#poorlikeness

[444namesplus]

Afarhear Afarkeenrisk Afarrisethus Ahemtaskajax Ahoyciao Ahoyouch Ajaxbold Antimalesole Antislipfish Arealove Atopahemtory Atopslim Awaycool Babydeaf Backnearhide Ballhold Bandgoal Bandlikerude Bandnamerare Bankwide Bassdealrise Beatinto Blahgirlseem Blahniceweek Blahthon Blowrole Boldbeat Bookjumpwash Bookyerethon Botharmycope Bothtend Boutlatesite Boutroad Boutsore Burnthoupray Busykeepyere Busymasssite Busypastgrey Busyslimneed Callrainably Cardmaleamen Caresoleelse Castblue Ciaoanew Clubslip Comeboldwhoa Cookhmph Cookthan Coolhard Coolhmmmonto Dahnhomelend Dahnpoofduty Damnpoof Dampamenrely Darethus Darkuserdrop Datephew Deadwhoaanti Deafnomesuit Dealsellupon Dealsoft Dealthenbeat Dearwall Deeplike Denysortmiss Doorthinthou Downreal Drawhomemeet Drawlistbody Dropbusy Drophalf Dualstep Dualtermsole Dullcallmark Dullwisewaly Dumbahoyhead Dumbunitseem Dutycall Dutysalehers Earnmeanpick Eastcast Eastmildfilm Easyreal Elserise Ergoclublift Evenrely Evensuch Evilsore Factlong Failthispost Fallidlyzero Fallmeowwait Farmslip Farmsore Fastking Fastmeetrock Fearinto Feelhidehard Filesoonsend Fillgiveever Findhavemere Finefacesize Finefinegrow Fineride Firelasttrue Fishsickhurt Fondfeel Fondthrosave Foodfeelring Foodloserich Foodtilluser Footcaseeven Forecastpush Forehalllady Forerear Foresomevice Forethrulone Formlovehang Formwhenfrom Foulmassgood Fouloutahern Freelone Freeshop Fullpaul Fullsale Gainroadsith Gamefearwarn Girlrealcome Girlsoretype Girlvainsolo Girlwall Gladgosh Gladsalewish Gladworkwait Goldwish Goshpulltree Greyhallseem Greylossbeat Greymeanhang Grimidea Grimoutarace Growontowaly Growwall Handdear Hangfoodthru Hanglandvote Hangskincall Hangtory Hangwhompale Hardhelptime Hateuglybout Havefillfall Havelosshiya Headtownform Hearjohndull Hearplan Helpwarm Hernwarn Hernwhenclub Herswise Hidenotemere Hiderainthat Histatopfish Histview Hiyapoohcool Hiyasoloself Hiyaurghbeat Hmmmfall Hmmmnearidea Hmphforenote Hmphwash Holdthey Holybackvast Homecope Hopeoral Idealist Ideatree Idlyblueseat Idlysameunit Intogoodvote Jackcost Johnholy Joinsoftlong Jumpsole Justholyarmy Keepfonddamn Keepsell Killlead Kindarea Kindwhencook Lackegad Lastbackthem Lastgive Latebold Lazybold Lazythorbody Lazytimeupon Lendegad Lestfast Lifelistshed Lifelonefeel Liftbank Liftkeepstep Lineatop Linewallwhoa Longnone Loudfear Loveseathair Malethus Malewoodsoft Manyearn Manylest Markbeatfoul Meetsithball Meowhershead Merenotepink Mereskin Merethinlord Minddearskin Mindrich Minewham Movedulycash Moveonlycome Muchmindable Muchsore Mustbold Mustgrey Mustjohnnear

