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John was always the quiet, reserved sort. Not much of a talker, generally, only around close friends and family would he be known to speak his mind. Freely, with no hesitation, be loud and comfortable. His nature hasn't changed in all the years. John's somewhat fond of the silence.

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@deathlsslullaby asked: She released a sigh of exhaustion as she laid out the sleeping bag, which she had stolen from a nearby department store. Her eyes scanned around the wooded area, terrified to spot the cops. Moments earlier, they were chasing her - she felt awful for stealing the sleeping bag, but she was desperate. If they knew of her situation, maybe they would be more considerate. And then, she heard footsteps - strong footsteps. Her breathing became shaky, her hand scrambled inside her coat pocket to take out a pocket knife - holding it in front of her. Eyes looked around once more, her heart was racing. Earlier, she was scared, but right now she was more than terrified.

Inbox Starters! ||| Sarah Madden

It was an accident. A horrible, terrible accident, John hadn't meant for anyone to get hurt. Was only trying to get away, to be free from the clutches of hands that weren't his own. Wrapped around tight to his throat, the keepers to his nightmares, the masters that controlled his peace. Stained by the earth that was Vietnam, enemy blades covered in his blood and that of brothers, their slices and cuts forever etched onto helpless skin. Scars that could never be healed. Would be always opened, bared for all to see and for John to have to reckon with. He only wanted to be left alone. Hadn't committed a crime; was arrested, abused and mistreated, hunted, with the death of Art Galt the final sorrow. A last nail into the coffin that had sealed fate, a tragic fall from a helicopter would end Galt's life. An attempt to finish John's own - echoes still within the woods of shotgun blasts - the blackened and blue face would never misuse power again, the town of Hope was liberated. Saved from a lawless son, such didn't matter to the others who pursued John deeper, the dogs and the police. Will Teasle wouldn't quit. Not until John was dead, scrubbed from the world and no more than an awful memory.

Tree branches hitting him in the face, leaves brushing against his eyes, John ran as fast as he could into the thicket, the untouched points of the woods. Where trails hadn't yet been carved, where the locals hadn't tried to pass, the flora that seemed all too familiar but smelled so new. Sweat dripped down from his hairline, the ichor from his arm was hardly felt as John pushed onward. A wound that would need tending - the sack upon his chest to be torn to pieces, made into bandages - when rest could be guaranteed without potential for capture. Sun blocked out by the limbs overhead, a dark cast across the forest, the shakiness of another's breath forced John to spin quick on his heels. Retrieve his knife without delay, arm raised to use. A startled look about his brown eyes, wide and amazed, it was no officer of the law at all. Freckles on her cheeks, locks auburn, irises so pale that they looked to be silver. Frightened, of him and all that surrounded her, was no more older than that of a teen. A child, a lost kid; slowly, John put his weapon back into its sheath, looped around his belt and held firm, raised both palms upward. Softened his expression, licked his lips nervously, observed for clues.

"It's okay. It's okay." John soothed, the faintest howl of hounds to be heard in the distance. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I won't hurt you."

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@deathlsslullaby asked: "...You don't scare me."

Inbox Starters! ||| Finlay McDougal

A blue metallic bench situated between the student parking lot and the old humanities building, the next part of the hollow journey for John was discovered within the heart of the local college. Beneath banners and streamers lined in fake gold, the grand colors, the sounds of cheers and murmurs of pleasant conversation. Hopeful eyes and wide smiles, the generation that had no idea as to what the world would have in store for them next. Happiness and heartbreak; their paths in life only limited by their own choices, their fears or the extent of their dreams. Barely lifted their gazes to acknowledge John as he sat upon their bench, the last bit of his BLT sandwich unwrapped from its foil and thereafter bitten into, the stitched flag on his jacket. A symbol that always earned remark - more often unsaid than not - a look of sorrow, an expression of disdain. Outshined by only the print of his own last name across the left breast, with his sandwich washed down by the final drops of water still within his flask, the lightness of his pocket change became noticeable. Would get him another ticket for the bus, to be coming soon, perhaps a bottle of soda, should John choose cheaply. Consequences for the life he chose to live. For the life he tried to escape from, one without the promise of a college education or more than a drifter's memory.

