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If you could have any other vigilante in bed, who would it be?
demon time w/ frank || accepting
"What are they— what are they callin' that big beefy one, runs around with all 'em jailbreak lunatics? You don't see him a lot in the footage after, real discreet for a man with thighs that thick."
standard issued layers forgone for something more casual, more comfortable, the heavy carrier keeps some heat in thanks to the thicker hoodie underneath - he's got hands jammed under the sides of kit, sacrificing comfort for warmth as winter creeps and creeps and creeps further still into the safehouse of foreign freedom fighters hellbent on providing assistance. (why is it either unfathomably hot or miserably cold. what happened to a temperate fucking climate.) he can't complain too much, admittedly, it's better than being in a tent in the rain.
voices dissipate, his nose is red with the chill, and he watches lazily as shadows slink out of view. (is now a bad time? probably. but there's no such thing as a good time in shitshows like this.) rick hovers in the space where the sas operator cranes over whatever is left on the desk, and he uses the more leveled heights as leverage to wrap fingers in the bottom of balaclava. a shift of fingers, careful stare: a test, mostly. fabric slips up the others neck, eye contact refusing to break, and his hands stop once the cupids bow of simon's lip is visible.
quite content with his victory, the captain closes space between them, offering a rather chaste kiss, his own face cool to the touch.
unprompted inbox things || always accepting ➜ @warhunting
Naturally he is aware of Rick’s presence as the other man comes closer, but his focus remains on the maps. Plans had to be perfect and now was as good as any time to do so. Hands hold most of his weight, yet none of his balance. as he leans on the table, leading him to be at a close level with Rick, which seems be exactly what the other is after.
When the fingers hook in his balaclava Simon simply remains still. Not a muscle moving while eyes remain firm on Rick’s face, waiting for where this is going, where it might lead. What was he really after? Was this as good as any time to simply let things transpire? To let the head take a backseat and allow nature to play out?
Too many thoughts are warring for attention, and by the time the kiss is no longer a kiss Simon is finally catching up to the moment itself. Tongue darts out to swipe at his lift, as if tasting what remained on his lips before sucking in his lower lip. Chewing on it. Head nods for Rick to come closer, it’s the only movements made. The balaclava remains where Rick left it. The hands remain on the surface of the table. Much like the thoughts in Simon’s head attempt to win over allowing him the remain in reality and the moment.
( @warhunting // plotted )
HE ISN’T SURE EXACTLY HOW LONG HE’S BEEN WALKING but it’s been a couple days. The sun has set twice but he knows that there’s a town nearby. The cold that’s been seeping under his skin is disorienting, frostbite setting in as quickly as his body can heal itself. The serum is the only thing that’s kept him from freezing solid.
Melina is nowhere to be found. He saw her die. He died. But now...he doesn’t know what happened but he knows if he’s here then she must be SOMEWHERE. She has to be. His suit, somewhat torn from battle, was only sufficient protection against the cold for so long. He’s run hot naturally since getting the serum but the below freezing temperatures are not something ANYONE could withstand for an extended period of time without the proper gear. Between that and the wolves, it’s been a rough couple days to say the least.
Eventually, he sees light in the distance, ambling towards it. The more superficial wounds from the fight have healed but the worse ones are still struggling. His body is fighting against the effects of the cold and to heal his WOUNDS at the same time. Alexei hears the door to the cabin open as he staggers up the path. He raises a shaky hand to show he means no harm, crimson staining it. ❝ Пожалуйста товарищ мне нужна помощь. ❞
@eisiramdeus said : smacks him in thos ranger panties booty
his shirt is still damp from morning run, though everything else has been mostly discarded in the illustrious stroll from front door to kitchen. IT’S HIS HOUSE, AFTER ALL, and dress codes don’t apply to a gracious host - hence, the silk shorts, for lack of better terms. crisp morning air intermingles with sweat, though he seems unfazed by the way his lungs sting with the change in temperature and the concept that he’s seemingly far from alone. typically he isn’t one to make a separate cup of coffee for someone else, living primarily alone had become comfortable in some form - but he can’t complain too much, really.
mug is slid across the counter top, his counterpart crowds his space - and poignant slap earns a rolling tighten of muscles and a curt sort of sound. stare rises, head turning: it’s almost odd in a way to see someone rise from his bed around the same time he does. guess there are perks to entertaining other war fighters.
❛ take it easy with the hands, cowboy. ❜ features tuck themselves into a coy little smile, which is hidden behind the brim of mug. ❛ don’t wanna deface government property. ❜
✯ ENTERTAINING OTHER WAR FIGHTERS IS BLOOD ON YOUR FACE AND GLORY IN THE TELEVISION. THIS? THIS IS LOVE LANGUAGE AND ROMANCE WITH HIS HANDS. You’re welcome. And thank you FOR THE MUG, they say you’re the man to talk to FOR A LITTLE CAFFEINATION. HE’D CALL YOU ‘SECRETARY’ TO PACK A LITTLE HEAT AND FUN BUT HE NEVER HAD A SECRETARY THUS FAR. No idea how that kind of corporate luxury feels. You know how it is. IT AIN’T ME, I AIN’T NO (...)