Nadawifeslip Nameamenclub Nearcasthmmm Nearjustfirm Neatblah Needtall Newsbare Niceforeseat Nighgame Nighkillegad Nomegoalskin Nonesite Nowtthusfoot Offaseemhome Okaymary Oopsevenfree Oralgreythor Ouchdoorweak Ouchgoshfarm Ouchwashhelp Oursdenygrim Oursneed Ourswear Painwakemild Pairwest Paledeep Paletaskstep Partmildhead Partpart Passrudepart Pastloss Pastpostdeny Pathwaryself Phewdateread Pickcash Picksoft Pinkreaduser Playgoallife Playtour Playwaitburn Plusmainable Poofgold Poohpain Poorface Poorlike Poorsalefair Postrace Pughbasedoon Pughsolothru Purebookpaul Pureplan Pushtrue Racelord Rainglad Rainsomesend Raretime Rarewarmhers Readkind Rearcall Relyareahope Relydown Relyfootsame Relyhomelate Ringcard Ringtell Risejackwhiz Riskbang Riskgrimwant Roadlovetell Rollontojohn Rudetall Rulecaretill Rulekindhere Rulesafe Safesolo Samemean Savefill Savefootkeep Seekidly Seemfoul Sendracepink Shopthis Showgivehard Shownada Shutsolodraw Sickview Sidesavelike Signcopekeen Singshowdear Sithsole Sizejohn Sizethen Slimmiss Slipeverhold Slipnazi Slowladyplay Slowsafe Slowtalkcold Slowwham Softthusskin Soloroomlend Somebillbang Soredeafrare Sorephew Sortpugh Sortthinwaly Startellbaby Stayburnunto Stepgainyere Stepgrimnews Steptermwood Suchdeal Suitparklong Suitthou Surelestclub Takeverysing Taskrisk Teamoffacook Teamwake Tendrudetake Textzerowake Thanhardback Thatpughdeny Thatthusmove Themokay Thenahem Theyback Theyhair Theyjustsign Thinratejack Thoryerenice Throelsefoot Throsafefact Thrulatethen Tidylike Tidywhom Tillnonepath Tillpast Timehang Timesafe Timetextkeen Tinywest Townfindmind Townsuit Townwhat Treesith Turnatophist Turntime Typefull Uglygaintell Unitergocope Unitshow Unitwaitclub Untocold Untothusthru Untovery Useramencase Userhear Vainarea Vainwait Varyevermind Vastbang Vastcome Vastdealhard Verycard Veryhelp Verykeepsome Viceamen Vicebold Vicethro Wakehighpoor Wakesitebaby Wallfoulwash Wallhellpoof Walysafe Wantdarklink Wantfilm Warmbang Warnpaststay Waryablethin Washshedwhen Weakplan Weardarkback Wearsuchwish Whamlead Whamsignmove Whatplanuser Whatwith Whensavedeep Whomhigh Widedual Wifesite Wilddrawside Wildflatseat Wildunto Willdamnanti Willfast Windcard Windmust Windunitglad Winepast Wiselike Wishthro Wordupon Wordwalkblue Yearidly Yearpullpast Yeredear Yerethan Yourmany Yuckpick Yuckseembeat Zerocome Zerohers Zerostarjohn Zerothee

[sofaradaysogood]

Will you pray for me?

Prayers had felt stifling to him as a child; words learned by rote and murmured along indifferent with a crowd of bowed heads, the same old meaningless rhythms saturating the walls of the little wooden church every Sunday.

Ár n-Athair atá ar neamh,Go naofar d'ainim,Go dtagfadh do ríocht,Go ndéantar do thoil ar an talamhmar a dhéantar ar neamh.

It never meant a damn thing, and it never spared any of them the sharp looks or sharp words or sharp fists they earned for speaking it in their own language. He’d been defiant, once, eyes bright and fists clenched as the prayer started.

Our father,Who art in heaven,Hallowed be thy name,Thy Kingdom come, thy will be doneOn earth as it is in Heaven.

He’d been nine and the words had rung out, jarring, across the collective sigh of prayer, earning him shocked looks and disbelief and giggles from the other children, and a beating.

        (What difference did the language make, he’d asked. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? Why does it matter?)

