#jack dalton bloody

[finnarcher7]

Snippet #4

Mac may have had enough of him and Riley may hate him for leaving the way he did, but the safety of his kids would always come first. Just like a true parent, Jack’s love and fierce protectiveness was unconditional. The blindsided look on Mac’s face when Jack had told him he was accepting the Kovacs mission had Jack second guessing. Maybe Mac would be bothered by him leaving. The last thing Jack wanted was to let Mac down. As soon as he had walked out of the War Room those eight months ago, he felt like that’s exactly what he had done. He suddenly had a sickening feeling like he had been played, like Oversight had masterfully manipulated him into accepting this mission. Now Jack was being paranoid. There’s no reason why Oversight would’ve done that. Was there? This mission was really starting to get to him. Everything about it felt wrong. No, the only one responsible for him being here and not there with his kids, was him. Jack scrubbed a hand over his face, in frustration. Jack pushed down the guilt replacing the emotion with anger, anger at himself and all his failings. Moisture gathered in his eyes until a tear broke free and slid down his cheek. “I’m so sorry, kid.” Jack whispered to the cool gentle Croatian breeze.

[lailuhhh]

Prompt Request: anything Jack whump, perhaps in the Army Days era. Thank you kindly 💖

Hi, uh, I took this idea and ran with it and now it’s gonna be a fic sometime in the future

Roe got, at most, a minute to prepare, as someone ran in, yelling something about how bad the situation was and they needed all hands for it. The uproar that was surging to the med tent was expected of being attacked on base; the pure chaos and number of people shouting and running toward him was somewhat overwhelming, though seeing the two bloody bodies they were carrying shook him into action.

He began shouting at the other medics and nurses while he ran outside to gage the situation. He couldn’t believe his eyes when the two people being carried were Jack and Mac.

“What’d we got?”

Jack was out cold; blood spattered across his ACU and what looked like shrapnel littering his side. Mac was still conscious and somewhat cognitive, equally as bloody but with no seeable wounds, saying something along the lines of a chain reaction and a building coming down.

“Dalton’s arm is fucked. We tried to keep it as straight and level as we could; definitely a break or fracture and there’s dozens of shrapnel fragments embedded. Haven’t been able to rouse him at all and we didn’t want to use the smelling salts because it’ll definitely aggravate the injuries. Macgyver’s been talking the whole time, nothing really concrete about what happened; concussion status most likely. He’s also cut to shit from shrapnel but not nearly as bad as Dalton.”

“How long have they been like this?”

“Dunno. Haven’t been able to get anything out of Macgyver that’ll prove helpful. Got a private running to see their schedule and last check in to try and gage what happened.”

“How was their ‘vee as they came in?”

“All in one piece.”

[gyllenhaalstories]

Hi Laurie! 💛

You know what's coming, hehe 👀

I saw this in another fandom and now I'm sending the same question to a bunch of Jake girlies (gn) because it’s so interesting seeing everybody’s answers!

Who are your Top 3 Jake boys and why? Is there a specific piece of art (fic, gif, fan art, etc.) for them that you like a lot?

hiiiiiiiiii!!! 💖 i do know what's coming teehee! i love his characters so much. even if the movie is not up my alley, his character always stands out. i'll watch everything he's in just because i'm obsessed (except spirit untamed, it is against my principle to support this horrible version of spirit the stallion of the cimarron) i just love them like they're just so neat i love them so much. OKAY TIME TO CHOOSE.

Elwood Dalton

i cannot believe that davis was dethroned as my forever ultimate favorite character but he was. dalton is so special to me. i've been obsessed with him since the very beginning when i was looping videos to get his full name and start writing for him immediately. so he's been living in my mind rent from for a LONG and i hope he never leaves. i lost count of how many times i've watched the movie (especially the scenes with laura!!!), it's so good. i'm already seated for the sequel idc what people say i want it and i will love it! also, i love how dalton ressembles billy and lou! the scene where he punches the guy to death and tell him how he will perish was so hot like like welcome back lou bloom you were missed <3 dalton is funny, and suicidal and caring and violent and what more could i ask? yeah okay i could ask to use his titties as pillows to fall asleep on.

my absolute favourite dalton creations are the wonderful gifs that @stephendorff made! i proclaim myself as their biggest fan when it comes to jake's gifs because oh my god the talent!!! i adore the parallel gifsets, so let me link you to a bunch! omg me when + nice hoodie + so bloody yum + i will cover these men with hello kitty bandaids + need both of them at the same time.

Detective Loki

he's an obvious one! jack twist, donnie darko and detective loki must be the most well loved characters in this fandom FOR ALL THE RIGHT REASONS. i love loki. i'm convinced deep in my soul that he would absolutely despise me. i can't shut up, i'm clingy as fuck and we'd spend most of his rare free time watching barbie movies. but it could be nice! i'd pack him his lunch, i'd learn to iron his shirts, i'd follow him to his barber and beg the man to give me the same haircut... like, we'd have a good life! aside from getting eaten alive by the constant fear that loki is in danger but shh. i love loki so much, i love all of the mysterious details about him, i love that jake played such a big part into building this character.

there are SO many amazing fics for detective loki, and rightfully so! he deserves it! in my opinion, @det-loki is the best writer. star captures loki in such an unique way, her writing feels like deleted scenes & extra footage from the movie. i know i always recommend star when it comes to loki fics but if you've ever read what she's posted, you would do the same! @charliehoennam has also posted some amazing det loki fics recently that i cannot recommend enough!!! here are the links: cat n mouse, dinner date & the dinner party (my personal favourite!).

Tommy Cahill

when i watched brothers, i conveniently just... skipped the military scenes. so the movie was all about tommy and i loved it. wow what a sweet romcom. i just love him. he's fun and sweet and he has had it so rough with his family that treats him like a black sheep. his father is acting like tommy is the failure when the only failure i'm seeing is a parent who failed to love his child like he deserved. AND I WOULD GIVE HIM ALL THE LOVE HE NEEDS! endless unconditional love. all he wants is to have a family of his own and be happy and become a better person. i have no doubt that he has what it takes to achieve his goals. he's my beanie baby and i love him to the moon and back.

controversy alert! but... i'm not mad at tommy and grace for kissing (skipping most of sam scenes helps a lot) but like... he was nice to grace for the most part, he helped her with the kitchen, he was so fun with the kids... he can't do anything wrong you know? i have horrible morals, i'm aware. so i'll just link to the video of the kiss scene because i love it and i love watching it and i wish it was me.

my top 3 usually fluctuates, but i'd say that overall, it's the same five characters that are on rotation. dalton, loki, tommy, davis and right now the 5th position is switching between john kinley & jerry brinson. i do want to say that i was pleasantly surprised with how much i liked anthony swofford and brian taylor when i watched their respective movies, i didn't think i'd enjoy their characters much but it might be time to retire my #1 bald!jake hater title. it was so hard to choose though. i feel bad for the ones i left out. i love you danny! and billy! and donnie! and adam! and holden! and okay fine i'll shut up. i know i've told you already, but this was such a sweet initiative to go around and spread some joy!!! thank you for doing this, and for sending it to me as well! 🥰

[appalachianapologies]

uhhhhh drabble without context :)

“Mac?” Frown deepening, Riley takes a few steps forward. “Hey. Are you… okay?” It’s a monumentally stupid thing to ask given that Riley doesn’t even think she’s okay, but Mac’s supposed to be the seasoned agent here. Plus, as much as she hates to think about it, Riley’s pretty sure that Mac’s seen worse when he was in the Army disarming bombs, or whatever it was that he did out there.

