daggeriisms

[daggeriisms]

L’Avventura (1960)

[daggeriisms]

//I love my Viet.nam-war inspired Soldier.

[daggeriisms]

//Talk to me about how often Spy is let down by his team. Soldier literally shot his head off because he was too impatient to wait for Spy to finish speaking, the entire head in a fridge fiasco, just :)))))

[daggeriisms]

Don’t worry, the whole world’s my hiding place. I can stand there amongst them in the day and night and laugh at them.

[daggeriisms]

                               ❝ Once, I was hunted. Now, I am THE HUNTER. ❞

[daggeriisms]

//I’m looking up fenc.ing stuff and honestly I think it might be Spy's favorite sport (going off that one taunt he has). He loves watching it on tv (want Spy to join in tv watching? Put fenc.ing on) but performs it as well. Of course, he hasn’t quite got the time to practice like he used to, but taking on that sport still shows in his movements, especially during fighting. It’s smooth and fast, not just the traditional stab associated with spies but also the thrust as given by fenc.ing (just as effective). It’s taught him to wait, made him super sensitive and aware of the body movement(s) of his opponent (letting him know the perfect time to strike), made him very agile when backing up, and just generally toned his body. I’d imagine his form during fights isn’t just the movement associated with that of someone just fighting, its tight and controlled, almost pretty. It’s almost like a dance.

[daggeriisms]

//If people could just... stop treating BLU Spy’s experience as a head as being a good experience for him, that’d be great.

[daggeriisms]

//Funny thought: Spy mocking his opponents’ accents in a purposefully bad and half-hearted manner. Normally this would be bad enough on its own, but this is a man who could perfectly mimic their voice if he so chooses. That means, he thinks so low of them in that point, he doesn’t think it worth his time to even put forth the effort of using his talent.

[daggeriisms]

//Going from feeling good about my head.canons to feeling itchy af on here and wanting to move to a new blog to feeling anxious about everything and just wanting to straight up delete within the span of two seconds.

[daggeriisms]

//Spy has vocal issues after he retires, not just because of the cigarettes, but his own career screwing him over yet again. I head.canon Spy has the talent to sound exactly like anyone, male or female, given a few minutes to think and prepare himself physically for the task, without the help of technology. But it’s hell on his vocal cords and while he does take care of himself as best he can (cigarettes aside), it will catch up to him. The tasks required of him might even make it to where he has BBS, or at the very least make his natural voice sound rougher than he’d normally would. I’m intrigued with this aspect of Spy, because he isn’t his own face half the time, but he is his esophagus, lungs, and vocal cords. Taking a beating but hiding it from the world.

[daggeriisms]

bushmundy

He smells him first, that sharp, acrid something known only to cologne makers and sun-drenched wanderers. Mouth inhales instinctively, lightly, gasp marking the threshold between sleep’s oblivion and wakefulness. Fingers reach for softness, leathered hand tugging lightly on thin cloth as the spy moves slowly closer to the source. He knows nothing now, knows only the fact that he wants to be closer, whatever it is is warm and solid---. 

The spy is gone, jerked upright by realization; uneasy hatred, against himself, slithers behind hard sternum. Fool. Icy eyes blink against remnant sleep, gaze upon the flat expanse of the sniper’s clothed stomach used moments before as a pillow, the very same stomach now moving in response to quiet laughter. Icicles stab into the other’s eyes now, but the sniper does not look away. He never does. 

“What, woke up quick enough?” 

He says nothing. Gaze instead now trails down the hard line of foreign cheek, the rough swathe of tanned muscle and bone. He has fallen asleep, dropped his guard, been made the most vulnerable he could be. And yet the sniper did nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, whatsoever. How long had he been out? Did it matter? Crystalline gaze returns now to its mirror; the sniper still does not look away, though it is his eyes now that betray a certain sense of unease. Had he done something wrong? The spy considers all of this, weighs it in his mind, frightfully aware of the light dusting of sleep still alight on his brain. He remembers that idiotic, sweet space of time between nothing and comprehension. The sniper waits. At last, the spy moves, closer now, head tucked on the ridge of the sniper’s collarbone, fingers twisted in red cloth. And he inhales.

[daggeriisms]

[daggeriisms]

inexploite:

daggeriisms

Jack knew that flash of blue anywhere. 

The color belonged to the pariah’s of the town but its hue only made Jack grin widely. Jack knew this was the same person from before and little feet urged him to run. Yet, he hesitated, glued to the spot. It felt like a spell almost, like if he drew too much attention to themselves then the magic would be broken and the man in blue would vanish. Months in passing suddenly felt like decades. Plenty of days had passed, and what reason had the man to even to remember their encounter? The rest of the town had taken to forgetting. If rumor about RED and BLU even held an inkling of truth then occurrences like those of Sissmas day were ordinary. The high possibility that the masked stranger– or, a guardian, as he’d been more apt to personally describe him, could have forgotten like rest was… scary.  

Still, if there was a chance, he would risk it. 

So, doing his best to look as inconspicuous as possible Jack walked. One step, then another. Jack weaved through crowd with all the finesse and grace an eight year could muster which, truthfully, wasn’t much at all. When he felt he was close enough, Jack stopped. Moments tick in silence, where all Jack does is look at his shoes or find a newfound interest in a spec of dirt. Jack felt a buzz of excitement along with a nauseating mix of unease. This lasted for a whopping five seconds. No longer able to contain his excitement Jack lifted his hand in a small wave, and looked up at his guardian. 

“Hi again, Mister. Do… do you remember me?” 

Onyx eyebrows pursed in annoyance, another drag taken from crisp cigarette as the man in question subjected himself to yet another wait. Fifteen minutes had passed, of waiting for the BLU Soldier to collect his purchase, so they could go home. Bored mind questioned exactly why, as the soldier continued to berate the poor clerk, he had been asked to undertake this task. Limbs and brain would both rather he be at the base, tucked away as far as possible with a book and a glass of wine. Alas, he has ventured only as far as the nearest post, lean frame propped against it as he is treated to another chorus of shouts.

Then-- without warning, sudden voice catches his ear, rips attention from its grave and gives it new life. Icy crystalline blue eyes see nothing around him, no adult ventured forth to vex him in vain; gaze drops to a more child-friendly height, and-- he understands. A moment is taken, brief taste of nicotine on his tongue, as he resituates his memory. Pale gaze glances over youthful frame, once, twice, then lands on childish face at last. The boy looks alright, hair grown perhaps a little more than that when he last saw him. Stares finally connect, and something infinitesimally small settles in the back of restless mind. Perhaps he has been waiting for this, too.

Threat of poor memory lays heavy in the air between them, weighed down with uncertainty and fear. Did the spy remember? Apprehension soon gives way to praise, given easily to whom he considered deserved it; an attempt to soothe youthful nerves.

“The boy who saved Smissmas?” A pause; another drag. “Of course.”

[daggeriisms]

//Hey listen, I’m not saying Spy once got a grudge so bad against one (1) man he mentally tormented and terrified him psychologically (disguising as the man’s worst fears, becoming that black figure you see in your peripheral vision that disappears when you look, etc.) to the point of paranoia and insanity before even getting physically close to, torturing, and killing him, but yes he has. I don’t know why Spy did it or what the catalyst was, but he has. He’ll never mention or speak of it, though. 

[daggeriisms]

//Did I really miss a cheddar meme when I freaking love cheese, did you guys sell out on me, send me a text next time, gOD I LOVE CHEESE-

[daggeriisms]

dialnfornoir:

The Big Sleep (1946)