And later, when he’d outgrown that little town and that lilting language, the little wooden church and the sneers and the being spat at whenever they rode out of town to market, he’d discard that part of himself, too. Joshua became Faraday, and Irish became American, and Catholic became Baptist, and became in turn nothing much at all.He can’t remember the last time he prayed. Can’t remember the last time even wanted to, felt the urge. Closest thing he’s come, these days, is the driven hope low in his belly when the cards are dealt. A silent plea for an ace in his hand.

    “No,” he says, after a while, tone still considering. “Don’t think I will. Might     stretch to a kiss for luck, though.” And there’s a grin on his lips, easy and     teasing, and a quirk to his brows and a mischief to the fingers that reach     out to brush dust from Vasquez’s vest. “She’s always done right by me.”

[duocorpora]

lacuna

Faraday remembers it all.

Jack beneath him, bunched muscle and foaming sweat, hooves tearing up the grass and dirt beneath them as together they eat up the wide, open space strewn with bodies and bullets.

The blood-damp earth singing out the approaching horse behind him. The certainty that had settled in his bones that he’d take a bullet in his back before he reached the brass-and-iron monstrosity tearing through buildings like tissue paper. The heady, hysterical realisation that it’s Vasquez, gun drawn and low over his horse, riding hell for leather to catch up.

The two of them thundering towards Bartholomew Bogue, and not an obligation in sight, just the determination to be something more than the selfish arrogance that stories wrap around him.

Burn of bullet through flesh, Jack screaming underneath him, the sudden pitch towards soft ground. The struggle to rise, the flash of scarlet from the corner of his eye. Vasquez’s fingers still gripped loose around silver pistol. Dark eyes bright with fear and pain and something else, besides. The sizzle of the fuse and the ring of the explosion, the taste of ash and iron on the air.

It’s all there, all still there.

What he doesn’t remember – what he can never remember – is the weight of Vasquez’s body.

Somewhere between the life leaving his eyes and crumpled on the ground in front of church and Chisholm, arms still half-wrapped around the Mexican’s frame, he’d walked. He’d carried. Maybe he’d dragged, because he was bloody and bruised himself, weak and too far from anything green and good to ask for help. Not with this much iron hazing the air like thundercloud.He remembers everything, except that.

[knivesnothingtoit-blog]

“just breathe… you’re okay, i promise, just breathe.”

“No. I have to get through.” He stumbles over foreign words, memorized with every step he’s taken in the last few days. “I have to get through.”

It’s a miracle they haven’t found him yet. The storm that hit the Mexican border after years of drought has proved to be a blessing and a curse. Now he’s days ahead of the cartel, but his lungs rattle wetly with every breath he takes.

In an effort to move away from the stranger, he staggers back. It dislodges something in his chest that sends him coughing. Desperate wheezing and hacks that leave his lungs starving with no end in sight.

           “Ey-ey, no. Tch!” He doesn’t see the hand before it’s wrapped around his arm, probably the only reason he didn’t fall to the ground. Still, it doesn’t stop him from flinching. His own broken hand rising instinctively to protect him, to defend if necessary (for all the good it will do — he’s too sick to fight). “Ya está bien, okay? Just breathe…you’re okay, I promise, just breathe.”

“I have to get through.”

He can’t say what it is about this man that he finds trustworthy. Why instinct pushes him to rely on him, when he’s been stuck in fight or flight mode for days.

“I know, I know...I get you through. Don’t worry, okay? I’ll get you through. Now respira conmigo, eh? Come on, breathe.” This time, when prompted, he follows the stranger’s words. Focuses on the dark eyes in front of him, and not the hands that hold him up.

This time, he breathes.

[aculling]

“you’re my friend, of course i fucking care.”

For a long moment, Emma just looks at him.

