in the source link, you’ll gain access to #560 medium gifs of OSCAR ISAAC in the series, BEEF that are suitable for roleplays.  please cast appropriately when using these gifs . all of these were made from scratch by me, so you may edit them,  but please do not reclaim as your own! this gif pack is FREE , so I kindly ask that you just reblog/like if you use them . if not it will result in a block.

takes  a  step  toward  her,  his  posture  losing  its  rehearsed  poise,  becoming  something  raw  and  uncharacteristically  pathetic.  he  knows  he’s  ruined  everything,  but  the  thought  of  letting  her  walk  away. or  worse,  having  to  be  the  one  to  finish  this  ugliness  right  in  front  of  her is  unbearable.  “ look,  you  can  go  if  you  don’t  want  to  be  involved.  i  can  finish  the  job  here,  i  can  make  sure  he  never  speaks  another  word  to  anyone, ”  he  says,  the  words  tumbling  out  with  a  frantic  edge  of  desperation.  he  reaches  out,  not  quite  touching  her,  his  hands  hovering  in  the  air.  “ but  if  you  don’t  want  that,  if  you  can’t  stomach  the  blood,  then  just  come  with  me.  leave  it  all.  let’s  go  somewhere  else,  somewhere  no  one  knows  us,  somewhere  we  can  just  exist  together.  please,  andie,  don't  make  me  do  this  alone. ”

these galas had always been a headache, and now the pain throbbing behind her temple, watching tobias tremble with another mans blood dripping down his knucles, was enough to make her throw up. "tobias — what did you do?" taking a step further, she angles her head to see around his body. to get a better look. the panic in her eyes clear. not because she was scared for herself, but for him. putting his life and future on the line for her? initial words unsteady, not the cool rebuke a molina should deliver, but a raw, frightened plea. frightened for him. because now his fingerprints are inside a crime scene that begins and ends with her. "let him? i had it handled! i had him handled!" she can make out the figure on the ground, his beard. she knows its him. gust rattles the alley’s dirty gutters, and her’s mind drifts — unwanted, unstoppable , to javier delgado, the disposable “date” whose laugh never reached his eyes. tobias wasn't wrong the man was absolutely vile. his hand constantly wandering to her ass, and lewd jokes that made her beyond uncomfortable. and yet the thought scrapes across her ribs, equal parts awe and terror. silly her, expecting tobias to orbit her carefully constructed gravity well—supply intel, receive flirtatious praise, remain harmless. instead, he detonated. and not to save the campaign or her reputation—god, those abstractions never even crossed his eyes. he’d done it out of instinctual, incandescent protectiveness. "just — stop, stop. give me a moment i need to think." palm of her hand pushes into his chest, a gesture to hopefully calm him down. she drops into savior mode. dispose of the body? bribe the emt? spin a self defense narrative? each scenario clatters against the knowledge that a single photo of tobias in this state would destroy the softness she’d only just begun to believe in. that softness — so inconvenient, so miraculous, has no defense in the political arena. her stomach flips. she’s spent months weaponizing intimacy, collecting secrets like gemstones; now the sharpest secret is lodged in her own chest: she cares whether this man survives intact. "im not letting you do this on your own. you've done enough." she crouches beside javier’s slack form, careful to keep the hem of her dress from the spreading stain of blood. he’s still breathing: ragged, wet, but alive enough to talk. that cannot stand. one heel slips from her foot; she guides the stiletto’s metal tip to the juncture between jaw and carotid, presses. his eyes flutter, pupils blown wide, and she leans in so only he can hear. "i guess you've learned the hard way that no one's untouchable — que los dioses tengan misericordia." a chilling calmness in her words, as he takes one last breathe. rising, she wipes the stiletto’s tip with a cocktail napkin scavenged from her clutch, tucks the evidence into a dumpster’s oily maw. one problem sterilized. “now,” she says, sliding her shoe back on, composing her features into warm gala glow. "you’ll escort me through the side corridor. we re enter during the raffle; plenty of commotion, no one notices late arrivals. the last time was saw javier he was drunk, belligerent and stumbled into the alley ... the rest? unbeknownst to us. got it?"