Bacon and tomato savored, the approach of shoes made John break from his thoughts. Halted his mind's count for money, two dimes, seven quarters, and eight pennies, a tightness to his jaw held. Dressed in fine slacks and an ironed button-down shirt, a leather bag over his shoulder and a face lost for hubris, the man who appeared suddenly hadn't need to say anything for John to understand what he was after. Smart, someone who earned their respect on the grounds of the school, all students' eyes on him with awe, his stance commanding though somewhat slender. John didn't gave him the honor of a response. Merely stared his way, brown eyes stern, a silent threat to not begin something that couldn't be finished. Truly, he just wanted to eat and catch the bus.

A reader of thoughts, the man simply smirked at John. Proud like a peacock, his air much too loose, too arrogant, unafraid and desperate to see how far he could push.

Crumbling up the foil from his lunch, John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, cleaned with his fingertips the crumbs around the corners. Coughed to clear his throat, sighed, peered and prayed for any sign of that wished for bus. Combed a hand through his dirty hair, the ends fluffy and a bit tangled, tried to present himself better.

"Look, I don't want any trouble." John said, regarding the man who still hadn't left him alone. "I'm just waiting for the bus."

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Finally got done watching all of the Rambo movies, start to finish, especially the last two. A mission that I had set for myself since writing here, I am at a loss for words. John was more than an action hero - he was a man with heart.

Truly, shame on me for not watching them sooner!

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༘⋆｡  platonic bonds & dynamics starters.

best  friends.

you  said  you'd  always  be  there.  i'm  holding  you  to  that.

i'm  not  leaving  you  alone  with  your  thoughts!

nobody  gets  to  call  you  that  but  me.

do  i  need  to  fight  someone  for  you?

we're  not  just  friends.  you're  my  family.

i'm  already  on  my  way.

if  i  die,  promise  you'll  erase  my  search  history.

we  should  not  be  allowed  unsupervised  in  public.

combined,  we're  one  whole  functioning  adult!

i've  helped  you  lie  to  your  parents,  friends,  &  your  boss...  what's  one  more?

ex-friends.

i  wanted  to  call  you.  every  time  something  happened.

how  did  you  just  stop  caring?

you  can't  pretend  we  weren't  close.

i  miss  you.  i'm  not  sorry.

i  don't  think  i  can  forgive  you.

i  miss  hating  the  same  people  together.

do  your  new  friends  know  the  version  of  you  i  knew?

you  ghosted  me.  but  sure!  let's  pretend  it  was  mutual!

i  still  know  your  favorite  song.

i  didn't  just  lose  my  friend,  i  lost  an  entire  chapter  of  my  life.

rivals.

this  isn't  personal.  you're  just  in  my  way.

why  are  you  so  obsessed  with  beating  me?

you  think  you're  better  than  me?  prove  it.

you  talk  a  lot  for  someone  who's  always  second  place.

did  you  rehearse  that  comeback  in  the  mirror?

do  you  ever  stop  talking?

one  day,  i'm  going  to  beat  you.

i  don't  like  you.  that  doesn't  mean  i  don't  respect  you.

i  didn't  come  to  play  fair,  i  came  to  win.

you  think  i'm  threatened  by  you?  no,  you  just  motivate  me  to  be  better.

roommates.

i  swear  i  didn't  eat  your  leftovers!  well,  not  ALL  of  them.

i  heard  everything.  these  walls  are  thin.

can  you  PLEASE  clean  up  after  yourself?

wanna  watch  a  movie?  i'm  making  popcorn!

you  know  we're  not  friends,  right?  we  just  live  together.

i  think  i  know  your  schedule  better  than  mine  at  this  point.

you  talk  in  your  sleep.

you  can't  just  adopt  a  pet  without  talking  to  me  first!

i'm  going  to  start  charging  your  dates  rent.

if  we  can  survive  living  together,  we  can  survive  anything.

if  your  [  family member  ]  drops  by  unannounced  one  more  time...

academic  partners.

you  forgot  the  project  deadline.  again.

this  was  supposed  to  be  a  group  effort!