When she puts her hand on his shoulder, all she gets is a shudder. “Mac, I think you’re in shock.”

This time, he swallows. “I’m okay.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Home.”

“Where’s home?”

This time, Mac moves with sudden movements, nearly smacking Riley in the face with the speed at which he turns. “Where’s Jack?”

“Mac, where’s home for you?”

“Here. Where’s Jack?”

She just barely stops herself from sighing. Moving until she’s in front of Mac’s face again, Riley desperately looks for some sign of concussion or something to explain his behavior. “Tell me where you are.”

“California.”

Truth be told, Riley was hoping for a more specific answer, but at this point she’ll take it as a win.

“I need to get Jack-”

“He’s okay.”

Mac shakes his head, taking a step away from Riley. “I need to- they’ll never let me go out if the sun sets, I-”

“Hey, hey! You don’t need to rescue him. He’s fine.” Against her better judgement, Riley reaches for his arm, hoping that the action will ground him and not cause her to end up with a bloody nose. “Mac, look at me. Jack’s at the Phoenix right now. I mean, he’s a little busted up, but he’s also not the only one.”

This time, it’s Mac’s turn to frown. “Are you hurt?”

Riley tightens her grip a little. “No. Mac, you were- you know what, why don’t we go get Jack?”

Belatedly, Mac nods.

When they brought her onto DXS, Riley really wasn’t expecting the guy who could hack everything other than computers, the guy who couldn’t possibly be older than her but still seemed to have all the confidence in the world, to look like this. And for the first time in her adult life, Riley would be willing to admit, out loud, that she wishes Jack Dalton were here.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Dalton is an art major and we don't know much about his other interests, but I think his favorite book would be The Shining by Stephen King. He would have a battered paperback hidden in his things, the spine cracked in a dozen different places, annotations ranging from years to days old (his views of the book have changed as he changes), and marks that look suspiciously like tear stains. Even if art is his thing and he doesn’t read much, The Shining made an impact because he sees himself in it.

With every word he reads, Dalton sees more and more of himself in Danny. A little boy with big powers that he doesn’t understand and can’t control. Danny's relationships in the book allow Dalton to further relate to him.

The character of Jack and his treatment of Danny remind Dalton of his memories with his dad. After remembering the truth of his coma, Dalton connects the events of Jack trying to kill Danny and Josh trying to kill him. I don’t think Dalton would be good at talking about his feelings or relationship with his dad; the story of the Torrance family at the Overlook gives Dalton more insight than he ever expected.

Like Wendy, Renai placed herself between her husband and her kids, turning her back on the man she loves to save the people and the life he threatens. She doesn’t care what she has to do or what happens to her as long as her children are safe.

The first few times he read the book, the ending bothered him; he didn’t want to accept he would lose his dad completely to be free from a generational/geographical curse. After the events of The Red Door, he understands that his dad had to die to something more powerful than himself. His dad was willing to sacrifice himself, dying to the power of the Further and the life he thought he wanted. The dad Dalton knew never escaped the Further, and the man that came out - a hypothetical symbolic of Jack leaving the Overlook with Danny and Wendy - is ready to fight for his family, making for a much better resolution than the Torrances'.

Dalton tries to forgive his dad, aiming to be like Danny, who kisses his dad’s bloody hand and tells him, “It’s almost over,” as he refuses to leave his side. Seeing Josh after he escaped the Further, Dalton gets to experience something that Danny doesn’t: resolution with his dad by his side.

Dalton likes The Shining because it’s like his childhood. Dalton loves The Shining because he made a better ending.

[ao3feed-macgyver2016]

I Love the Players You Love the Game

I Love the Players, You Love the Game https://ift.tt/VY7WzTd by Dontlookatme (SeeYaLoveYa) Everybody wants a family. Whether it be a want seeded from the warm clasp of youth or a wretched winter flower that grew in spite of it, it was hard to escape the idea.  For people in Angus MacGyver's position, however, that's a bad idea. Every day, a new set of people threatened both his and his friends lives, not to mention the hectic working hour. But that didn't take away the want. Luckily, he loves bad ideas. Except, this- this handsome faced, wild eyed beast of a man who wanted to see Mac bloodied and cooling- might be his best idea yet. At least, that's what his subconscious thinks, and the more they interact, the more Mac agrees.  Now, all he has to do it convince him of that. Words: 2667, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: MacGyver (TV 2016) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Murdoc (MacGyver TV 2016), Wilt Bozer (MacGyver TV 2016), Harry MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Angus MacGyver's Grandmother, Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), Riley Davis, Matilda "Matty" Webber, James MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Patricia Thornton, Cassian (MacGyver TV 2016) Relationships: Angus MacGyver/Murdoc (MacGyver TV 2016), Wilt Bozer & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Angus MacGyver & Matilda "Matty" Webber (MacGyver TV 2016), Angus MacGyver & James MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Angus MacGyver & Harry MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016) Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Alpha Murdoc, Obsessive Behavior, BAMF Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Agressor Angus MacGyver, be prepared for Mac to be the baddiest bitch, he gonna get his mans, Wilt Bozer & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016) Friendship, that's very important to me, Bad Parent James MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), that is also very important to me, Lust at First Sight, Mpreg, i rose grandma from her disney-esqu grave, Taylor Swift References, Purple Prose, :), I'm not sorry

[chrisryanspeaks]

SEE: Lo-FI/Shoegaze Pop | Computerwife - “Vacation”