TAYLOR RUSSELL at the 'hope' press conference in cannes

FBI: MOST WANTED Ivan Ortiz in 2x14

the faint outline of someone’s figure lingered behind the small window beside the door, though he already knew who it was before he even opened it. without hesitation, jamie unlocked the door and pulled it open. “it’s a little late for you to be wandering out here,” he commented casually in a lowered tone, his eyes instinctively drifting over the woman’s shoulder to scan the dark surroundings before returning to her again. the subtle shift in his expression gave away a flicker of concern. “everything okay?”

she should have been asleep an hour ago, tucked beneath the quilt that still smelled faintly of mothballs and her grandfather’s cologne, but the silence of the ranch was louder than she could bear. asphalt lullabies had spoiled her; manhattan never let the mind wander too far inward. out here, every creak of floorboard felt like an accusation. so she’d wrestled on jeans — threw his flannel over a camisole, slid bare feet into dusty boots, and followed the weak porch light glow spilling from jamie’s cabin. “i couldn’t sleep.” a shrug tugs at one shoulder of the flannel, exposing the strap of lavender silk, a city softness she hasn’t learned to shed. "figured a short walk might tire me out, but then — then i saw your light.” she leans into the threshold, fingers curling around the doorjamb as though she needs the wood to keep her upright. she hates how her voice wavers, haunted by years of her ex husbands clipped sighs whenever she spoke out of turn. "i didn't mean to bother you though. i can uh — head back and uh let you get some rest." head back. to what exactly? the ranch house was a cavern at night, all long hallways and ghost echoes of her granddad’s mechanical clock. but even as the words leave her, corrie flinches inward, half expecting a polite dismissal, rehearsing apologies she learned in penthouse marble corridors. why is asking for company so hard, when she’s survived gala spotlights and boardroom stares?

IT HAS KEPT HIM UP more nights than he likes to admit — the guilt pooling in his chest. he had not had a choice, sword to his throat on his knees in front of the four princes, but this does little to soothe him. he could've died. perhaps he ought to have. he most definitely will. but catarina is fierce in front of him, already waging a war she wants no part of whether she wants to or not. it is the unfortunate weight royalty must carry: to inspire loyalty, or fear, or whatever keeps them on the pedestal they have earned by nothing but blood — their own or other's. serving the monarchy had been an easy choice because he had had so few of them. to cengiz, court has always been a roof over his head, a meal in his stomach; and now a princess to care for. he cannot crumble underneath her defiant gaze, that color of betrayal she sports for him, though he wants to. none of this was supposed to happen, but that does not make it happen any less. « i do believe you, » he argues, hands shooting up to envelop hers gently, in a way a man like him should not be familiar with. he softens around her though — impossibly, melting hardened edges that have been forged in fires more powerful than her. and yet he crumbles. and yet he yields. « the council believes you. there are knights and dukes and lords who believe you, » he continues urgently, her hands swallowed in his and yet she towers. cengiz wants peace. he wants an opportunity to put down his sword, to not wake to horrors worse than his nightmares, and none of her brothers will grant him this. he knows only one who will. « the princes may believe they are leading this rebellion, and they need to believe it. but it is not them i wish to see on a throne. » starved and foolish they will find a way to annihilate one another before any of them even sits down on it. « you do not wear a mask, your highness. but perhaps you could wear the crown quite well. »

