demon time w/ frank || accepting

"What are they— what are they callin' that big beefy one, runs around with all 'em jailbreak lunatics? You don't see him a lot in the footage after, real discreet for a man with thighs that thick."

voices dissipate, his nose is red with the chill, and he watches lazily as shadows slink out of view. (is now a bad time? probably. but there's no such thing as a good time in shitshows like this.) rick hovers in the space where the sas operator cranes over whatever is left on the desk, and he uses the more leveled heights as leverage to wrap fingers in the bottom of balaclava. a shift of fingers, careful stare: a test, mostly. fabric slips up the others neck, eye contact refusing to break, and his hands stop once the cupids bow of simon's lip is visible.

quite content with his victory, the captain closes space between them, offering a rather chaste kiss, his own face cool to the touch.

unprompted inbox things  ||  always accepting  ➜  @warhunting  

Naturally he is aware of Rick’s presence as the other man comes closer, but his focus remains on the maps. Plans had to be perfect and now was as good as any time to do so. Hands hold most of his weight, yet none of his balance. as he leans on the table, leading him to be at a close level with Rick, which seems be exactly what the other is after.

When the fingers hook in his balaclava Simon simply remains still. Not a muscle moving while eyes remain firm on Rick’s face, waiting for where this is going, where it might lead. What was he really after? Was this as good as any time to simply let things transpire? To let the head take a backseat and allow nature to play out? 

HE ISN’T SURE EXACTLY HOW LONG HE’S BEEN WALKING but it’s been a couple days. The sun has set twice but he knows that there’s a town nearby. The cold that’s been seeping under his skin is disorienting, frostbite setting in as quickly as his body can heal itself. The serum is the only thing that’s kept him from freezing solid.

Melina is nowhere to be found. He saw her die. He died. But now...he doesn’t know what happened but he knows if he’s here then she must be SOMEWHERE. She has to be. His suit, somewhat torn from battle, was only sufficient protection against the cold for so long. He’s run hot naturally since getting the serum but the below freezing temperatures are not something ANYONE could withstand for an extended period of time without the proper gear. Between that and the wolves, it’s been a rough couple days to say the least.

his  shirt  is  still  damp  from  morning  run,  though  everything  else  has  been  mostly discarded  in  the  illustrious  stroll  from  front  door  to  kitchen.   IT’S  HIS  HOUSE, AFTER  ALL,   and  dress  codes  don’t  apply  to  a  gracious  host   -   hence,   the  silk shorts,  for  lack  of  better  terms.  crisp  morning  air  intermingles  with  sweat,  though  he seems  unfazed  by  the  way  his  lungs  sting  with  the  change  in  temperature  and  the concept  that  he’s  seemingly  far  from  alone.   typically  he  isn’t  one  to  make  a separate  cup  of  coffee  for  someone  else,   living  primarily  alone  had  become comfortable  in  some  form   -   but  he  can’t  complain  too  much,  really.

mug  is  slid  across  the  counter  top,  his  counterpart  crowds  his  space   -   and  poignant slap  earns  a  rolling  tighten  of  muscles  and  a  curt  sort  of  sound.  stare  rises,  head turning:   it’s  almost  odd  in  a  way  to  see  someone  rise  from  his  bed around  the  same  time  he  does.   guess  there  are  perks  to  entertaining  other  war fighters.

❛     take  it  easy  with  the  hands,  cowboy.   ❜          features  tuck  themselves  into  a  coy  little  smile,  which  is  hidden  behind  the  brim  of  mug.          ❛     don’t  wanna  deface  government  property.   ❜        

✯ ENTERTAINING OTHER WAR FIGHTERS IS BLOOD     ON YOUR FACE AND GLORY IN THE TELEVISION.     THIS? THIS IS LOVE LANGUAGE AND ROMANCE     WITH HIS HANDS. You’re welcome. And thank you     FOR THE MUG, they say you’re the man to talk to     FOR A LITTLE CAFFEINATION. HE’D CALL YOU     ‘SECRETARY’ TO PACK A LITTLE HEAT AND FUN     BUT HE NEVER HAD A SECRETARY THUS FAR.     No idea how that kind of corporate luxury feels.     You know how it is. IT AIN’T ME, I AIN’T NO (...)