Computerwife is NYC-based artist Addie Warncke. Her new single “Vacation” is a shoegazing, electronic pop single with a seamless blend of emo, lo-FI, etc. The song is cohesive mix of genres and has a playfulness about it that fits perfectly with the accompanying video. Check out the video below and let us know what you think: SOUNDS: emo, lo-FI, shoegaze FEELS: furry and warm Read More: Computerwife (the moniker of NYC-based Addie Warncke) today released her shoegazing summer anthem “Vacation,” the final single previewing her self-titled debut LP out this Friday, August 4th via Danger Collective Records. Premiering via The FADER, “Vacation” arrives alongside a music video filmed on a mini DV camera and created by Warncke, guitarist Dalton Salisbury, and Jack Fessenden. Computerwife explains: “Part of the lyrics come from the book ‘How to Do Nothing’ which is about rejecting social media and fast information to be more present in life. The lyrics were formed to describe the first time I went to Coney Island. I thought the ecosystem was really beautiful and people seemed really relaxed together. I really needed that kind of environment to clear my head for a while and it was very inspiring.” Of the video, she adds: “Half of the footage is from a trip Dalton and I took to Las Vegas. The beach footage was from a trip Jack, Dalton, and I took back in 2021 to the Hamptons where Jack had been filming us on Dalton's mini DV camera for fun. Filming it in Las Vegas worked perfectly because it's so loud and flashy and fake, but at the same time there were these great moments where people seemed really relaxed and introspective while taking that all in. Using those memories to make more content also fits the message of the song in a twisted way–some of the lyrics are about how hard it is for me to escape the nagging thought that every moment I live in can be turned into something to be consumed, whether that be through art or the internet or just other people's eyes.” “Vacation” follows “I Get Better Every Day”–called a “noisy pop anthem” by Brooklyn Vegan–and the hazy single “Lexapro,” which leans into Computerwife’s My Bloody Valentine and Sonic Youth influences. The band–featuring the expanded live line-up of Salisbury on guitar and John Supnik on drums– will play a hometown album release show at Brooklyn’s Baby’s All Right on August 16th. More shows will soon be announced. With her seamless blend of shoegaze, emo, and lo-fi noise pop, Computerwife speaks directly to the disquiet experienced by every 21st century digital girl with a tenuous grip on life and identity. Her debut album’s sound is captivating and nuanced, pushing the boundaries between analog and digital. “The main theme that ties this album together is an interest in the deep web and an attempt to combine existing media to make something new,” Warncke explains. Computerwife ultimately reflects Warncke’s very core; it was inspired by internet rabbit holes, and various places, books, films, albums, and bands that have shaped her: from Coney Island to My Bloody Valentine, Alex G, The Flaming Lips and Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Lyrically, Computerwife grapples with the psychological state Warncke was in when she, in her own words, “went crazy, deleted all my music, and ran back home.” Created out of rediscovered mp3 files, scraps of almost-forgotten melodies and re-recorded instrumentals, the resultant album is a hard-hitting digital collage that mirrors her disparate influences and a tangle of raw emotions.   Read the full article

[audiofuzz]

SEE: Lo-FI/Shoegaze Pop | Computerwife - “Vacation”

Computerwife is NYC-based artist Addie Warncke. Her new single “Vacation” is a shoegazing, electronic pop single with a seamless blend of emo, lo-FI, etc. The song is cohesive mix of genres and has a playfulness about it that fits perfectly with the accompanying video. Check out the video below and let us know what you think: SOUNDS: emo, lo-FI, shoegaze FEELS: furry and warm Read More: Computerwife (the moniker of NYC-based Addie Warncke) today released her shoegazing summer anthem “Vacation,” the final single previewing her self-titled debut LP out this Friday, August 4th via Danger Collective Records. Premiering via The FADER, “Vacation” arrives alongside a music video filmed on a mini DV camera and created by Warncke, guitarist Dalton Salisbury, and Jack Fessenden. Computerwife explains: “Part of the lyrics come from the book ‘How to Do Nothing’ which is about rejecting social media and fast information to be more present in life. The lyrics were formed to describe the first time I went to Coney Island. I thought the ecosystem was really beautiful and people seemed really relaxed together. I really needed that kind of environment to clear my head for a while and it was very inspiring.” Of the video, she adds: “Half of the footage is from a trip Dalton and I took to Las Vegas. The beach footage was from a trip Jack, Dalton, and I took back in 2021 to the Hamptons where Jack had been filming us on Dalton's mini DV camera for fun. Filming it in Las Vegas worked perfectly because it's so loud and flashy and fake, but at the same time there were these great moments where people seemed really relaxed and introspective while taking that all in. Using those memories to make more content also fits the message of the song in a twisted way–some of the lyrics are about how hard it is for me to escape the nagging thought that every moment I live in can be turned into something to be consumed, whether that be through art or the internet or just other people's eyes.” “Vacation” follows “I Get Better Every Day”–called a “noisy pop anthem” by Brooklyn Vegan–and the hazy single “Lexapro,” which leans into Computerwife’s My Bloody Valentine and Sonic Youth influences. The band–featuring the expanded live line-up of Salisbury on guitar and John Supnik on drums– will play a hometown album release show at Brooklyn’s Baby’s All Right on August 16th. More shows will soon be announced. With her seamless blend of shoegaze, emo, and lo-fi noise pop, Computerwife speaks directly to the disquiet experienced by every 21st century digital girl with a tenuous grip on life and identity. Her debut album’s sound is captivating and nuanced, pushing the boundaries between analog and digital. “The main theme that ties this album together is an interest in the deep web and an attempt to combine existing media to make something new,” Warncke explains. Computerwife ultimately reflects Warncke’s very core; it was inspired by internet rabbit holes, and various places, books, films, albums, and bands that have shaped her: from Coney Island to My Bloody Valentine, Alex G, The Flaming Lips and Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Lyrically, Computerwife grapples with the psychological state Warncke was in when she, in her own words, “went crazy, deleted all my music, and ran back home.” Created out of rediscovered mp3 files, scraps of almost-forgotten melodies and re-recorded instrumentals, the resultant album is a hard-hitting digital collage that mirrors her disparate influences and a tangle of raw emotions.   Read the full article

[tomorrowedblog]

Friday Releases for July 7

Friday is the busiest day of the week for new releases, so we've decided to collect them all in one place. Friday Releases for July 7 include Biosphere, Earth Mama, ArticulatedTexTiles, and more.

Biosphere

Biosphere, the new movie from Mel Eslyn, is out today.

Billy (Mark Duplass) and Ray (Sterling K. Brown) are lifelong best friends, brothers from another mother – and the last two men on earth. Their survival is largely due to Ray, a brilliant scientist who designed a domed structure with all the systems necessary to sustain life on a planet that could no longer support it. Their custom biosphere is outfitted with basic necessities and creature comforts that make it possible to retain a sense of what life used to be like. A hydroponic garden provides fresh vegetables and a carefully managed fishpond supplies essential protein. Recently, however, fish have begun dying at an alarming rate. With a mere three fish remaining, Billy and Ray face an ominous future. But life may yet find a way.

Earth Mama

Earth Mama, the new movie from Savanah Leaf, is out today.

A pregnant single mother, with two children in foster care, embraces her Bay Area community as she fights to reclaim her family in this singular debut feature from filmmaker Savanah Leaf.

Joy Ride

Joy Ride, the new movie from Adele Lim, is out today.

When Audrey’s (Ashley Park) business trip to Asia goes sideways, she enlists the aid of Lolo (Sherry Cola), her irreverent, childhood best friend who also happens to be a hot mess; Kat (Stephanie Hsu), her college friend turned Chinese soap star; and Deadeye (Sabrina Wu), Lolo’s eccentric cousin. Their no-holds-barred, epic experience becomes a journey of bonding, friendship, belonging, and wild debauchery that reveals the universal truth of what it means to know and love who you are.