"wear the crown? talk like that will see both our heads on pikes." but the warning lacks conviction; it tastes almost sweet. she lifts her chin, studying him under the guttering torchlight. a soldier built for shields and spears—​yet here he is, offering a crown he can never wear. why? her mind demands. guilt alone can’t purchase that kind of loyalty. she forces herself to pace again, small, precise circles, gathering thoughts like fallen pins. “i can’t claim that throne alone. the courts would never allow it. let alone my brothers, and you know it." but she also knew the way her brothers circle the throne like a falcon eying a single scrap of meat, so entranced by the glitter of it all that they'd scarcely register her breathing the same air. Their egos make fine armor but poor mirrors; they see only their own reflections polished bright, never the quiet blade she sharpens in their blind spots. "but their might be another way — if the princes think they command you.” she says at last, “we let them keep the illusion. let them believe you bend to their will—​until the moment bending becomes breaking.” she stops before him. her pulse bangs so loudly she’s certain he can hear it. treason tastes like iron on her tongue. yet the alternative is silence, and silence has never saved a kingdom. “and when the time comes, i will need the gates, the armoury, and every knight still undecided. can you give me that, cengiz?” catarina reaches, almost against her own caution, and sets two fingertips to the center of his chest—​just above the sigil of the royal griffin. the gesture is both command and confession. she is trusting the man beneath the metal more than the emblem hammered upon it.

before he brought it up he never actually entertained the idea of her saying no. in his head, the plan was fixed. pack, guide her to the gate, step into light that didn’t flicker. simple. clean. he’d pictured every mile of bad road, every ambush point, every ration count—but not her refusal. “waste.” his heart thudded at the word. she was wrong, so wrong. he tipped his chin until their eyes met, rain-silver catching in the wet shimmer along her lashes. wasn’t that the crux of every nightmare? that the years he’d bartered, the blood he’d spilled, would tally to nothing but empty air? a low breath slipped through his teeth. “sienna.” her name steadied him the way a rifle stock had once met his shoulder. "what happens if we do make it there and they do let you in. let us in. you don't know that things won't work out." funny thing: every op he’d ever run had drilled pessimism into him—assume the worst, plan three contingencies past that. but since the sky split and the world caved, he’d found himself instinctively hunting the one bright thread in any wreckage, the way a drowning man sniffs out air. maybe because sienna needed it; maybe because he did. truth was, angel feared the dark edges too, the possibility that paradise was a myth wrapped in wires. yet every time doubt gnawed, he pictured soraya’s laugh echoing down some underground corridor — alive. he pictured sienna stepping through a sterilized airlock, blinking at electric light that didn’t flicker. that picture pulled him forward harder than any mission order ever had. "why not take a chance." so he let the optimism live on his tongue, not because he was blind, but because he’d seen what despair did to soldiers: it hollowed them until the next firefight finished the job. he wouldn’t let that hollow her. "look—every mission i ever ran, i always had a plan and an exit strategy. i could walk away from a whole platoon if the math said it kept me alive.” a rueful breath. “but the moment you stepped into my god forsaken life, things changed. i don’t have a contingency plan for losing you, and i don’t want one.”

lesser parts before she shakes her head , keys dangling between her fingertips . “we agreed .” is all she could muster up the courage to say , looking between his eyes and identifying the betrayal behind them . “you can’t come here pointing fingers when we both said we’d sleep with other people .” she won’t falter , refuses to despite every crevice of her body threatening to burst into flames beneath the gasoline pouring out of his mouth .

he bites the inside of his cheek, the way he once bit the inside of her thigh. she’s two steps above him, his head hanging with irritation. “yeah, we agreed — but i pictured some rando from econ, not—” his jaw flexes, name withheld like a swallowed piece of glass. “— that egotistical asshole.” brody hayes— tau sig golden boy, linebacker shoulders, colgate commercial grin, always walking across the quad like a billboard for protein powder. axil hated his guts. "i just hate the idea of him and his greasy hands all over you. was it even good?" he shifts his weight, throat working. truth is, he isn’t asking to gauge technique or if brody could even get it up. he’s asking if she felt seen, if some part of her sparked the way they spark.