a pretty messed up loser guy

clark kent ( reeve films + kingdom come elseworlds )

davos seaworth ( a song of ice and fire )

gared tuttle ( telltale’s game of thrones )

homelander ( the boys tv series )

john doggett ( the x-files )

kendall knight ( big time rush )

maxwell lord ( dc extended universe )

reed strucker ( the gifted )

ren serizawa ( legendary pictures’ godzilla )

rip hunter ( dc’s legends of tomorrow )

rodrik forrester ( telltale’s game of thrones )

sam wilson ( marvel cinematic )

sunny ( into the badlands )

takeshi mimura ( OC ; bio here )

tony stark ( marvel cinematic - paramount films only* ) * tony’s characterisation will be consistent with IM1, IM2, avengers, and IM3 only, but i can adapt to the events of the disney MCU films as necessary.

Timothy sighs deeply in relief. When he overhears him using the words survivor and escort a large smile spreads over his face. He’s being rescued! There’s that luck, finally! Another horrible death avoided. He wonders if there’s a record on that. “ Oh yes ! “ He cheers aloud in barely contained excitement.

He’s grateful to have the gun returned, it’s not a very good one, but just having some kind of weapon on him makes him feel at least somewhat competent. “ Sure can , cupcake . “ He replies, cringing at his own words as soon as they leave his mouth. “ Uh . Sorry - I mean , uh . Yeah . “ This guy is rescuing you, he tells himself, the least you can do is not be weird.

“ I used to be an engineer at Hyperion - actually . “ He tells him instead, understanding the doubt he’s casting at his capabilities he demonstrates his expertise by handling the gun, putting the safety off, taking out the ammo, cocking it, uncocking it, but as he goes to put the ammo back in, his right hand fumbles and malfunctions and the magazine clatters to the ground with a pained shout. 

Embarassed, he bends down to pick up the ammo. “ Sorry - er - I’m fine . Ready to be rescued . This planet seems like a hell hole , can you help me get off ? “ He asks, hits his right hand with his left to get it working again and then puts the gun back together.

Hyperion isn’t a name he’s happy to hear, but Chris doesn’t hold the man’s past against him. It’s not nearly as concerning as the fact he dropped the magazine of his own weapon.

Maybe he’ll be safer without it. (Maybe he’ll throw a fit if Chris takes it.)

“Yeah,” he finally settles on saying, “I’ll get you out of here.”

And maybe find someone to get a look at that hand while they’re at it.

“My name’s Chris,” he tells him, giving the room a quick sweep before his gaze returns to the other man. “I’m gonna keep you safe, but you have to stay close, all right? Don’t wander off. Don’t panic.”

He offers a quick, wry smile. “I got you.”

With that, Chris gets his rifle back in position, the weapon firm in both his hands, and tells his team he’s preparing to move back out of the building. The building itself still has power, but with the fluorescent bulbs above flicking on and off in periodic beats, Chris keeps the flashlight on his rifle on. He walks in easy, even steps down a hall he’s already cleared (dead bodies are scattered on the floor), and listens closely both for the footsteps of his companion and whatever else might be lurking.

Opening the door to the emergency stairwell brings with it the echoes of groaning undead, and Chris holds up a fist to tell the other man to wait. He points his rifle up, spotting a few zombies lumbering, then points it back down. He’s fortunate in that they’re spread out, but if the ones upstairs think of going down, they’ll be able to get to the civilian first...

“All right,” Chris mutters, more to himself than anything.

Then he steps back, shutting the door to the stairwell once more to acknowledge his charge. “Here’s the plan. You and I are gonna go downstairs as quietly as possible, and then I’m gonna take out the zombies on the first floor. There’re three more in the upper stairway, separate, but these things don’t move fast, so we should be able to get out before they surround us.

“Of course he hates storms! I’ve yet to meet a bloody soul who likes them,” Bajie huffed as he pulled the infant into his arms and turned his gaze towards him. “It’s alright, Henry. I’ve got a bit more padding to cover your ears with.”

As if to make his point, he held him closely to his chest and shifted the arm that was holding him to cover his other ear as best he could without smothering the boy. Brow furrowing with concern as he clung to his clothes and burrowed his face into this chest, Bajie began to rock the tiny form in his arms and hushing him softly.

Bajie gives a soft hum of agreement as he hears Sunny mention starting a fire, saying, “That’s a good idea.”

Though, the lack of movement on Sunny’s part is evident. He looks between Sunny and the hearth.

“Or I can do it after I get him fed. We don’t have to do it this second.”