That’s not what he hand in mind, but he sees the little smile behind your mug and feels assured the humor is reciprocated. Hand closes int a greedy grip of meat and flesh, good squeeze, thrashing around with a snarl & growl, nose twitching like a warning he’d claimed a meal and you’d best not get in his way. ❝What, deface them silkies? Only government property I see here’s yer ass.❞ Gentle smooch on his cheekbones, warmth and steam radiating off Rick’s mug, hand easing and sliding up his lower back before retreating. How’s that for good morning? The cowboy behaves, and takes a seat beside him, spinning his mug.  ❝Army property lookin’ ass, bought ‘n sold. Rented, too, but that’s just fer me on weekends, three times a month.❞ Please, it’s early in the morning.

❝Y’know, I could git used t’ this real fast: mornin’ risin’ an’ mornin’ runnin’... freshened out by showerin’ when the sky’s still orange, then treated t’ the cup o’ coffee I deserve...❞ rolling eyes and a shrug, a catty whistle and smug smirk toward Rick’s choice of silkies. You think this is embarrassing enough as is? He’ll double down. ❝This, ah, this’s nice, is all. Thanks.❞ Eyebrows and mug raised at Rick, cheers, like a morning toast. I think he’s saying it’s love, but try pressing that one out of him, fucker.

his  eyes  catch  the  team,  the  one  whos  labels  now  have  a  shining  pin,  one  steve  placed  while  a  colonel  spoke  about  COURAGE,  BRAVERY,  and  SKILL.   the  man  wasn’t  wrong,  he’d  read  the  files,  but  it  was  the  same  speech  every  time.   it  was  never  personal,  never  labeled  the  men  what  they  TRULY  were.   not  just  these  men  deserved  better,  but  all  the  men  that  served  in  the  us  military  should  be  given  more.  

a  hand  tugs  at  his  collar  just  a  little,  the  old  dress  uniform  snug  in  ways  that  have  nothing  to  do  with  being  old,  simple  discomfort,  hands  resting  behind  his  back,  catching  the  leader  as  he  stands  off  to  the  side.  the  small  talk  won’t  last  long,  these  men  aren’t  important  to  the  government  officials  that  are  here,  (  and  if  they  are,  it’s  because  of  the  USES  they  have  to  the  agenda  and  nothing  more,  steve  knows  it  all  too  well  )  .   

he  pulls  himself  from  his  position,  feet  carrying  him  forward,  hands  still  tucked  behind  him,         ❝    you  look  about  as  UNCOMFORTABLE  as  i  feel.    ❞        and  maybe  its  the  wrong  thing  to  say,  but  he  does  anyway.  he  leans  into  his  strong  suit:  awkwardness. 

the fall from his horse was less than graceful: blundering, ugly crash to the scrub and dirt below, dragged down by a smart throw of a lasso he was too slow to dodge. nothing feels broken in the here and now, but he’s far from unscathed. his shoulder and ribs throb with a dull pain with each heartbeat, each breath, and he anticipates the ink stains of bruises to blot and spread across the rough canvas of his skin soon enough. for now, thin streaks of red and torn skin will tint him into some vivid colors..

Arthur looks up to his lucky captor, squinting against the sun and he’s either grinning or grimacing in the kind of light that bleaches his hair blonde. part of him wonders if he should try to bluff his way out, but another part stomps it down -- charming is Dutch and Hosea’s job. the outlaw feeling rope burn settling into his wrists like a brand is more of a hands-on sort.

          “gonna be honest here; be easier to just let me go now.”