Insidious: The Red Door

Insidious: The Red Door, the new movie from Patrick Wilson, is out today.

In Insidious: The Red Door, the horror franchise’s original cast returns for the final chapter of the Lambert family’s terrifying saga. To put their demons to rest once and for all, Josh (Patrick Wilson) and a college-aged Dalton (Ty Simpkins) must go deeper into The Further than ever before, facing their family’s dark past and a host of new and more horrifying terrors that lurk behind the red door.

The Out-Laws

The Out-Laws, the new movie from Tyler Spindel, is out today.

Owen Browning (Adam Devine) is a straight-laced bank manager about to marry the love of his life, Parker (Nina Dobrev). When his bank is held up by the infamous Ghost Bandits during his wedding week, he believes his future in-laws (Pierce Brosnan and Ellen Barkin) who just arrived in town, are the infamous Out-Laws.

Dead Man’s Hand

Dead Man’s Hand, the new movie from Brian Skiba, is out today.

Gunslinger Reno (Jack Kilmer) is headed west for a quiet life with his new bride. But when their stagecoach is ambushed, he kills an outlaw in self-defense. In a nearby town, Reno learns that the man he slayed is the brother of the corrupt mayor, Bishop (Stephen Dorff), who vows revenge. After their card game turns into a bloody shootout, who will be left standing?

The Horror of Dolores Roach

The Horror of Dolores Roach, the new TV series from Aaron Mark, is out today.

After an unjust 16-year prison sentence, Dolores Roach (Justina Machado) returns to a gentrified Washington Heights, where she reunites with an old stoner friend, Luis, who lets her live and work as a masseuse in the basement under his empanada shop. When the promise of her newfound stability is quickly threatened, “Magic Hands” Dolores is driven to shocking extremes to survive.

ArticulatedTexTiles

ArticulatedTexTiles, the new album from Video Dave and Controller 7, is out today.

Sunburn

Sunburn, the new album from Dominic Fike, is out today.

PHD - PORTABLE HEADPHONE DANCEFLOOR

PHD - PORTABLE HEADPHONE DANCEFLOOR, the new album from 2 Mello, is out today.

[finnarcher7]

Last chapter!

[genesbolly]

♡ silent witness challenge ♡

day ten • favourite quote

"for that's what life after death means- that you give so much of yourself while you're here, to the people you know, to the people you love, to the people who need you, whether you know them or not, that you do not die, you cannot die. there is too much of us that remains."

[tomminowrites]

some artsy eads for @mutatedsilverunicorn

[mandowifey]

Character Masterlist.

Note: This list will be updated regularly when I get a new blorbo.

● ● ●

Ethan Hawke:

James Sandin (The Purge)

Russel Millings (Adopt a Highway)

Arthur Harrow (Moon Knight)

Edward Dalton (Daybreakers)

Ellison Oswalt (Sinister)

Albert Shaw/The Grabber (The Black Phone)

Ray Harris (Raymond and Ray)

Ernst Toller (First Reformed)

Lars Nystrom (Stockholm)

● ● ●

The Boys Universe:

Homelander

William/Billy Butcher

Ben/Soldier Boy

● ● ●

Stephen Lang:

Norman Nordstrom/Blindman (Don't Breathe)

Commander Nathaniel Taylor (Tera Nova)

Colonel Miles Quaritch- Human & Na'vi (Avatar)

John Korver (Gridlocked)

● ● ●

Hamish Linklater:

Father Paul Hill/John Pruitt (Midnight Mass)

John Tyler (Tell Me Your Secrets)

● ● ●

Oscar Isaac:

Santiago "Pope" Garcia (Triple Frontier)

Marc/Steven/Jake (Moon Knight)

Kane Double (Annihilation 2018)

● ● ●

Pedro Pascal:

Din Djarin/Mando (The Mandalorian)

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

Frankie 'Catfish' Morales (Triple Frontier)

Deiter Bravo (The Bubble)

Javi G (Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

Max Phillips (Blood Sucking Bastards)

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 88)

● ● ●

John Krasinski:

Lee Abbott (A Quiet Place)

● ● ●

Patrick Wilson:

Ed Warren (The Conjuring)

Orm Marius (Aquaman)

Josh Lambert (Insidious)

Daniel Dreiberg/Nite Owl (Watchmen)

● ● ●

Jensen Ackles:

Tom Hanniger (My Bloody Valentine)

Soldier Boy (The Boys)

● ● ●

Tony Dalton:

Lalo Salamanca (Better Call Saul)

Jack Duquesne (Hawkeye)

● ● ●

Michael Fassbender:

Erik Lehnsherr (X-Men)

David / Walter (Alien Covenant/Prometheus)

● ● ●

Karl Urban:

Commander Vaako (Riddick)

Billy Butcher (The Boys)

● ● ●

Jon Bernthal:

Frank Castle (The Punisher)

Shane Walsh (The Walking Dead)

● ● ●

Jason Bateman:

Marty Byrd (Ozark)

Michael Bluth (Arrested Development)

● ● ●

Patrick Fabian

Howard Hamlin (Better Call Saul)

Cotton Marcus (The Last Exorcism)

● ● ●

Spider-Verse

Peter B Parker

Miguel O'Hara

Venom

● ● ●

Jake Gyllenhaal

Detective Loki (Prisoners)

Quentin Beck/Mysterio (Spiderman: FFH)

Danny Sharp (Ambulance)

● ● ●

Overwatch

Cassidy

Soldier 76/Jack

Reaper/Gabriel

Hanzo Shimada

Genji Shimada

● ● ●

Critical Role (S1)

Grog

Vax

● ● ●

Baldur's Gate 3

Astarion

Enver Gortash

Gale Dekarios

Halsin

Zevlor

Cazador Szarr

● ● ●

Other Chars (Unsorted)

Negan Smith (Walking Dead)

Rick Grimes (Walking Dead)

Daryl Dixon (Walking Dead)

Jamie Lannister (Game of Thrones)

Captain Rex (Star Wars)

Boba Fett (Star Wars)

Kylo Ren (Star Wars)

Saul Goodman/Jimmy McGill (BCS/BB)

Barry Berkman (Barry HBO)

James "Logan" Howlett (Wolverine, Xmen)

Wade Wilson (Deadpool)

[shootybangbang]

In which quills are shed [Part 2/2]

[Ao3 link]

[Part 1]

[Rating]: Explicit

[Content Warning]: implied/referenced sexual assault

continuation of an ask from @rivetingrosie4

(unedited, feel free to point out errors or give criticism)

———

The nights are getting cold up here. Summer breezes sharp with winter’s teeth, biting briefly past with a nip like a warning. Frost instead of dew as a suggestion of the snows to come. The trees redden as if wounded, dripping leaves steadily day by day. Spangles the color of blood pool at the trunks, dried edges curling up the rust brown of peeling scabs. 

Joe hates all of it. Enduring the evening damp settled like mildew over the grass, and the persistent mountain chill prickling like an itch— Fucking stupid, he thinks to himself, tossing another broken stick into the guard point’s low fire. Hiding in this godforsaken hole, and for what? 