i  think  we  would've  crashed  and  burned  without  you.

you  brought  snacks  to  study  group?  okay,  i  think  i  like  you.

we're  not  friends.  stop  telling  me  about  your  personal  life.

you're  actually  kind  of  smart,  you  know?

i'll  be  the  brains,  you  do  the  presentation.

we  agreed  no  emotional  breakdowns  during  mid-terms!

i  cannot  believe  i'm  depending  on  you  to  pass  this  class.

i  need  a  break  so  i  can  scream  into  my  textbook...

do  you  try  to  make  friends  with  EVERY  person  in  group  projects?

siblings.

you're  not  my  [ mom / dad / parent ]!  don't  tell  me  how  to  live.

i'm  allowed  to  make  fun  of  you.  nobody  else  is.

i  know  you  better  than  anyone  else  ever  will.

stop  trying  to  fix  me!

something  bad  happened.  can  i  come  home?

you're  still  the  favorite, even now.

still  trying  to  live  in  my  shadow,  huh?

i'm  not  jealous  of  you!

we  survived  that  house,  that's gotta count  for  something.

remember  how  we  used  to  talk  about  running  away?

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FIRST BLOOD 1982

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Crossed into from the western boarder of North Carolina, the journey begun in Arizona soon found itself ended in Tennessee. Pigeon Forge; situated just miles from the Smoky Mountains, a meritorious wonder, charming with its scenic rivers and lush green. Travels that would take him anywhere but back to Bowie, John hadn't stopped to rest for a moment since his arrival. Recovered strength only when a compassionate driver offered him a ride, the unreliable nature of the hitchhiker game. Drank from his flask only when he felt terribly thirsty, ate the small snacks that were still within his leather bag, granola bars and prepackaged crackers. Worried not over the sleep he lost; it had been too difficult to find repose since leaving Georgia, since parting with Waxhaw Presbyterian Cemetery. A granite slab in the ground met rather than an old friend, Miguel Garza, gone before John had gotten the chance to say goodbye. Silent tears shared instead of cold beers - fingertips tracing the etched stone letters, petting the grass, fixing the flower bed and working the soil. 1948 to 1979, local papers wrote that Miguel couldn't bear the pain of Vietnam anymore. Got so drunk one night and danced in the street, screamed and cried about ghosts that none else could see, put the muzzle of his Colt to his temple and pulled the trigger. Dead instantly.

Unsure as to the miles walked or the hours spent moving, John didn't have the heart to count. Was so lost within the daze before his eyes, his thoughts constantly returned to Miguel and that emotionless headstone. Sleeping bag wrapped up tight still, it was easier to watch the sun as it rose than to try to find peace in dreams. Loose rocks kicked by his boots as he continued on, the number of clouds that passed overhead tallied, totally distracted until a voice broke the quiet. Light and friendly, upon a noble steed and adorned in a cowboy hat. Freckles all about her face - hair the color of bloomed marigolds, darkened almost to red - so comfortable with the surrounding land that she appeared to be part of it. Born and made from it, when John gave a closer look to the trail ahead, the fate of his expedition became clear. Blocked with wooden fence; it was a dead end. Plainly, John's life was saved. Plainly, he was in thanks to a stranger, the nameless rider who spoke kindly.

Ready to turn around, to take again the road where he came, John answered, rotating his shoulder, working out the latest kink. "Wasn't paying attention, I suppose. Wasn't watching the road."

"Guess I need to go back the way I came." John added, glancing in the direction, that lonesome trek. "There doesn't happen to be other exits out of this place, is there? I'd rather keep going and not turn back, if I can... I could really go for something to eat."

@firstblxxd asked: ❝ i’m in your debt. ❞

✎ㅤ. . .ㅤ𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑫𝑨𝑹𝑲𝑵𝑬𝑺𝑺.

"I wouldn't go that far, sir," Stevie chuckles a little, shaking her head a little as she adjusts herself in her saddle. She didn't see it as a big deal, really. She had been out on the trails when she found him, looking extremely lost, so she figured she'd show him the way back to the main campground since she was on her way back anyway.

"How'd you manage to get lost in there anyway?"

