freebirdyance

[freebirdyance]

his tits have bewitched me body and soul

[freebirdyance]

"But I feel like I can trust you. I sense that you have a... far greater part to play in all this. Will you help me find answers?

Perfect. Come with me."

RULES:

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This blog will contain multi-shipping across universes, so no drama starting.

TAGS

tell me what happened. (answered asks)

do you not see the lightning? (lore)

forces far beyond our control... (ooc post)

the arcane arts. (ask memes)

untrained and uninitiated. (rp threads)

commune with the dead. (reblogged)

[freebirdyance]

Yancy isn't sure how long he stares at the note or how many times he reads it. The glittery pink is a pop of color in his world, just like Wilford used to be. Several alarms are blaring in his head. If Wilford wanted him to come back late at night to help with something, it definitely wasn't anything good.

He tries not to read too much into this. Wilford obviously needs help with something that is his... specialty. Illegal, shady shit. And because Yancy still cares, he's going to do it.

You are a lying piece of shit. Glad you admit it.

Protecting me... from what? From people like you?!

"Guess so," he murmurs to himself as he starts the car. There's no malice or anger behind it, just... nothing. He knows what he is.

~~~

At a few minutes to ten, he's parking in the alley and knocking on the back door of the bakery. Not knowing what to expect, but ready to 'help'. Whatever that entails.

John is dead.

It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.

Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.

As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.

Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.

He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.

@wilfordsbakingshop

[freebirdyance]

BIG fan of this design choice

[freebirdyance]

Yancy follows Hannah to the bathroom without a word like she's pulling a leash, keeping his gaze glued to her. And while she searches for the first aid kit, he sits down heavily on the edge of the bathtub, suddenly feeling much older than thirty-something.

He doesn't like this. Feeling like there's a hundred wasps buzzing around in his skull and migrating into his fucking chest. The only thing that helps him breathe around it is her. He furrows his brows and forces himself to hear her words, lips faintly raising in a half smile. A rumble in his ribcage, something between a grunt and a chuckle.

"Yes, ma'am," he responds, looking down at the hands in question. "I'll keep my hands to myself." Once she's standing in front of him again, one of his hands comes up and slowly runs along the outside of her knee, traveling up her thigh until his fingers brush just below the hem of her shorts. "Well... mostly to myself."

Seeing red. It's a turn of phrase he's heard before, an indication that someone is so fucking mad that they can only see red.

The thing is, Yancy doesn't see red.

He doesn't see anything.

At first, it's a haze. His vision swims around the edges, wavy and pulsing in time with his pounding heart. Hearing goes to shit, too. Blood rushes in his ears, drowning out the screams or urges for him to stop.

But he can't. He doesn't just get this mad for whatever reason. He can count on one hand the times it's happened. The first is when he killed his parents. The second... he got his hands on someone who was selling little girls to the highest bidder.

Now, this time. This time. Oh, this spineless motherfucker deserved his ire and then some.

Next thing Yancy knows, he's being hoisted up by his middle, and there's only one person he knows who could achieve something like that. Five inches taller than him and a good hundred pounds heavier. Yancy almost starts throwing elbows but manages to think better of it just in time. Still, once his feet touch the ground, he's shoving away from Jimmy with something like a growl in his chest.

And he's left with the aftermath, staring at John like it's the first time he's seen him. He only knows it's him because it's the last thing he saw before everything went black. Now... the fucking bastard is unrecognizable.

His face is swollen and beat in with several fractured bones, no doubt. Rivulets of blood gush freely from his nose, smaller ones from the various areas that his skin has split open. Guess he's seeing red, after all.

Pitiful rasps scrape against John's throat on the way out of his mouth, and Yancy just... basks in it for a moment. His own breathing is ragged, labored, and he takes stock of himself. Hands and arms splattered in blood, along with some on his tank top. His hands are stiff as fuck, but the pain hasn't kicked in yet. Doc is going to have an earful for him, probably. Somehow, he manages to think it's a good idea to remove his rings now before his hands swell up anymore and he puts them in his pocket.