That’s not what he hand in mind, but he sees the little smile behind your mug and feels assured the humor is reciprocated. Hand closes int a greedy grip of meat and flesh, good squeeze, thrashing around with a snarl & growl, nose twitching like a warning he’d claimed a meal and you’d best not get in his way. ❝What, deface them silkies? Only government property I see here’s yer ass.❞ Gentle smooch on his cheekbones, warmth and steam radiating off Rick’s mug, hand easing and sliding up his lower back before retreating. How’s that for good morning? The cowboy behaves, and takes a seat beside him, spinning his mug. ❝Army property lookin’ ass, bought ‘n sold. Rented, too, but that’s just fer me on weekends, three times a month.❞ Please, it’s early in the morning.
❝Y’know, I could git used t’ this real fast: mornin’ risin’ an’ mornin’ runnin’... freshened out by showerin’ when the sky’s still orange, then treated t’ the cup o’ coffee I deserve...❞ rolling eyes and a shrug, a catty whistle and smug smirk toward Rick’s choice of silkies. You think this is embarrassing enough as is? He’ll double down. ❝This, ah, this’s nice, is all. Thanks.❞ Eyebrows and mug raised at Rick, cheers, like a morning toast. I think he’s saying it’s love, but try pressing that one out of him, fucker.
@warhunting
the bunker had been exactly what he expected when he stepped into it, a throwback in time that made his head spin and his mind throw out images of the past that only cause melancholy to LOOM. it had been a little dark even with artificial lighting, and unnecessarily green walls, that they all seem to have. even now HOURS later, the moment medals had been pinned and words had been said, it still sank into his head how depressing it was.
his eyes catch the team, the one whos labels now have a shining pin, one steve placed while a colonel spoke about COURAGE, BRAVERY, and SKILL. the man wasn’t wrong, he’d read the files, but it was the same speech every time. it was never personal, never labeled the men what they TRULY were. not just these men deserved better, but all the men that served in the us military should be given more.
a hand tugs at his collar just a little, the old dress uniform snug in ways that have nothing to do with being old, simple discomfort, hands resting behind his back, catching the leader as he stands off to the side. the small talk won’t last long, these men aren’t important to the government officials that are here, ( and if they are, it’s because of the USES they have to the agenda and nothing more, steve knows it all too well ) .
he pulls himself from his position, feet carrying him forward, hands still tucked behind him, ❝ you look about as UNCOMFORTABLE as i feel. ❞ and maybe its the wrong thing to say, but he does anyway. he leans into his strong suit: awkwardness.
@warhunting
At this point I’ve accepted @warhunting’s Rick as canon for years more than anything the “canon” writers have created
now, this is a pretty familiar situation. too familiar, even. going on twenty-two years of this kind of life, he’s had plenty of brushes with lawmen and their ilk. lost plenty to them, too, in that endless chase for glory and wealth but sometimes, just getting by. so sitting here on his ass with his arms bound behind his back -- hat knocked to who knows where to leave the sun’s relentless heat scorching the back of his head red -- isn’t anything that stands out too much to him, all things considered. mighty inconvenient, yes. but livable. breathing only hurts a little.
the fall from his horse was less than graceful: blundering, ugly crash to the scrub and dirt below, dragged down by a smart throw of a lasso he was too slow to dodge. nothing feels broken in the here and now, but he’s far from unscathed. his shoulder and ribs throb with a dull pain with each heartbeat, each breath, and he anticipates the ink stains of bruises to blot and spread across the rough canvas of his skin soon enough. for now, thin streaks of red and torn skin will tint him into some vivid colors..
Arthur looks up to his lucky captor, squinting against the sun and he’s either grinning or grimacing in the kind of light that bleaches his hair blonde. part of him wonders if he should try to bluff his way out, but another part stomps it down -- charming is Dutch and Hosea’s job. the outlaw feeling rope burn settling into his wrists like a brand is more of a hands-on sort.
“gonna be honest here; be easier to just let me go now.”
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE: @warhunting
he’d tried to reason with them, really. g.i. joe remaining stubborn while digger kept repeating through the barricaded entrance door that paolo’s a real hot-head and probably ‘s got some unfair stunts up his cocaine-stained sleeves. don’t ask him how he’d gotten that connection. man goes where business pays. ‘ told ya they’d escalate it, mate. ’ words meant to give away his presence to the soldier that currently seems to be in slight distress, still sandy as a sandbox from the one or other boom back there. and digger would be, too. if he’d been dumb enough to stay and fight. now he can’t help the shit-eating grin that spreads at seeing one that probably prides himself on always being in control so lost. nonetheless, guy’s still got the big gun. only reason harkness’ smile contains about a gram of civility. you can get anything by fake winks and kisses. or almost, that is. the rest usually comes with a knife in the back. not that he would ever.
almost lazy is his position against the brick wall a few yards at safe distance from the other. his nod and introduction with that same casual attitude. ‘ digger harkness, we talked through the door. ’ @warhunting