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Anonymous asked: What kind of music does John like listening to? Is there a specific musician he likes? Has he been to any concerts?

Anonymous Asks!

Country and rock; those are John's favorite types of music. It's the stuff that he was raised on, listened to with his buddies as they played around the ranch and tried to keep themselves out of trouble as kids. His father always had a love for music, was perhaps the reason why John fell in love to begin with. Collected vinyl records until the stacks almost touched the ceiling, could play the guitar better than anyone John ever heard before. Mostly country and folk ballads, traditional songs that were passed down from generation to generation. Italian and Navajo standards, the stories of Reevis' mother and father, his people. John's mother loved music, too, though her tastes varied to that of her husband's and son's. Helga liked big band songs, Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman. Safe to say, John had a very musical household growing up!

John's favorite acts are Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, and Waylon Jennings, in that order. Creedence Clearwater Revival is usually a top pick also, not to mention The Doors, Elvis Presley, and Alabama. Carly Simon and Patti Labelle are some of his favorite ladies, but you'll have to get him pretty drunk if you want to hear him sing any of their greatest hits. John doesn't go for most pop songs, and he finds Barry Manilow too stiff and a bit of a goof. Disco's just okay.

Concerts are a tricky subject for John and prove to be more difficult to navigate than perhaps realized. Concerts are very stimulating for him, especially after he came home in '74. Both music and other people can become just too loud, the theatrics and pyro can throw John off if he's not ready for them. Never was much of a big crowds person anyway, he'd only ever go to concerts if either (1) a friend came too or (2) alone, if the venue was small. Some of the concerts that he was able to attend include Aerosmith, better known as the best day of his life, in '75, few months shy of when he would leave home and begin his self-imposed exile. He went with Maria. It was the last time he saw her in-person before age took hold of them both. He's also seen the Allman Brothers and Tanya Tucker. How they played at the littlest venue in Bowie without anyone outside of Arizona becoming the wiser, John will never know, especially in the boisterous time that was 1980, when everyone knew everyone else's business. It was like a private event for just himself and about 200 other people. Alone but also somehow not so, as the years have gone on, concerts have become less visited affairs. But given the chance, the space to be ready for them, John would still love to go.

Quite frankly, John is just a plain and simple music lover.

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She was dressed nice. Her nails painted pretty, despite the dirt that caked itself onto her fingers. A blouse and skirt, simple detail work around the neckline, was pristine before the road and her car cruelly betrayed her. Stained her clothes and tried to ruin whatever was left, she was the perfect vision of the corporate world. A land that John never ventured into - polished, refined, educated beyond the high school experience. University graduates with their hair combed and their shoes shined, Italian leather practically sparkling in the light, as though made of thousands of diamonds and worth more than what most regular folks could earn in a lifetime. Cozy within a cubicle, mahogany finished nameplates. Committee meetings with lunch provided, conversation that centered around budget and downgrades, how it was so terrible that the boys returned home how they did. Adorned in their combat uniforms. Smothered in the scent of the jungle. Angry and tired, uncertain as to what would happen next, the ones who actually went for the sake of them all. John and his friends hadn't been so lucky. Protection didn't come in the form of an office space or black slacks. Not to be found in the finances of their fathers, the promise of happiness and prosperity beyond the call of duty.

A fugitive who carried his life within his bag, running away from a crime that he hadn't committed or wasn't truly at fault for, John shifted his weight between his feet, gently swaying from one side to the other. Attempted to rid himself of the soreness to his muscles, a bit surprised by the abruptness of the woman's reassurance. Civil but blunt, watching her as she stood, readjusted her skirt, he surveyed her handiwork, the tools and efforts. Certainly started down the right path; regardless of her talent, her obvious skill, John figured the task would be easier with two rather than one. It wasn't as though he were expected anywhere. He was in no rush.

Pausing for a moment, licking his dry lips, John replied coolly, "no."

"Just happened to be coming down the road, saw you pulled over. Wanted to make sure you were okay."

Eyes returned back to the car's progress, a green beetle that hummed toward the next exit ramp, John made another offer, voice colored by fact rather than personal feelings. Wanted to help but also wanted to be realistic, if the nameless stranger wished to get anywhere before dusk, she would need to hear the truth.