He tells himself he isn't a complete monster since he won't leave John like this until he dies. He got his hits in. The punching bag is broken. It's of no use anymore.

Holding his hand out to the side expectantly, someone hands him a gun. Doesn't matter who. Two strides to close the distance, and he's pressing the barrel against John's forehead.

"Make sure you tell Tony who sent you." Fuck, his throat hurts. Was he yelling?

Boom.

Then... he goes home.

[freebirdyance]

Reblog if you're okay with people coming into your dms or ask box with storylines and rp ideas!

[freebirdyance]

Yancy doesn't know what to make of Wilford's look. Only that it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Feeling powerless is, unfortunately, a feeling he has become used to in the last few months. But now, seeing that Wil is hurting and unable to do a fucking thing about it is somehow worse than everything else.

Fuck.

In the moment he has alone, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing as he remembers it's also still healing from his... fighting. His eyes water, but still, the pain helps clear his head. He straightens back out when Wil returns.

Six dollars. Not enough to make much or any profit, but it's not his business. He puts a fifty on the counter (to be fair, he doesn't even look at the demonination) and doesn't ask for change before picking up the box.

"Take care of yerself, sw... Wilford," he says lowly before walking out. Once he's in the car, he breathes and opens the box. He's not one to eat his feelings, but why fucking not.

He stops when he sees the card and picks it up.

John is dead.

It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.

Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.

As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.

Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.

He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.

@wilfordsbakingshop

[freebirdyance]

"Need to sit for a spell? What's on your mind?"

Name: Henry "Hank" Overton

Age: 45 (young au - 25)

Height: 6'1"

Nationality/POB: American/Austin, Texas

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: bisexual

Face Claim: Jeffrey Dean Morgan

Rules and guidelines under the cut

[freebirdyance]

"Okay, so sometimes a little harm is necessary. But only for the bad guys, yeah?"

Name: Kalina Syzmanska

Age: 28

Height: 5'4"

Nationality: Polish

Pronouns: she/her

Sexuality: demisexual

Face Claim: Florence Pugh

Rules below the cut!

[freebirdyance]

Hanky. He fucking hates that, and of course that's exactly what Murdock is going for. It's almost like he wants to go outside again and test his patience. "Only thing you've convinced me to do so far tonight is whoop your ass. So in that regard... sure you are."

Hank picks up the whiskey that Joe slides in front of him and sips at it. Probably going to be his last of the night, at least here. His tab is probably a foot long at this point. Raising an eyebrow, he turns his head just enough to give Murdock his own side eyed stare before he's rolling them.

"Psh. If you're gonna ask her anything, ask if she'd like to be the first person ever to touch your dick. Maybe she likes charity cases."

Was having a drink at his favorite dive bar with little to no interruptions so much to ask for? Apparently, it was, according to the man seated on his left.

Murdock is a little younger than he is and capable enough when it comes to jobs. But good God, he didn't know when to shut the fuck up sometimes.

Tossing back the whiskey, he sets the glass down and taps the counter next to it to signal for another. Glancing at the man in question, hazel eyes peering past dark circles and thick lashes. "Wanna repeat that? I was busy ignoring you," he rumbles, the remains of a Texan accent thickening as the alcohol began kicking in.

@murdersinthemaking

[freebirdyance]

"Twenty-six h... Harlen Vincenzo." Hank can practically feel the will of his mama reach across from Texas and take hold of him. That is way too long to be on the road. Fuck, what if something had happened on the way? "New York ain't goin' nowhere, you coulda stopped to rest."

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, trying to focus on anything else he needs to do and not his pulse rushing in his ears. "'Course I don't have to... I want to. Just... get here safe so you can take a load off, yeah? I'll even treat ya to dinner."

Hank receives a voicenote. It's been a common occurrence since Harlen got his number, especially since Harlen's hands are usually busy when he wants to talk to Hank.

