𝐇𝐞𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞! I have gotten a ton of new followers while I’ve been away for the past few days. Might do a couple things here. Just wanted to drop a gentle reminder that I do run multiple blogs. Most are in my pinned post if you can’t find me here but! I hope everyone has had a great day. Time for the weekend!

          𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 of awe && aggravation. Taut chest heaves in its panting, exertion at the forefront of physical limitations. Every ounce of his will is put forth to ensure survivability && yet this cosmic being wipes them from existence without batting an eye. At the very least, his nose curls && a grumble permeates tiers therein. Something of mocking the words that come from the angel && thusly seeing to it that stance dissolves to naught shortly thereafter. The American shifts && rolls his shoulders, auburn crown shaking to && fro nigh incredulously at the sheer audacity guised under good intentions (dripping with snark as it all might’ve been). Even hands twist at wrists, flicking in the depths of his irritation. Exasperated immeasurably.            “Oh now you wanna step in?” A scoff; he tosses the limb once used as weaponry. The holster fashioned ‘round his form is adjusted && carefully fixed to its former glory. “Listen, buddy---if you’re gonna tag along, you had better get with the program. No daydreaming!”

          "𝐎𝐡, 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭---𝐑𝐀𝐇!---𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬𝐞𝐭, 𝐡𝐮𝐡?!" Knuckles thud sickeningly against decayed flesh && each strike elicits a roar of his effort henceforth. Each living corpse put down serves only to spawn two in its place to take care of their obstacle. Mummies running amuck in the city, causing yet another headache from a problem long since believed as dealt with. A punch here, a kick there---decayed form shambles back against a light fixture where its arm dislodges && disconnects. It then rapidly makes its way for where his stance holds him, but instead he swoops down && puts it to use alike weaponry. Or a baseball bat, considering its fist is knotted. He swings && off goes the head of one, then another that spins in place.            “You just sit back and---HA!!---relax, twinkle toes.                                    Wouldn’t wanna stain your halo!” 

          𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 some bodily inclination to his attentiveness. Palms ‘round elbows until lateral rises to settle idly at chin. The map is taken in, looked upon with some skepticism. Moreover in light of the explanation at hand. The only incentive is the assurance that payment would be as grand as the desire this man holds in being, assumedly, reunited with whatever this journal was to him. His tongue clicks beyond full tiers lined with stubble. Digits strum across coarse mandible whilst contemplating. But suddenly, he buffers the request with curiosity abundant.            “So.. you want me to get this journal for you.” He starts, nigh incredulously. A coyness begins to etch itself into handsome features all the while that he swipes his tongue across bottom lip to simply wet it. The strength in his hands reach out then; one rests against tabletop whilst the other jabs at the X scrawled across parchment. “What’s the catch?”            He knows better. If it’s just in a lockbox with zero historical significance, as stated, then it should be just as easy a task for the man himself to fulfill. It causes a sternness to cross throughout the marrow of prior soldier. Rick has seen his fair share of danger && looked death in the eye, smelled its breath && lived to tell the tale. Admittedly more than once. && should this situation serve to offer the same situation && circumstances he would rather be the most prepared he could possibly be. Thusly, his question is more than warranted. 

          𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐤'𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 albeit momentarily. It comes at the behest of the corners of lips twitching thoughtfully, a consideration to what’s said. The likes of which that is followed by some semblance of humor alike breathy chuckle && brow-line taut in his surety of otherwise. Moreover when rows of enamel are exposed in the further amusement felt in light of a comment barreling in from left field. Either way, he pursues the coming words with the strength of right hand falling into place midst the small of darling scholar’s back. He glances ahead && askew, searching for the proper words that might adequately convey some tenderness he’s not too unfamiliar with (anymore).           “I don’t know about all that.” He starts, the knuckle of his thumb strumming just against the dip of her spine in warmth assurance. It’s sincerity at its finest; he’s a man that means well of what he says---most importantly to she. So let it be that in the continuity of his reassurance, he turns in full so that broad hands befall delicate shoulders. Thumbs strum circles, a careful albeit meticulous way to knead his truthfulness into her flesh nigh rhythmically. “And hey, even if we are unusual---who cares? Aren’t all the best things rare anyway?”

𝐏𝐬𝐬𝐬𝐬𝐭.. you guys should send me asks and stuff. Anything. Random questions for Rick or unprompted thingies. Gimme.

          "𝐎'𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥." 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬---he’s trying with all his might to convey namesake. A sheepish strand of laughter pursues the tip of his tongue that swipes across lips (an afterthought, a nervous tick). Nervousness stemmed solely from some hopefulness that he can adequately translate something to the other in the midst of their conversation. Could lips be read while his mess of coordination continued? Best not to assume or else his hands may very well be his undoing in saying something unintended. But even so, it’s the best he’s got. If only he had truly paid more mind to the lessons his wife tried so desperately to give. So he gives his best grin, half-hearted albeit genuine only at face value. Sheepish as the chuckle given prior. He’s trying.

rick o’connell of the mummy (1999) as portrayed by Valkyrie (please read rules prior to interaction) ***personals do not reblog/interact***

          𝐋𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 && 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐬 at the motions of hands. Words pieced together with the likes of something he’s barely familiar with. He does his best, a ruffian at heart despite his militaristic stoicism. His hands attempt, failing half the way && attempting to speak in tandem to digits. Moreover as the inclination of any intimidation befalling this old soul---laughable, evident in the scoff filtering from throat.            “Me? Oh, no. No, no. Trust me, pal---nothin’ about you is scary.” He’s seen scary too many times. Up close && personal. && it stinks.