She’s leaned greatly on the edge of the stable door, fingers trying to punch little crescents into the wood with no avail. There’s static noises she’s used to: horses nickering quietly and consistent, the scraping of hooves. Someone shouts outside in the corral, and there’s a sharp whistle. The field crows cling to the ridge of the barns, and caw loudly.

She comes back to herself mildly dazed.

“Do you now.” It’s said simply, plainly. There’s no malice or accusation to it. Just a soft wonder that isn’t a question. Emma’s gaze flicks down to the floor, his shoes, then back up. Despite how long they’ve been riding, how long she’s been in their proximity, not once has she stopped to think this. That they’re friends. That they’re more than a couple of people fighting together. The realization is a little astounding, and she thought, out of all people - that she would’ve been the one to come to the conclusion first. 

It’s a little dizzying, but that might be other factors. She hasn’t eaten, and the fight in the bar has her ribs sore. 

A sliver slips into her finger, and she jerks it away from the wood. Shaking the offended hand, she plants her feet to keep her balance, gnaws the skin, and wipes it off on her riding pants. Regards him again. “I’m fine.” She will be. “Thank you.” There’s sincerity in her voice, and she hobbles forward, her knee still sore from a dog bite. There’s a pause that settles around her, and then she can’t keep her mouth shut.

“Your behavior continues to surprise me.” Emma nods to herself, and takes in a slow steady breath. “I’m glad. For where we are now.”

[comanchefighter-blog]

@poorlikeness

The bar is loud with the festive uproar that comes with surviving a harrowing feat. Whisky is being passed around liberally, and all seven of them are seated at a large round table near the center of the crowded saloon. 

As he has been, Red Harvest is content to sit and listen, still young and trying to learn the ways of these men. They differ in size and energy, from the quiet Jack to the loud Faraday, and he finds he wants to know them all, their intentions, their goals. 

The man beside him, Vasquez, looks at home, vest and shirt open at the neck and posture relaxed. But every third word is in another language, rolling and calm like water. Red Harvest focuses on it, knows it is the language of Spaniards, but doesn’t know what any of it means. 

Wondering what his father would think of him now does no good, but he can’t help it. These are good people, and that matters to him more than where they were born, who their own fathers took their land from. 

[joyouswolves]

poorlikeness replied to your video “I made a thing. I also made myself sad.”

FUCK YOOOOOU

I deserved that.

[k-star-holic]

"The most painful part" (Poorlike) - a systemic molding that even had an ankle molding

[reachedoutmyhand]

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, will you, Cas?”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to @ashxnfeathers and @poorlikeness! It’s half-heartedly finished! But with love! WHICH MAKES IT SPECIAL!

[sofaradaysogood]

@poorlikeness

He’s screwed six ways to Sunday, and it’s making him jumpy.

Hasn’t been able to sleep, since that monumentally bad decision. Instead, he’d spent his night lying awake and staring up at the darkness, fingers drumming against bare skin too heated to put up with sheets or pyjamas. Leverage. That’s what it had been about. Leverage and a taste of the risk he’s come almost to depend on. He can’t play cards when he’s on an undercover op, especially if it’s deep cover. Ends up just replacing one addiction with another, and maybe that’s why the emptiness of his veins, screaming out for adrenaline, for the next risk, is making him so damn itchy under his skin.

It’s why the next day, when he should put his professional face on and play the bodyguard who’s done his boss a favour, he meets Vasquez’s dark gaze with a smirk and a wink. It’s also why, when his phone buzzes, he starts -- a physical flinch that he ought to know better than to allow. 

He slides it out. It’s from Ethel.

   (Ethel is his handler; a balding fifty-something guy whom Faraday has never seen     crack a smile, despite all his best efforts to test one. He thinks it’s hilarious that his     code-name is Ethel. He’s guessing he’s the only one.)

And the fact that he’s getting called in for a briefing now sends something drumming behind his ribs. He knows for a fact that one of the reasons he’s here is that they couldn’t get a damn thing from their attempts to bug the place. Vasquez is clever, and he’s careful. So surely they can’t know, right?