But this one comes with the familiar sounds of being on the road. Harlen's driving somewhere.

He sounds exhausted as he speaks, voice holding an air of distraction as he's focused on the road.

"Hi, Puddin', just wanted to ask," he begins, pausing briefly to make a turn. "What's your address?" It would be an odd question if Harlen hadn't just driven into New York.

He did say he'd visit soon.

@save-the-horse

When Hank first hears the voice note, he assumes that maybe Harlen just wants to send him something. But the fact that he's asking while driving and the exhaustion in his tone is enough to convince Hank otherwise.

He didn't... did he? Shit.

It's a double-edged sword right in the gut. He's fucking ecstatic at the prospect of seeing Harlen in person. His mood has improved significantly since they've started talking again. But there's so much he doesn't know... so much Hank can't let him know.

He can do this. Focus on the positives. Don't fuck this up.

At least his apartment is clean, but he definitely needs to take out the trash. A shower wouldn't hurt, either. And he's not too hungover, at least. He's carrying bags down the stairs while calling Harlen. "Whatcha up to, Harley?" He asks with a chuckle. "You in town or somethin'?"

There's no hiding his excitement. Not when it comes to Harlen.

[freebirdyance]

I'm going to try and get one round of posting done before Christmas, then it will probably be quiet around here until after the holiday is (thankfully) over.

[freebirdyance]

Only on the outside, sweetheart.

Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.

Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.

But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"

John is dead.

It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.

Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.

As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.

Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.

He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.

@wilfordsbakingshop

[freebirdyance]

"I said what I said, fucker. Anything more expensive is at my place, and like hell you're gonna convince me to invite you over." Yeah fucking right. If Murdock tries to steal a lighter right in front of him, then Hank would have to watch him like a hawk to make sure he doesn't swipe anything else. Not that he has much other than his fish, but still.

He makes his way back to where he was sitting before, nodding and smirking at some chick down the bar. She's been eyeing him, but he's still scoping the place out. Not to mention, Murdock has been an annoying distraction for most of the night. "'Nother round, Joe, if you'd be so kind."

Was having a drink at his favorite dive bar with little to no interruptions so much to ask for? Apparently, it was, according to the man seated on his left.

Murdock is a little younger than he is and capable enough when it comes to jobs. But good God, he didn't know when to shut the fuck up sometimes.

Tossing back the whiskey, he sets the glass down and taps the counter next to it to signal for another. Glancing at the man in question, hazel eyes peering past dark circles and thick lashes. "Wanna repeat that? I was busy ignoring you," he rumbles, the remains of a Texan accent thickening as the alcohol began kicking in.

@murdersinthemaking

[freebirdyance]

Holy shit, he's really here. Hank's heart does something funny in his chest, stuttering like an old car engine that hasn't run in a while. Pumping out whatever dark shit was hiding inside, giving way to... something. He was in love with Harlen at some point. Still is, apparently.

He realizes he's been quiet a beat too long, ditching the trash in the dumpster before ducking back inside, taking the stairs two at a time. "Bullshit, you're gonna crash at my place. Got a nice couch, or you can have the bed." His voice is wobbly from nerves and excitement as he rattles off the address and apartment number.

"You sound beat, how long you been drivin' for?"

Hank receives a voicenote. It's been a common occurrence since Harlen got his number, especially since Harlen's hands are usually busy when he wants to talk to Hank.

But this one comes with the familiar sounds of being on the road. Harlen's driving somewhere.

He sounds exhausted as he speaks, voice holding an air of distraction as he's focused on the road.

"Hi, Puddin', just wanted to ask," he begins, pausing briefly to make a turn. "What's your address?" It would be an odd question if Harlen hadn't just driven into New York.

He did say he'd visit soon.

@save-the-horse

