freebirdyance

[freebirdyance]

This is, without a doubt, the worst case of covid I've had since the first time I had it a few years ago. I've been put on meds to help, and I do feel an improvement, but I'm absolutely sapped of energy. I've been home resting for about five days now, trying to avoid a hospital stay thanks to preexisting conditions.

I'm on the mend, though! And I hope to be back to posting soon ❤️

[freebirdyance]

February 5, 11:20 PM

It's dark. Her gloves are gone.

[freebirdyance]

The cold weather is wreaking absolute havoc on me physically, which affects the mentally. I'll try and be back to posting soon.

I am working here and there on a thing with Jackson and Kalina that will... shed some light on their pasts, though. 👀

[freebirdyance]

As much as Yancy would never admit it out loud (out of the context of sex), he fucking loves seeing Hannah like this. Flushed cheeks, parted lips. He loves knowing that he affects her, that she's pulled into his orbit just as hopelessly as he is into hers. It isn't just a lust thing, it's everything. She's everything.

The way she asks the question hits him like a gut punch, and he nods, not breaking eye contact or the hold on her face. "Name a place, and we can be there tomorrow. I mean it." Hank would have a fucking aneurism, suddenly being in charge of whatever is left, but Yancy doesn't care. He's holding everything that matters in his hands right now.

"I'd follow you into the fuckin' pits of Hell, baby girl. I jus' want... I need you close."

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]

None of it sits right with him. The concealing of the bruise, the unwillingness to talk about what happened. Just what did this fucker do to his girl? A part of Yancy is ready to push until he's got a name and something to work with so he can fix this.

But Hannah has never felt smaller in his arms than she does right now, with the way she curls against him. A reminder that not everything can be fixed with violence... at least not right this moment. Taking in a breath, he slowly exhales as he holds her a little more firmly. "Okay... later, then."

He pulls back just enough so he can hold her face in his hands, eyes flitting back and forth between hers. "You can stay here as long as you need, baby. Always." Closing the scarce distance, he kisses her cheek, feather light against the bruise before pressing his lips to hers.

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]

It's always about you, babygirl. Yancy kisses the top of her head as she leans against his chest, one hand coming up to smooth over her hair. There's a sense of contentment that washes over him, having her close. Like the cacophony in his head can finally, finally quiet down and give him some fucking peace.

It quickly goes away as he listens to Hannah, though. He knew it couldn't have been anything good, but... it's some piece of shit that won't leave her alone? Not only that, but he shows up to her fucking home and puts his hands on her?

And he thought he was angry at John.

Yancy tenses, jaw clenched tight enough to hurt, but he's careful not to tighten his grip on Hannah. He's vowed that she would never feel his anger, and he won't let her. Especially now. So, instead, he continues stroking her hair, a deadly calm before the murderous haze settles in.

"What's his name?" He rumbles, staring into space. There's more to the story, obviously, if Hannah hasn't gutted this guy herself. But Yancy doesn't need to know anything else. The scum put his hands on her... he's a dead man who doesn't know it yet.

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]

Yancy takes that few seconds of standing out in the cold by himself to... pull his hair and try not to scream. He's not mad at Wilford, not in the slightest. He's just trying to keep his shit together and fucking Christ, it's becoming a full time job at this point. Beneath the murderer is a man that's lost control of his life and he doesn't know if he'll ever get it back.

When he slides into the drivers seat, his face is a mask of stoic calm as he starts the car and makes his way onto the road. Looking in every rearview mirror more often than necessary, a habit of making sure he doesn't have someone tailing him. Downtown melts into residential neighborhoods, and it's at least ten minutes before he speaks up.

"It's probably not worth much, but... I'm sorry you had to go through this." He pauses and swallows hard. In their time together, Yancy avoided talking about his past just like he avoided disclosing his actual business. Like the plague. "It's not easy escapin' an abuser, and it takes a lotta strength to stand up to 'em."

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'd never claim you are, sweetheart," Yancy responds just as quietly, and it would take monumental effort from someone to make him look away from Hannah at this moment. He's shit with feelings, and he'd never try and claim otherwise. But for her and the sheer amount she makes him feel without even fucking trying? He's drowning in them. In her.

"And it involves you, so it's real important to me," he adds just before standing up. His hands find her waist, and he tells himself that it's because he can't stop touching her... which is true. Yet, he's also afraid she's going to disappear unless he keeps her close. "Baby, just... talk to me. You can tell me anythin'. There ain't nothin' you could say or do that would scare me off..."

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]

"Right. Wha' d'you need?"