He’s been running with gangs ever since he’d been big enough to hold a rifle, with such frequent turnover that they’ve all begun to run together in his head. Was it with Dalton or McCarty that he’d robbed his first bank? Was it to Evans or Jack Taylor that he’d cut his first throat?

It don’t matter, really. The point is that he’s witnessed the full spectrum of things, from three man ventures to entire outfits kitted out with military gear, from ignominious ends to bloody snatches of triumph. Highs and lows, and all things in between, and in the well of all that experience the expertise to definitively conclude that of all the gangs he’s ever been a part of, this one is without a doubt the most pathetic. No contest. Laggers and hangers-on everywhere he looks. The sniveling ex-priest. The decrepit German, sulking in his corner. The miserable old drunk. He’d gladly have put a bullet in any one of them were it not for Micah’s instructions.

Because it’s Micah who ought to be holding court here, and it genuinely puzzles him why so many of the other men can’t see it. Old Dutch has such little control of his camp that even the coloreds are acting his equal. The women given such free rein that they’ve become brazen enough to think they’re here for any reason other than to spread their legs for earners.

Infuriating is what it is. A fairly decent selection of cunts to choose from, and yet not a one available to him. The Beth girl— green-eyed, long brown hair— is clearly the pick of the lot, but he’s seen Dutch’s eye on her enough to understand that she’s off limits. And though the rest ought to have been fair game, the blowsy blonde had slapped him in the face when he’d propositioned her. When he’d slapped her back the rest of them had closed ranks immediately afterwards. They cluster together now like angry hens any time he or Micah or Cleet draw anywhere near, clucking and wary with the narrowed and base anger characteristic of birds and reptiles. 

Which leaves just two options: the crazy bitch with a rifle, and the testy little thing that clings to that one plague-ridden bastard like she’ll save him if she holds him tight enough.

The bitch’d knife him as soon as look at him. Out of the question. 

But the other one… 

She’ll be easy pickings soon, Micah had told him. Hardly been here a month, and already there’s bad blood between her and Dutch. And fairly out of your depth, it seems, because when the other girls aren’t corralling you in, you tend to wander off alone. Sulking by yourself on the flat rock outcrop jutting from the cliff like a meal on a platter. And dumb enough apparently that you’ve obviously fallen hook, line, and sinker for Black Lung’s act.

It’s a crude vaudeville he’s watched play out countless times now. Some ruthless killer pretends to be soft to get a woman. Puts on that gentle mask just long enough to rope her in before letting fall his true face the second she’s caught. 

Black Lung puts on a convincing performance. Joe can concede at least that much. And whatever trick that bastard’s pulling, he’s fucking good at it, judging by the maddening creaking of his cot near every night. He keeps that sickening show of affection up even now, but Joe is certain that with the tent flaps down, he is a different man altogether. He’s just like the rest of them. An irredeemable piece of shit, just better than most at pretending he’s not.

And in a week’s time, he’ll be dead. The man had held out long enough against his consumption that Joe had begun to doubt Micah’s prognosis, wondering if he might impossibly actually pull through. But at long last, it seems like he’s finally weakening. Black Lung coughs so hard these nights that the sound of it reaches all the way to the top of the hill, even with his tent pitched close to the guard point, far from the mouth of the cave. Still enough kick in him to put up a good fight, but it’s only a matter of time before the big sonuvabitch ends up dead in the woods with a knife mysteriously buried in his back.

I bite, you’d said. 

Well, thinks Joe. So do I.

He hears a low click, and jumps as dim light suddenly puddles over the grass. It seeps from the tent closest to him, illuminated now with the muffled suffusion of brightness through canvas. 

Speak of the fucking devil. It’s that bastard’s tent. Joe cranes his head and squints in an attempt to make out a moving silhouette, the shadowy shape of a woman blurry and vague as a sigh in the dark. And as he does, he notices the concentrated break of light streaming in a bright line from the center of the tent, seeping through the small gap between its flaps. Whoever pulled them down has forgotten to secure them.

To hell with this fucking camp, he thinks, creeping close and crouching beside the gap. If something slips past him and drags one of those dumb fucks into the woods, whether wolf or Murfree’s Brood or some other exotic breed of predator, then so be it. Doing him a favor, more than anything. 

Years ago, in the living room of some rich man lying dead on its polished floorboards (half the man’s skull splattered against the wall in a tapestry of gore, the other half dripping its pulpy contents like a broken pot) Joe had come across a curious little contraption. A cylinder with slits cut into its sides, painted on its interior with a series of horses and riders in various states of motion. Turn a crank, and the whole thing would spin like a carousel. When he put his eye to the aperture, the horse and rider sped to life in a flicker of motion, caught in an eternal, aimless loop galloping towards some destination forever out of reach. 

Looking through the gap between the flaps of Black Lung’s tent is not a dissimilar experience. That same, strange sensation of unreality is as present here as it was in the dead man’s house. Like staring into a tinny miniature drawn in a parallel reality, its inhabitants trapped like insects in amber.

Framed by hanging canvas, you stand by the washbasin with your loosed hair thrown over your shoulder. With two fingers, you vigorously rub tooth powder over your bared teeth while fumbling at the flap of buttons running down the back of your dress with your free hand.

“D’you really gotta get up in the middle of the night for this shit?” Black Lung asks, yawning. He sits on the edge of the cot rubbing sleep from his eyes.

You cup a handful of water to your mouth and swish it between your teeth, then spit the frothy mixture into the grass. “Yeah,” you say, wiping your lips with your sleeve. “Caught a glimpse of someone’s open mouth in Annesburg the other day and it put the fear of god in me.”

The bastard laughs, and your own smile is a thin sliver where it is reflected by the small, bronze-backed mirror from the man’s shaving kit. You reach behind to pop open the last few buttons still stubbornly clasped shut, and the bodice of your dress gapes open at the back like a short spread of linen wings. Beneath, the chemise hangs in a thin fall of gossamer. 

Both men, one lit with the echoing brightness of fire behind glass and the other crouched in autumn shadow, watch as you shimmy the dress off your shoulders and down your waist, then let it fall to your bare feet as a shallow pool of pale blue cloth. When you bend down to pick it off the grass and fold it into messy fourths, the cling of cotton like fog caught in thread draws out the shade of your skin in a sudden flush of warmth. 

“You should get undressed too,” you tell Black Lung as you lay the bundled dress over the coat already draped across his chair. “Can’t be comfortable sleeping in all that.”

“Sure,” he replies. He makes no move to comply.

“Really, Arthur?”

“Really.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifts with exasperated affection. “Fine. Sit up straight, then.”

This much he obeys, and as you stand between his spread thighs to pluck at the collar of his shirt, he lays his palm against your hip as if to steady you, then grabs a fistful of the filmy chemise. “Take this off,” he says, quietly.

