North Sea in the middle of a red-warning storm, you still had your doubts when forced to face the hermit himself.
Straight terror, actually.
It didnât matter he just risked his life to save you and your child.
It may have been the panic mixed with adrenaline of that near-death experience that shook you that much. Or perhaps, it was the innate sacrificing instinct of a protective mother; either way, when you regained consciousness, still wearing soaked-through clothes and being chilled to the bone, you were ready for a fight even when you were far from being in shape for it.
It didnât help that Jessie was equally shaken, scared and tired. Youâve never seen her withdraw and go so quiet, squeezed behind you.
The man did not say a word to you. In fact, he didnât even look in your direction. He quietly sat in the room across, turned away from you. Somehow, it seemed that despite the imposed distance and silence, he was still being as hospitable as someone who didnât speak to a person in years could be. Protective, in a way.
You didnât sleep even though your sore body desperately needed it. Instead, you spent that first night listening to your child breathing, quietly waiting for both of you to warm back up under the blanket you found covering you.
You learned soon that the old manâs intention wasnât to hurt you.
He didnât speak much, but his actions were often louder.
Beginning with the fact that he had no expectation or demand for you to pay back his hospitality.
He let you sleep in his bed, borrow his clothes, eat his food, use his limited resources, and, when it came to it, he took care of your injured ankle. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle as he attentively studied your swollen, aching joint. You barely felt it, and it surprised you. His fingers were cold and soothing. âDo you have medical experience?â You attempted, hopeful to get a word out of him, but not expecting an actual reply. He simply looked at you from under his frowning grey brows. âNo.â He said, placing your foot back on the pillow and covering it up with a fresh frozen towel. âIf the swelling doesnât go down, youâll need meds.â He still added, leaving you wondering.
He may have been quiet. So quiet, in fact, that you didnât even know his name. But he was undeniably kind.
As soon as Jessie shook the panic off, she found her usual spirit back and tried her hardest to get him to open up, bombarding him with questions and getting quite the attitude when he gave her nothing in return. God only knew how long that kid fantasised about becoming friends with the man in the lighthouse. You couldnât stop yourself from smiling, watching the way your childâs warmth spread through the excruciating lonely existence of the ageing, looking man. He surely wasnât used to the company, but he never once dared to be rude to her. Never once hinting her to shut up.
Took you a few days to get back on your feet.
You held a moment of silence for your brother, who drowned in the storm and stacked some stones on the beach in his memory.
You even got used to the dog. Someone could even think you liked the beast. He was gentle and attentive, like his owner, and he responded as easily just to the manâs word. Any command, mostly through body language like a whistle or a snap of his fingers â his words were scarce even for his most loyal, unnamed companion â the dog would blindly follow, sharp as a whip. Though when the animal was allowed to rest, which was most of the time, it revealed itself great company for Jessie.
âPeople at the village must think we died in the storm,â you observed one morning, not entirely expecting the man to answer you. He sat behind you, drawing the same view of the window you were watching Jessie play with the newly-named Jack-the-dog from. Outside, it was a rare, stunning day. The wind roared, as usual, but the sun was bright and the sky was cloudless. âIf not,â you continued, âsomeone would have come looking for us by now.â You had no family left on the mainland. For Jessie, you were it, and she was all you had. No friends waiting back home. No people whoâd notice enough to get concerned.
âGood.â He solemnly said. âDonât want strangers nosying on my island.â
Somehow, his sudden words and detachment hurt you more than being aware that nobody batted an eye at your disappearance. Â
âCanât keep us here forever, you know?â You didnât look at him but knew his attention was on you, feeling his tired, hazel gaze burning on the nape of your neck. âWhat happens when you run out of food?â You tried to find reasoning. âWhich seems is going to happen sooner rather than later.â You ignored the prolonged silence he fell into. âSo?â
âIâll think about it when the time comes.â
âNo. Time is up now.â You faced him. âIâve lost my brother and my boat; I almost died myself. My child almost died. Iâll be forever grateful to you for what you did for us, but Iâd very much like to get back to my life now. And you need food.â
âCanât let you go.â He sighed, his attention falling on the sketch he was drawing.