Name: Jackson Kincade

Nicknames: Jack, Bull, Baran (Polish for Ram/Aries)

Age: 42

Height: 6'3"

Place of birth: Liverpool, England

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: bisexual

Face Claim: Barry Sloane

Rules and guidelines under the cut

[freebirdyance]

Jackson appreciation post 😊🥰

Should he get his own blog? 🤔

[freebirdyance]

Age: 42

Height: 6'3"

Birthday: April 4th

Birthplace: Liverpool, England

Nicknames: Bull, Baran (Polish for Ram/Aries, mainly used by Kalina. She witnessed him burst through a reinforced door to rescue hostages.)

Jack joined the military straight out of high school, looking to get away from his abusive parents and make something better of himself while seeing the world. While he was mainly interested in his education in mechanical engineering, he naturally excelled at close quarters combat and handling weapons.

Moving up through the ranks, he eventually was chosen to become a part of a more elite group of soldiers. He didn't know at the time that this would later involve experimentation and enhancements that would affect him for the rest of his life. He possesses inhuman strength and reflexes, but he suffers debilitating migraines and severe nerve pain as a result of the experiments.

Taking more of a leadership role, he is now a part of the spy agency, assigning missions and... stepping in when needed.

Oops I did it again

I made another one for the spyverse

Jackson "Jack" Kincade. He may be the boss or high up on the chain of command...

More to come ☺️

Face claim: Barry Sloane

[freebirdyance]

Yancy had seen Hannah after jobs plenty of times. Covered in varying amounts of blood, and yeah, she would have some scrapes and bruises. As much as the thought of someone hurting her twists his guts in knots, he understands it comes with the job. He'd help clean her up, and she would regale him with the story of how the night played out.

So the sudden dismissal of the bruise on her face is enough to cause him genuine worry... and a white hot rage toward whoever put it there. She doesn't get far off the tub edge before his hand comes up and firmly grabs the hem of his hoodie. Not pulling, just holding on.

"Hannah." It's soft but deep, and he stares up at her. Doesn't she know he would fucking tear the world apart for her? That he would do anything she asked of him? "What happened?"

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]

It's odd, the sense of mourning that comes over Yancy when he looks at Wilford. There's something in his eyes... or, more accurately, a lack of something. The usual softness, a light he once took solace in.

And the fucker over his shoulder had everything to do with it.

"Piece of shit," he grits out as he waits for Wilford to open the door leading out. Putting his slimy hands on him, and he was drunk? There's a dark satisfaction settling inside of Yancy that he got to take care of this problem personally.

He carries Vic easily enough to the car despite the thrashing, but his razor-thin patience wasn't going to deal with him for a car ride. Setting him roughly in the backseat, it's a flash of movement, and Yancy grunts as his fist connects with his face, knocking him out cold.

Fuck, that hurt... worth it. He flexes his injured hand as searing pain flashes up his wrist, slamming the door before turning to Wilford. "Last chance to back outta this."

Fuck, please, just let me handle this.

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]

Oops I did it again

I made another one for the spyverse

Jackson "Jack" Kincade. He may be the boss or high up on the chain of command...

More to come ☺️

Face claim: Barry Sloane

[freebirdyance]

hate when men have big beautiful brown eyes like a baby cow . shut the fuck up

[freebirdyance]

Yancy is stunned for the second time in the last minute or so, eyebrows raised high on his forehead as he looks at Wilford. Really looks at him. He had been avoiding it since he got here, but he sees it now: something has changed, and Yancy shouldn't be surprised.

When you reach the point of tying someone up and locking them in a giant fridge (even if they fucking deserve it and worse), a line is being crossed. And as badly as Yancy wants to stop him from taking any more steps past that line... Wilford is his own man.

He takes in a breath, slowly lets it out, fog briefly obscuring his face before he's standing up. "Fine," he answers simply before he's easily picking the guy up and tossing him over his shoulder. He had smelled it before, but now it hits him like a brick: cheap body spray and even cheaper beer. "Fuckin' Christ, you smell like a frat party threw up on you..."

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]

"And the fact that you want to is... everythin'," Yancy responds just as quietly. Even as Hannah looks away, he can't bring himself to do it. Maybe he is being a downright disgusting sap about it all, but she makes him feel things that he didn't think he was capable of.

That pesky, terrifying four letter word bounces around his brain, and he has to swallow it down. Fucking coward that he is. "We should go somewhere... just you an' me," he states suddenly, mind racing with ideas. Luckily, he's a lot smarter with his money than his parents had been and could easily live off what he has with only minor cuts. "Somewhere that the water's blue, and the reef is as green as those beautiful eyes of yers..."

Yancy trails off again, but this time, it's from what he sees. Her cheek... he had noticed the bit of makeup she wore, but now he sees discoloration peeking through. Something lurches inside of him, one of his hands slowly moving to her cheek without touching. "What happened here?"

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.