"I don't mean for any trouble. But you're gonna be parked on this road for a while if you're so determined on doing the change yourself. No offense, but you aren't exactly dressed for it. I won't get involved. But at least let me stand on the other side of you so you don't get sideswept by the traffic. You're kinda hidden from sight when crouched down. I almost didn't notice you until I got close to the car. She's a beauty, by the way."

God damn construction sites. It’s funny how something as small as a rusted nail could stop 3,500lbs of steel, but then again that’s just Dolores’ luck. Although her corporate attire makes her seem entirely out of place kneeling at the side of the road, the run in her tights and grease that now stains the front of her blouse mark her as someone who’s unafraid to get her hands dirty (despite her Revlon polished nails).  To her, the worst part of this entire situation is that these are whitewall tires. The doughnut resting next to her will hold long enough to get her back home, but now she’s going to have to spend what precious little free time she gets hunting down a replacement. Fantastic.  She’s so focused on leveraging her car up and up and up that she almost doesn’t notice the stranger approaching her on the road. Tearing her attention away from her task, her ratcheting pauses as she studies him. The first thing she notices isn’t the drab green jacket or even the guy himself, but rather the bag that’s slung over his shoulder. Hitchhiker or drifter, probably. She doesn’t judge. After all, this is New York and it wasn't that long ago that she found herself in a similar situation.  “Thanks, but I’ve got this.” She brusquely replies, returning to leveraging the car up and up and up. It’ll be a cold day in Hell when Dolores Durán needs a man’s help changing a tire. She sighs and stands up when he continues to linger instead of immediately shoving off, tugging the hem of her skirt back down to maintain some semblance of her dignity. “Is there something I can help you with?”

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A pale hand extended, white tissue held between the fingertips; it was only then that John noticed he was crying. Tears falling down his slightly reddened cheeks, dripped off the edge of a clenched jaw. Onto the sidewalk in tiny puddles - barely distinguishable against the terrible rain and storm, so hot upon his skin that they practically burned. It was a humiliation that not many had seen before. Most often saved for behind closed doors, the lonely hotel and motel rooms, homes that wouldn't ever amount to the one he left behind in Arizona. A ranch that bore his father's name, his grandfather's before that. Generations of good men, proud men, men who had a better control on things than John. Who wouldn't have dared to find themselves in the same circumstances, with a hand that had finally stopped its shaking, if not its cautiousness, he took the offered tissue. Silently gave his gratitude, a nod of the head and a quick flicker of the eyes, such tortured umber, dabbed away both tears and rain.

Releasing his entire hold upon an arm that wasn't his own, not even that of a friend's, John stuffed his used tissue and his hands into his jacket pockets. Curled his fingers into a fist, tried to warm them as they had become so cold. Weather absolutely dreary but not so biting, the wind was a comfortable temperature. Perfect for the evening of early autumn, the beginnings of fallen leaves, pumpkin spice, hot apple cider drinks. Dressed in just blue jeans and a basic gray tank, the addition of his military jacket was a reasonable one. Protected John from the occasional gust, kept the abject debris from the roadways out of his eyes and face. But still did that not explain the coolness that remained on his skin. A lingering sensation, didn't settle despite attempted efforts to do so. Stranger yet, the man introduced as Blaise hadn't retreated. Grabbed for without warning, forced into close proximity, rather did he stay as he were. Unmoved, polite and kind, beside John on the sidewalk path.

Observed with a glance that was akin to a predator's, watchful and prudent, Blaise looked no older than 25. Curly haired and statuesque, carved from stone that was centuries old, his eyes were the most expressive that John had come to know. Wide and with a subtle sadness, as though he carried a pain that was far greater than what words could share. An agony that none his age deserved, irises appeared to be almost red. Crimson, in the faint light of the sun, scarlet that dared to be called brown. A voice inside of John warned against delaying leave. Blaise was not a normal man. His eyes exposed that. A world that was perhaps best not to get into, a world that John didn't need to know about, for his own sake and sanity, benevolence couldn't go unrepaid. Blaise had been compassionate to him. Far more considerate than others had been, treated him not like a burden but as a human being. Someone worthy of kindness. Someone worthy of a gentle hand. John would find a way to return the favor.