Wouldn’t be the first time he’d been given a slap on the wrist for acting like an idiot, but generally they don’t pull him out mid-op to do it. He glances up from his phone to find Vasquez watching him, and quirks a brow, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

“The wife,” he says. “Doing her best to be the ex-wife. If I never hear another thing ‘bout who gets the widescreen, it’ll be too soon.”

[westoons]

By Grabthars hammer, we've lost another legend...fu€|< you cancer! #alanrickman #hansgruber #sherriffofnottingham #bygrabtharshammer #poorlikeness

[knivesnothingtoit-blog]

@poorlikeness from (x)

“What they see me as is what they think is true.” Billy says with a bored shrug. He doesn’t need Vasquez to tell him how much Goody cares — he already knows. But Goodnight’s good opinion of him doesn’t change what every other white man will assume at first glance.

It doesn’t particularly bother him. It’s not their truth that Billy cares about.

[aculling]

“The ones we loved are never really gone.”

[k-star-holic]

Forty full body molding "Gentleman, Gangnam District, Appgujeong... different molding advantages" surprise ('Poorlike')

[reachedoutmyhand]

when you see this, post three lines from a WIP

yoinked from @alichay . WIP for @poorlikeness and @knivesnothingtoit

Vasquez is taller than Faraday. Only an inch, maybe two. Faraday doesn’t often notice it. When Vasquez steps in – looms – it’s hard to avoid. He rolls a shoulder, and his chin rises a fraction, obstinate, in response to the realisation.

“Go talk to Goodnight,” he suggests, and turns his head long enough to spit from between his teeth.

“I’m talking to you, guero! Goodnight is –” Vasquez waves a hand, sufficient explanation for the combination of drugs and pain and exhaustion and unrealised grief that have him tied up in knots that take too much unpicking.

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m done talking.”

[sofaradaysogood]

Will you die for me? [CIA probs]

Because that’s the real question, isn’t it?

Vasquez has a whole organisation full of men who’ll kill for him, or worse. They’ll risk their souls and they’ll risk prison, but how many of them would honest-to-God risk their lives, willingly and in full knowledge?

Of course, there’s always a chance. It’s a dangerous world, and every single one of them know it. But what they’re risking isn’t for Feliciano Vasquez. It’s for the money, it’s for the security, for the drugs, for the power. It’s for all the trappings of this life they’ve sunk themselves into, not for the man himself.

The weight of Faraday’s gun is heavy against his hip.

His team wear shoulder holsters. They allow a certain degree of concealment, with a jacket, an opportunity to hint at the firepower if necessary. They’re accessible, and sensible, and convenient. They look professional. Sure, a few of ‘em probably have at least two more weapons stashed about their person, but the idea is that they look legit. 

Faraday wears his guns at his belt. That’s why they call him a cowboy, and they mean it for an insult, for a mockery. They quit meaning it as one when they see him draw, the speed of it. When they realise that Faraday wears his guns at his belt because they’re closer to those devil-fast fingers and because he’s fond of them, of their weight and power.

Times like this, they feel like lead. When he thinks about curling his finger around the trigger with Vasquez staring back at him, or worse, oblivious, gun aimed at the back of his head, a kill devoid of dignity or mercy or feeling.

    “Inevitably,” he says, and for all the lightness in the words, in his tone, there’s     something behind his eyes that’s resigned to the truth of it. He’s all the way     down the rabbit hole, now. His phone is in pieces and he hasn’t seen Ethel for     weeks, and only last night he’d lain awake, naked and satisfied at his own hand,     and wondered what would happen if he just took Vasquez and disappeared. No     warning, no explanation. Some other city, some other town. Ruin all the work he’s     done and all the work the agency has done before him. Let Vasquez’s people take      the fall. He doesn’t care about them.

“Why?” he pushes himself away from the wall of the study, tips his had and smiles a Faraday-smile, all wild around the edges and tasting a challenge. “You asking?”