“No,” you answer. Stern, but no real gravity behind that refusal. “You should sleep. You rode a long way, and—”

The hand at your hip yanks you towards him, and you stumble a step forward. Black Lung lowers his head and licks at your breast through the chemise, leaving its fabric wet and translucent from the path of his mouth.

“Arthur, you’re…that’s not… ”

“Not what?”

While rucking up an armful of your own gauzy skirts up your waist and over your head, you let out one last, feeble complaint. “That’s not fair.”

“You ever known me to be a big believer in fair play?” The bastard tugs urgently at the ruched waistband of your bloomers. “Take these off too.”

You wriggle the undergarments down your hips, and as you step out of them, the lamplight gleams against the glisten of want at the tops of your thighs. Your hands are still distractedly picking his shirt open, progress stuttering each time he drags his tongue over your nipple, lapping and sucking at the peaked, dusky skin there until it shines. When he kisses a line up your sternum and murmurs your name, your head is bowed, and the fanned suspension of your hair hides most of your face from view so that all Joe can see of your expression before you begin to cry is your mouth. A red line like a slash that goes rigid, then collapses in on itself.

Joe feels himself go flaccid, and curses you silently in the dark. Goddamn weepy little whore. Nothing like a woman’s tears to kill a man’s hard on.

You cover your eyes with one hand, shoulders trembling. “I can’t anymore,” you whimper. “You look so worn, Arthur. And every time you leave I’m so scared that you won’t come back—”

Black Lung tugs down your wrist until he reveals the bright glint of tears on your cheek, the beaded glimmer on your eyelashes, and Joe feels smug gratification knowing what’s to come next. Just one good slap should be enough to subdue a whining bitch like you. Despite his pretensions otherwise, Black Lung’s no different from him after all.

The pathetic piece of shit pulls your hand to his chest instead, grounding you against him as if he were someone to rely on and not preemptively mourn, his fate all but foregone. “But I’m right here,” he says softly, and Joe watches with muted revulsion as you curl your fingers into Black Lung’s half-unbuttoned shirt, your figure small and pitiful contrasted against the broad, solid shape of him. Black Lung leans forward and kisses the side of your neck, where a purple-green bruise has mottled to just a suggestion of past intimacy, then says something nonsensical about fish bones that makes you snort out a reluctant, sniffly giggle, and god there are few things on earth more disgusting than this, watching that bastard pretend to know anything about tenderness when he’s nothing more than a petty thief and murderer.

Suddenly, you stiffen. “Arthur,” you say, sounding a little scandalized, and Joe realizes that the man’s put a hand between your thighs, indolently working a single digit in and out, in and out, with a motion as unthinkingly casual and natural as instinct. 

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you think it’s a little improper to finger a crying woman—”

“You want me to stop?” he goes so far as to pull his hand away enough that a glistening strand of slick bridges the gap. Before it can snap, you grab him by the sleeve and yank him back in place. With your own fingers, you guide two of his to slip inside your slit. Black Lung laughs coyote-like, the sound of it low and mischievous, and says, “Take that as a no.”

The wet noise of him stroking you is audible even to where Joe crouches by the tent flap, and it goes straight to his cock. Your eyes are half-lidded, fixed on the other man’s face, and there is a tremulous smile on your lips as fragile and embracing as eggshell, a protective thing ready to crumble at a moment’s notice.

The dumb bastard starts whispering a string of empty “when I”s, either too stupid or too dishonest to admit the numbering of his days, and that number looming close. “When I get us out of here,” and “When we’re finally out west” and, hilariously, “When I’m well again”. And you must be twice as idiotic, because you look inclined to actually believe him. You’re nodding and murmuring something back too quiet for Joe to make out, unbuttoning the remainder of the man’s shirt and stripping it off his shoulders. Ineffectually, you attempt to work him out of his union suit with motions made clumsy by the depth of your arousal.

There is an expression on your face like you’d do anything— anything at all for this man with his fingers deep in your cunt and his mouth back at your breast, like you’d lie down and die for him if he so much as asked. It brings Joe to the brink of nausea, the simpering sentimentality of it, nausea and a slow-boiling kind of anger that he can’t put a name to. So it’s a mercy then, when Black Lung starts coughing again.

And it’s bad this time, thank god. 

Black Lung immediately jerks away from you, covering his mouth with his hand. Loud, wracking coughs have him doubling over like a tree brought low and bent by a strong wind, straining against collapse with wet, desperate gasps. Each time he tries to draw breath with his useless lungs, he sucks in a choking, deficient mouthful of nothing with a harsh whooping noise, then sputters pathetically with spent air. You stand before him for a second blank with terror, stricken with something like grief and fear and shock all at once, as if this is new to you, before rushing to his trunk and rifling through his things with dull clatters of metal and wood until you pull out a spoon and a fat brown bottle stoppered with cork. These you set on his nightstand before Joe watches you splash water into a cup, pouring it messily from the pewter pitcher set on the desk, the pitcher with its elegant handle still dented from where he’d stepped on it earlier today.

You seat yourself beside Black Lung with the cup clamped steady between your naked thighs, where the shine of neglected arousal is still streaked against your skin, and touch his back, directly behind where his heart and the bellows of his chest lie thumping, thudding in a jerky rhythm comforting only because it is still there. When his coughs attenuate to a series of cracked, fragmented rattles, he lets his hand fall away from his mouth. His palm is marked with a scarlet stark as condemnation.

One week, Micah had said, and it doesn’t look like he’s wrong. 

The sick bastard’s exhausted enough that he needs to lean his head against your shoulder for a few breathless moments, sliding his eyes shut briefly when you curve your arm up around him to gently card your fingers through his hair, smoothing back the strands dark with sweat that curl at his forehead. Then he sits up, wincing. He fishes from his trouser pocket a handkerchief spotted with faint, coppery splotches of blood too constant to ever wash out completely, and drags it across his mouth, streaking a red fleck at the edge of his lip to a vivid smear.

Black Lung readily accepts the tin cup you press into his hands, then frowns deeply at the glass bottle you pick up next, eyeing it with unconcealed distaste. “What,” he says hoarsely. “Like the cough weren’t punishment enough?”

You narrow your eyes, dour as a matron. “Arthur,” you warn, and there is a well-worn severity in your tone that speaks to an argument oft repeated, and oft won.

He drinks down the opaque black spoonful you proffer to him with clear reluctance, grimacing afterwards and washing it down with the contents of the cup with a single, prolonged gulp. “Think I’ve eaten dirt less foul than this,” he says sullenly.

“Is that something you have a wealth of experience in, eating dirt?”

“Been knocked out enough times in the mud by now that I've got a pretty good handle on it, I’d say.”

You huff out something like a laugh. “Think that’s something most men go to lengths to avoid admitting. And gimme your handkerchief. You missed a spot.”

To Joe, this is a domesticity as foreign to him as the sands of Cathay. As impossible as Black Lung’s promises of some happy ending. As untouchable as that painted rider galloping, galloping in endless pursuit of some ever-elusive quarry.