âWhy?â You waited for an answer that didnât come. âAre you afraid someone may find out you are hiding here? Well, trust me, I can keep a secret.â Again, he didnât respond, but you were starting to read his body language well enough to know the stiffening of his squared shoulders meant he was uncomfortable. You struck a nerve. âPlease. I donât even know your name. I can lie. People donât even like us back at the village; we just have our own quiet life. No one is coming and asking.â She watched avidly the way his stoic features seemed to tremble, only for a moment, though his hesitation was gone with a blink.
âSorry.â He shrugged, as if that was going to be enough to end the conversation.
âAnd what do you suggest we do? That we stay trapped here and starve together like a merry family?â
Something in your words got his attention. He raised his hardened gaze on you; something melancholic hid behind his eyes. âIâll go get food.â
âAnd that is somehow better than let me do it, how?â You poked him, not backing down. âListen, letâs make a deal. Both Jessie and I can do with fresh clothes. Let us go, we can pack some stuff, get your usual supply and come right back. If that makes you feel better, weâll come back. But we need food. You need food.â
âIâm fine. You can have my fill.â
A version of that same conversation happened another couple of times. Once at dinner, when you realised he wasnât lying and in order to keep feeding both Jessie and you, he cut his own soup portion by three-quarters. And another time in the middle of the night, while you left Jessie sleeping and dared to approach him for some company, hoping to get him to change his mind.
He didnât trust you enough to let you go with Jessie, and you didnât want to go without Jessie. Leaving your kid back seemed an awful lot like blackmail and too close to kidnapping, though you hated to consider your time there like you were prisoners.
You quietly argued about it, and then he stopped speaking to you.
In the morning, he got up on his feet, put his heavy coat and hat on, called the dog to guard the door and locked both Jessie and you in the house before you could object. Then he was gone.
He came back with an ample supply. More than you expected, considering his standing order consisted of booze, basic canned foods and porridge for years. The pasta and pasta sauce he brought back looked like the most extravagant food you had ever seen after a week on sole soup and porridge. He also got a bag of sweets for Jessie, which won him a considerable number of points from your kid. Some more first-aid kit supplies and sanitary pads, which was a surprisingly decent gesture from a man who lived alone for years and who suddenly had women in his house. Topping it all off with fresh clothes for both of you.
âGets cold in here,â he pointed out while you examined the thick wool hat he got for Jessie.
He didnât say he was sorry for his ways, but you thought no words were needed. You knew his providing was his was to apologise. Even if you thought he certainly needed a communication skill improvement soon, this was good enough. For now.
He was keeping you there, sure. Partially against your will. Partially with reason. And still, there was a splinter of warmth crackling underneath the surface of his hardened shell. You wouldnât dare to consider it affection, and still, at dinner, you let him cook for you and then you eagerly searched for any hint of emotion he would give while Jessie spoke enthusiastically about the several puffins she saw.
âYou can see seals off the coast, sometimes.â He offered, straining himself to make conversation. Jessie beamed in the brightest of smiles, bubbling about wishing to see them. âIâll let you borrow my binoculars tomorrow.â
You looked at each other and he smiled. It was just a hint, but it was more than enough for you. It was the first time he let himself go, shedding the frigid armour encasing him.
OMG đł. A fellow Jason Stathem fan? I love you already. If you're still taking the requests thing for his characters. Can you do some headcannons for either Mason Hargreeves or Frank Martin? (Whichever one you want â¤ď¸)
Baby I'm so here for all of it! I've got you boo đ will treat myself to both I think - love myself some mason - it might just take me a second to work on it. I've got some coming out for michael mason and arthur bishop too soon so be on the lookout
Kind of annoying how so many edgy bad comedies claim "we're going after everyone", because you're not. One of the few which did was "Crank" and that movie's incredible.
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