Darkened hair almost falling into his line of sight, back of the hand clearing away the rain that fell from the tip of his nose, John considered the invitation for stew. A hot meal, shelter from the torrent, the chance to make a connection before moving onward in his aimless travels. An opportunity that didn't always present itself, never presented itself, certainly a blessing from God above. A chance to have more than another desolate night, in an instance that shocked even himself, John found his heart ready to accept. Agreed with a nod and a shy look, focus completely attuned to Blaise.

Trautman had always taught him how to read people. A blade sheathed at the back of his right hip, on the outside of his jeans and shielded by the length of his jacket, there was no thought about using it. None at all.

"I haven't had a good stew in a long time, Irish or otherwise." John said, calm voice returned, a bit of delicate humor. "My name's John."

Checking the corners of the road, the small shops on one end and a town bank on the other, John asked, genuinely interested, though the rumble of his stomach encouraged him also, "you live close by? You and your sister?"

"...I swear, if I had to feed off of one more drunk - christ!" The brunette grumbled, his thumb brushed off the crimson liquid drop from the corner of his mouth. The selection of those to feed on were becoming scarce. He remembered the promise he had made to his sister - only feed on those that will not be missed. But in this town, there were many who were smart enough to not hang around in these streets. The ones that did were drunks. After while, there was not much of an enjoyment with the taste of alcohol mixed with their blood. At first, it gave him an enlightenment, but after awhile...he became bored. However, he will make the exception for tonight.

Blaise was eager to get home - tonight was stew night - an all time favourite dish in the McDougal house; Siobhan was the best at making the exact same version as their mother had made. Blaise did not need to eat, but something about eating stew just brought him back home; a comfort that he could never retrieve unless he ate that dish.

His thoughts were cut off upon hearing the loud pop sound from the truck's exhaust. Shite, that startled him. Suddenly, he felt a strong grip on his arm. Red eyes stared at the unknown stranger with wide eyes. With one quick glance on the guy - Blaise thought it was just an attack from some homeless person. He did look to be in some rough shape. But with a closer look...he looked scared. Like a child who just lost their parent at a department store. Still, the action made him feel uneasy. What the feck?! He wanted to cry out, instead he would say 'Will you just relax?!' It was then the guilt came in. He heard his heart beating so fast - he did not think it would be possible for one's heart to beat in such a pace. Blaise could see the sadness and fear in his eyes, while his hands shaking on his arm. Damn, he's strong. Shit, This was not some random act, this guy was having a post trauma moment. Shite, I'm such an ass. I'm a really big ass right now.

"Shite man, I-I'm sorry...for yelling at you." His voice morphed to a softer tone, as those red eyes would express some kindness. Blaise was familiar with post-trauma...his sister often would experience them, and did his absolute best to support and comfort her. It was just a bit strange for him to do it with a stranger. "I'm just going to grab a tissue for ya, mate," He would say, as slowly his hand reached into his pant pocket, making sure his movements did not upset this guy. Jeez, he looked like he had seen some shit. He would take out a package of tissues; taking one before stuffing the rest back in his pocket, as his hand slowly held out towards him. "Here, you can wipe your eyes or whatever..."

Blaise would stand there awkwardly for a moment, he could have just left him, but the way this guy behaved...and appeared, he did not have the heart to leave him. He couldn't. "Uhm, i'm Blaise, by the way. Uh...look I know this is kinda random to ask, but do you like Scottish stew? Well, it's suppose to be Irish stew, but - heck, it's al the same, right? Anyways, my sister makes the best...and the amount she makes is large, so there's plenty to go around - " He closed his eyes suddenly, grimacing. Shite, I'm rambling. "A-Anyways, sorry, talking too much here! What I am trying to ask is - would you like to come to our place for dinner?"

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First Blood US lobby card. 1982

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                                                                   My heart is beating,                   my heart is always beating. I can't stand the feel                   of it. It rattles me. My arm is heavy. My leg is                   numb. I can feel my breathing. If I can't live in                   my body or my head then where does that leave me?