The only look you’ve ever fixed him with is the same you reserve for almost every other man in camp: a gaze like obsidian, sharp enough to cut to the bone, that fatal dark gleam. But for Black Lung— god, you look at him with the eyes of a prey animal exposing its delicate underbelly, trusting that the wolf in its bed won’t do the inevitable. As if that man weren’t sunk just as low as the rest of them in the miring of sin, just as stained, just as lost.

And yet you kiss that bastard like he deserves it, wipe away the blood flecked at his mouth with such solicitude that it’s clear to see that when it comes to Black Lung, your brambled demeanor falls away completely. It’s like seeing a thistle without its thorns— a vulnerability unnatural to witness. 

Joe feels a sharp bite of pain at his palms. He glances downwards and realizes that he’s been clenching his fists so tight that his nails have dug shallow indentations into his own skin. Disquieted, he forces himself to slacken his grip, then returns his attentions to the canvas gap.

When you turn your back to set the bottle and spoon atop the bedside crate, Black Lung hooks his arm around your waist and sweeps you into his lap. He noses at the back of your neck and kisses the topmost vertebra at your spine, the contours of that winged bone blunt beneath your skin.

“Hey, what’re you…”

“Getting back to where we were before.”

“You need rest, you fool. That cough—”

“It’s fine,” Black Lung says. He settles you flush, so that the ridge of his erection grinds against the curve of your ass, then scrapes a kiss against your bare shoulder. “That bout cleared me out some. I’ll be alright awhile.”

“I’m fairly certain it doesn’t work that way,” you reply, voice edged with disapproval. But when he skims his hand down your stomach and between your thighs again, you let out a small, breathy sigh of conflicted desire and close your eyes. “You’ll get winded,” you add, weakly.

“Not if I go slow.”

You shift to fit yourself more snugly against him, and the patch of denim newly revealed is dark with your slick. “Just don’t want you to strain yourself more than you have to.” The words come faltering, more obligation than intention.

“Ain’t got anything on the docket for tomorrow.” Black Lung’s other hand cups at your breast, weighing the softness there against the heat of his palm. “I’ll sleep through morning.”

“You will not,” you harrumph, opening your eyes again and glaring at nothing in particular. “You never do.”

“I will this time.”

He traces slow, attentive circles over your nipple until it peaks, then begins flicking the pad of his thumb gently against that blunted point, as if smoothing down a fold in silk. You loll your head against his shoulder. “Shouldn’t,” you reply absently, convictionless.

“Should.”

“You… you’ll really sleep in tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he replies. The bastard pushes his middle finger inside of you and drags out a slow undulation that makes you shiver. “I’ll get up mid-afternoon and take you down to that orchard, then fuck you by the river on the way back.”

“That is vulgar.”

“You liked it,” he replies, indulgent and accusatory all at once. “Felt you tighten up when I said it.”

“Arthur.” You draw out the last syllable in a flustered whisper.

“Tell me how you want me.”

Your expression is troubled, indecisive, and you chew your lower lip, considering. “Bed,” you say finally. 

In the clumsy, hurried rush to get him out the rest of his clothes, and you properly situated in his cot, you never take your hand off him. Always brushing your fingers against his arm or lingering your palm at the battered topography of his chest, at the imprint of bone that has begun to shadow through his skin like an auspice built in flesh. And it gnaws at Joe, gnaws at him in a way that knots confusion in his stomach, the bittersweet savor in that touch, the helpless, fathomless sad-eyed smile on your lips, the promise of mourning— and that’s it, isn’t it? The guarantee that he won’t just be dumped on the side of the road like refuse. That someone like this idiot woman might sit by his cooling corpse and sob her useless little heart out.

Not at all a thing easily given. Especially not in this line of work. But this sorry piece of shit has it in spades, that black-gutted dog. Whether through luck or trickery or some random act of god, he’s been allowed the opportunity to have a woman like that, one with eyes like the broken chips of a knife, fawn over him and fall over herself to wait on him hand and foot. All this for a man that’s just as ruined as anyone else in this godforsaken camp.

Fuck the consumption. Tomorrow night he’s going to lure that bastard away from camp somehow and remedy this farce with lead and powder.

He stares with naked hate at the man behind you sprawled on his side. You lie with your back leaned against his chest, right thigh flung over his hip as he slides the length of his cock between the wet lips of your cunt, slicking himself back and forth until you let out an insistent, begging, “Please.”

And though Joe’s never considered you anything to look twice at, the beatific look on your face when Black Lung finally starts easing himself inside transfigures you to something bleakly and resonantly lovely, like a pale shaft of light piercing the blue dark. In the confines of that tent, unknowingly laid bare to the stranger peering between the tent flaps, the soft form of your body is a reality away, as far removed from possibility as a ruby in a dream. Immaterial and gone by morning.

Once or twice you wince, and each time the bastard soothes away the ache of penetration by rumbling something in your ear that makes you squeeze your eyes shut and whimper oh, spreading your thighs still further and drawing the bow string of your body taut. And like that you let him fuck you deep and slow, a pace like the steady wingbeats of a bird caught in windless glide. Heavy, pulled by the weight of what lies inescapable at the end of each flight. The slow descent, the impact.

At some point through all that steadiness, you get impatient. You brace a hand against his leg and buck against him with sharp, quick jerks of your hips, rhythmic in intensity and imbued with a note of something frantic. Panting hard with a bright flash of satisfaction in your face when Black Lung lets out a surprised groan that he forgets to quiet. He curls around you the way an animal guards something precious in its den and growls crude phrases low in that topazed, living lantern light. Nothing special, just inanities like “that’s it, fuck yourself on me just like that” and “good girl”, but you receive it all with eyes fluttered shut like he’s whispering rapture. When he dips his hand low to finger at your clit, you grab at the scratchy sheets shoved to the edge of the cot, shaking, gripping the rough spun wool so hard that when you let go, the material is frozen still in its narrow creases.

It’s undoubtedly one of the most erotic things Joe’s ever seen, but goddamn if he’s so angry that he can’t even think about jerking off to this, red fury rising in him like mercury trapped in glass.

With a sudden heave, Black Lung hauls you onto your stomach to take back control. You let out a startled gasp, arching your back at the new depth of him, and the ferocity with which he ruts into you now leaves you stunned. He sits up on his knees and slams your hips against his own with a savage dig of his fingers into your waist, then wheezes and hunches over, breathing ragged and labored for a few counts. When you start raising yourself up with one elbow to worry over him, eyes wide and anxious, he holds you in place between your shoulder blades with the flat of his palm. He shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he rasps. “Just need a second.”

“But—”

He coaxes you with a few drawn-out strokes of his cock, sinking in and pulling out with lazy thrusts until you collapse against the cot with your head turned to the side to passively watch him, your hair falling over your cheek and your expression dumb with pleasure. The bastard keeps that restrained, agonizing clip for awhile, his shoulders rigid with the burden of holding back his own violent need. Appreciating the view while he still can, probably. Taking in the gloss of your arousal spread across his cock, the divots and ridges and grooves of your spine, that beloved geography. The tense and release of the muscles there with each rolling shudder that passes through your body.