When Hank first hears the voice note, he assumes that maybe Harlen just wants to send him something. But the fact that he's asking while driving and the exhaustion in his tone is enough to convince Hank otherwise.

He didn't... did he? Shit.

It's a double-edged sword right in the gut. He's fucking ecstatic at the prospect of seeing Harlen in person. His mood has improved significantly since they've started talking again. But there's so much he doesn't know... so much Hank can't let him know.

He can do this. Focus on the positives. Don't fuck this up.

At least his apartment is clean, but he definitely needs to take out the trash. A shower wouldn't hurt, either. And he's not too hungover, at least. He's carrying bags down the stairs while calling Harlen. "Whatcha up to, Harley?" He asks with a chuckle. "You in town or somethin'?"

There's no hiding his excitement. Not when it comes to Harlen.

[freebirdyance]

She doesn't deserve this.

The sudden thought is so fucking loud in Yancy's head that he wonders if she actually heard it. She deserves stability and someone who has his shit together, not... a failure. He killed John with his bare hands, like he vowed. So why does it feel like he hasn't come back up for air yet?

Feeling her bare hand against his makes his breath hitch in his throat. Partly because his hands are royally fucked and sensitive, but also because it's her. The woman who deserves better than he can give her.

Still, he slowly lifts her hand to his lips. Slowly kissing every knuckle, brown-black eyes meeting her gaze. "Grazie, mia cara," he murmurs against her skin before lowering her hand. He only lets go so he can pull the tank top over his head and toss it wherever it lands. "Will you help me?"

He really is a selfish bastard.

Seeing red. It's a turn of phrase he's heard before, an indication that someone is so fucking mad that they can only see red.

The thing is, Yancy doesn't see red.

He doesn't see anything.

At first, it's a haze. His vision swims around the edges, wavy and pulsing in time with his pounding heart. Hearing goes to shit, too. Blood rushes in his ears, drowning out the screams or urges for him to stop.

But he can't. He doesn't just get this mad for whatever reason. He can count on one hand the times it's happened. The first is when he killed his parents. The second... he got his hands on someone who was selling little girls to the highest bidder.

Now, this time. This time. Oh, this spineless motherfucker deserved his ire and then some.

Next thing Yancy knows, he's being hoisted up by his middle, and there's only one person he knows who could achieve something like that. Five inches taller than him and a good hundred pounds heavier. Yancy almost starts throwing elbows but manages to think better of it just in time. Still, once his feet touch the ground, he's shoving away from Jimmy with something like a growl in his chest.

And he's left with the aftermath, staring at John like it's the first time he's seen him. He only knows it's him because it's the last thing he saw before everything went black. Now... the fucking bastard is unrecognizable.

His face is swollen and beat in with several fractured bones, no doubt. Rivulets of blood gush freely from his nose, smaller ones from the various areas that his skin has split open. Guess he's seeing red, after all.

Pitiful rasps scrape against John's throat on the way out of his mouth, and Yancy just... basks in it for a moment. His own breathing is ragged, labored, and he takes stock of himself. Hands and arms splattered in blood, along with some on his tank top. His hands are stiff as fuck, but the pain hasn't kicked in yet. Doc is going to have an earful for him, probably. Somehow, he manages to think it's a good idea to remove his rings now before his hands swell up anymore and he puts them in his pocket.

He tells himself he isn't a complete monster since he won't leave John like this until he dies. He got his hits in. The punching bag is broken. It's of no use anymore.

Holding his hand out to the side expectantly, someone hands him a gun. Doesn't matter who. Two strides to close the distance, and he's pressing the barrel against John's forehead.

"Make sure you tell Tony who sent you." Fuck, his throat hurts. Was he yelling?

Boom.

Then... he goes home.

[freebirdyance]

No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?

No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.

"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."

John is dead.

It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.

Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.

As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.

Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.

He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.

@wilfordsbakingshop