Bajie’s offer has Sunny’s hands dropping from his face as he looks at him again. Bajie’s drenched, too-- had been busy heating up Henry’s milk, even-- and now with Henry squirming and crying into his chest, he can’t help but feel the slightest bit guilty for putting so much on him.

“No,” he finally says, brows pulling together, “I brought it up. I should do it.”

And, tired though he feels, Sunny gets to his feet and goes to where he put his pack on the floor. He has a good amount of kindling in there-- sticks of wood bundled together and tied with a string-- but not nearly enough to make something that burns big and lasts.

“I’ll look in the other rooms,” he says, dropping the sticks into the fireplace and resisting the urge to sigh. “There might be some old furniture we can give up.”

Looking over at Bajie, Sunny nods. “Call me if you need anything.”

Gaius can’t help the slight pang in his chest as Sunny calls him sir once more as he enters the tent. He knows full well that if Sunny didn’t call him it, he would be reprimanded and harshly, but that didn’t make it any easier for him to hear.

Swallowing thickly, he watches as the Colt so easily moves to kneel on the floor before the bed.

Reluctantly, he pulled off his overcoat and raised his shirt to show a considerable slash along it before taking his seat. He thanked the gods Waldo had shown up when he had to take the nomad out. There was no doubt in Gaius’ mind that had he been just a moment longer, he wouldn’t be there to tell the tale.

“You don’t… You don’t have to be on the ground, unless it’s easier for you. I’m not… I don’t mind,” he stated hesitantly, feeling strangely put off by the older boy. Gaius wasn’t scared of him, per say, aside of him maybe going back to his father and reporting to him that he’d been showing anything remotely like compassion to “those who are lesser”. In truth, he didn’t care about that. But there was something about the way he held himself that confused Gaius.

Perhaps it was because Sunny was fearless, as far as he could tell. He couldn’t imagine being a Colt, seeing and doing the things they did when they were both so young.

But in a way, he also admired it. Gaius wished he wasn’t so cowardly and meek at times, especially when it came to his family.

Eyes flicking up in Gaius’ direction at the admission, Sunny’s lips press together before he brings his head back down.

“Not minding isn’t an excuse for breaking the rules,” he says plainly. The only reason he’ll get up will be if Gaius orders him to, though Sunny has to admit the awkward attempts at conversation are more than he expected. He’s not sure what to think about not having to submit to someone with a crest of Barony on their clothing... so, as Waldo tells him, he stops thinking.

Instead, his left hand pushing Gaius’ shirt higher (Gaius had lifted it, which means Sunny has permission to work), his right one brushes the skin just beneath the wound as his brows draw together in concentration.

“It’s big,” he says. Gaius’ shirt-- white, as all the Chaus’ clothes are-- is stained with red, and he knows it isn’t going to be coming out any time soon. “But not infected. It’ll hurt for a while, but it’ll heal.”

On the tray is a small bowl of warm water; Sunny picks up the towel there (decorated with Quinn’s armadillo) and soaks it before beginning to clean. For all that his behaviour doesn’t invoke sentiments of kindness, the pressure of his hand is gentle in its perfect calculation.

Bajie’s heart was breaking as Henry continued to cry.

He wished they had found somewhere to shack up where the walls were thicker, but the rain had already drenched them by the time they had found the cabin. There was no time to try and find other shelter.

Fortunately, they had enough milk to feed Henry then, but it didn’t look like they’d have enough to make it another day.

Gods, he hoped there was a goat or the like on their travels to milk in the morning.

“Here, lemme have a go at him. He might be as sick of you as I am,” he quipped gamesomely as he returned with the warmed bottle of milk for Henry. Letting out a soft sigh as he sat next to Sunny, he set the bottle down and held his hands out to hold their boy.

“Come now, Henry. You’ll be alright.”

“He’s always hated storms,” Sunny mutters, and though there’s some delay before he pulls Henry from his chest (as there always is-- Sunny always hates letting him go), he manages it eventually.

The sight of the baby wailing and reaching his arms out for Sunny to hold him close churns his stomach.

“It’s okay,” he says, though whether he’s trying to placate Henry or himself is up in the air, “Bajie’s here, see? He’s back with your food.”

But Henry criiiiies and criiiiiiiiiiies, and even when Sunny positions the little one in Bajie’s hands, all that accomplishes is making Henry turn and curl his little fingers tight into Bajie’s clothing. As soon as he gets the chance, he’ll bury his face in his chest.

Meanwhile, Sunny sighs, rubbing his hands down his face. “I should try getting that fireplace going. Make it warmer for him.”