When he can’t stand it any longer, Black Lung leans forward and cages you in with his elbows, covering you with himself until you’re just barely visible beneath him, trembling little thing with her dying outlaw trying to shield her from the world. He drives into you with rough, powerful thrusts— and christ, he sure as hell doesn’t fuck like a man seven days from the grave. There’s a measure of vitality there strong enough to suggest that he may have a few more weeks in him yet, the shitheeled son of a bitch. 

You come with a strangled, half-smothered cry. The first syllable of Black Lung’s name rings like a shot in the dark before he hastily claps his hand over your mouth. “Shhh,” he hushes, voice unsteady with the precarious tilt of his own pleasure. He keeps up that bruising pace and ruts hard until you shiver one last time and go limp under him, dazed.

The bastard pulls out, and almost immediately he’s coming too, breathing hard and clenching his jaw tight as he paints your back with the warm, white spatter of his seed. He stays like that for a good moment, hand on his softening cock as he admires the tableau of his own making, then gets up groaning to wet a rag in the wash basin. You lie there dreamy-eyed, smiling lopsided with your cheek pressed against his cot— the kind of sly, secretive smile a man could fall in love with, if he weren’t careful.

Black Lung starts wiping his mess off your back, and you jolt stiff, appealing to him with a plaintive look at that first cold touch of wet cloth, then an indignant one at the playful slap he delivers to your rear in response. When he’s finished, you tug at his wrist and urge him downwards, kissing him sleepily as he squeezes himself beside you on the narrow cot. He pulls the blanket over your shoulders, reaches towards the crate for the oil lamp, and turns down its brass knob. 

It clicks. The light snuffs out like a curtain drawing shut. But not before Joe catches sight of the expression on that bastard’s face: the satiated contentment of a man who’s been gifted grace far beyond that which he deserves.

And then he’s crouching in the dark again, with nothing but cold resentment to keep him company. That, and the hollowing, impotent envy that settles in him now like rot to wood, old certainties unrecognizable through the transmutation of decay.

As he trudges back to the guard fire, the wind whispers through a nearby cluster of tall, dried stalks, those decapitated remains of summer bloom still standing in empty vigil. They crunch when he treads them underfoot, pondering silently the many ways a man might inadvertently meet his end on a mountain precarious as this. Cliffs lined by craggy rocks sharp as filed teeth. Crumbling ledges that overlook sections of river white and frothy with lethal undercurrent. The menagerie of beasts, both animal and human, lurking hungry between the trees. There’s an easily furnished excuse in near every corner of these goddamned woods, and still he’s hesitant. 

Because even in the depleted state Black Lung’s in now, blood on his breath and wasting away night by night like a waning moon, the man still gives off an air of force. He’s formidable by sheer virtue of size and expertise, and if the bastard fights anything like he fucks, there’s no telling just who might walk away from that encounter, whose carcass picked clean by carrion eaters in the dusty aftermath.

And accompanying that threat, the numbness of a certain kind of futility. A realization that he’s been shunting away the second he’d looked into that tent, across that thin wall of blue canvas impassable as the dividing line between twin possibilities: the scene spinning and flickering there in golden light, the mockery of it he’s up until now either purchased or taken by force. He might kill Black Lung a thousand times over, he might kiss you or beat you or break you apart beneath himself, and still he’d never have it.

When the Mexican comes loping down the hill to take his shift not long after, Joe retreats to his shoddy lean-to and lays there sleepless, watching the black sky until it takes on the lividity of an old bruise.

[ao3feed-macgyver2016]

I Love the Players You Love the Game

I Love the Players, You Love the Game https://ift.tt/VY7WzTd by Dontlookatme (SeeYaLoveYa) Everybody wants a family. Whether it be a want seeded from the warm clasp of youth or a wretched winter flower that grew in spite of it, it was hard to escape the idea.  For people in Angus MacGyver's position, however, that's a bad idea. Every day, a new set of people threatened both his and his friends lives, not to mention the hectic working hour. But that didn't take away the want. Luckily, he loves bad ideas. Except, this- this handsome faced, wild eyed beast of a man who wanted to see Mac bloodied and cooling- might be his best idea yet. At least, that's what his subconscious thinks, and the more they interact, the more Mac agrees.  Now, all he has to do it convince him of that. Words: 2667, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: MacGyver (TV 2016) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Murdoc (MacGyver TV 2016), Wilt Bozer (MacGyver TV 2016), Harry MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Angus MacGyver's Grandmother, Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), Riley Davis, Matilda "Matty" Webber, James MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Patricia Thornton, Cassian (MacGyver TV 2016) Relationships: Angus MacGyver/Murdoc (MacGyver TV 2016), Wilt Bozer & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Angus MacGyver & Matilda "Matty" Webber (MacGyver TV 2016), Angus MacGyver & James MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Angus MacGyver & Harry MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016) Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Alpha Murdoc, Obsessive Behavior, BAMF Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Agressor Angus MacGyver, be prepared for Mac to be the baddiest bitch, he gonna get his mans, Wilt Bozer & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016) Friendship, that's very important to me, Bad Parent James MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), that is also very important to me, Lust at First Sight, Mpreg, i rose grandma from her disney-esqu grave, Taylor Swift References, Purple Prose, :), I'm not sorry

[gatefleet]

Bingo

MacGyver (Reboot): Angus MacGyver, Wilt Bozer, Jack Dalton, Riley Davis

Word Count: 287

(T)W: swearing

Request: No

A/N: Another from the mysterious pendrive, written when on holiday

“I legit only have like 3 numbers left to get bingo.” You tell Mac and Bozer between numbers being called out. “I have 4… make that 3” Mac said grinning like a Cheshire cat. Jack and Riley just watched the interaction sipping their beers, patiently waiting for the argument to start. Being Scottish it was already hard enough for the team to understand your metaphors and phrases, but when you became excited or angry, you became way less understandable.

“2 left to go” Mac said grin getting even bigger, side-eyeing you to watch your reaction. You looked at him dead-pan. “You better be having a giggle Angus. I haven’t won a bloody game since we started playing!” Mac’s only response was to smile widely at you and wiggle his eyebrows.

“Well, I got 2 left to get Y/I.” Bozer, bless him, was trying his hardest to diffuse the fake argument rising between you and Mac because of the competitive streak you both have. You looked between Mac and Bozer. “Both of you are a pair of fannies.” They both looked at you completely confused, you’re only response to their looks was to stick your tongue out towards them like a complete child. You looked down at your card as another number was called, “BINGO!” Mac called.

“Go fuck yourself MacGyver” was all you could say as you throw your pen down and cross your arms over your chest. Mac’s peace offering was to share his ‘free drinks’ prize with you. Even though everyone knew that the argument and stubbornness between you and Mac was fake, it was always fun to see how far Mac was willing to go to make you not be fake-mad at him anymore.

(GIF Credit: @tyes-girl)