#warhunt

[cinemaquiles]

CINCO GRANDES ATORES/ATRIZES QUE ATUARAM EM MAIS DE UM FRACASSO EM 2022!

[movies-ive-watched]

Warhunt (2022)

[movie-titlecards]

WarHunt (2022)

My rating: 4/10

Turns into a pretty okay audio drama towards the end, though it would've been nice to have some images to go with the spooky noises.

[capncarrot]

Warhunt

[hvndredbattles]

Really, Singh was a lucky bastard, catching shrapnel where he had. A little over and he'd have been looking at a femoral bleed. Any higher, and, well... Let's just say he's sensitive to the fact that he'd nearly found himself short the family jewels, so to speak. He'd limped along for all of a step or two before Ghost had, presumably, taken pity on him.

❛ thought you’d be lighter without all that blood. ❜ @warhunts (x)

"It's like body building, aye? Or wrestling." The bloodloss might be a bit more than Singh had initially projected. He's usually got a pretty solid brain-to-mouth filter, but not all of it's getting caught, now. "Just water weight."

[warborn-tragedy]

It's the way Alkka is susceptible to a very black and white line of thinking as a result of her upbringing, even as she's working to try and get past that. How, in her mind, strangers are enemies and compatriots are temporary allies to guard against; but trusted allies deserve nothing less than full, unquestioning devotion and loyalty. How she's only recently begun to detangle 'fear' from 'respect' and how the first manifestation of that concept may have been at Las Almas.

Graves wasn't an ally yet, just a new hand holding the leash in her eyes, even if she was the one to hand over control to begin with. Throughout Shadow Company's presence in Las Almas, she was forming her own private, independent opinion of the company and Graves' command while simultaneously not allowing herself to consider the moral implications of what was going on. It wasn't in her 'programming' so to speak. It's not something she allows herself, not even now.

But back to the 'separating fear from respect' thing. Because in a sense it's Ghost to 'blame' for this.

Alkka was never scared of him, or more accurately the rumors she heard of him while on the ground in Las Almas. But when he shot first, took that opportunity that her new 'commander' gave him? That was the first small 'push' for Alkka to realize that fear wasn't a prerequisite for respect, even to the smallest degree.

She still thinks the skull mask is stupid as fuck though. As if she isn't running around with what amounts to a heavily modified 'muzzle' as a face covering.

[designedparadigm]

" it looks worse than it feels. " / @warhunts

   the  hiss  of  'bullshit'  lingers  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  but  he  bites  it  back.  a  sigh  passes,  before  the  liutenant  gets  himself  up,  turning  to  grab  the  medical  bag  and  start  rummaging  through  it.  pulling  out  a  few  tools  to  help  clean,  and  even  stitch.  his  work  usually  isn't  the best  -  but  hell,  he's  got  to  try  something. 

   "were  we  near  any  medical  -  i'd  be  draggin'  your  arse  right  there."  he  grumbles  it  out,  the  gruffness  of  ghost's  voice  significantly  lacking.  with  price  -  god  -  he's  always  brought  down  to simon.  even  with  ghost's  imposing  mask  -  he  doesn't  quite  feel  like  he's  matching  the  part. 

   "gonna  'urt."  he  makes  mention,  before  pulling  out  the  cleaning  alcohol,  opting  to  just  pour  a  good  bit  of  it  over  the  wound,  before  using  gauze  improperly  to  try  and  clean  up  some  of  the  blood.  he's  never  been  inclined  toward  medical  -  it's  showing  blatantly. 

   "gonna  'ave  to  stitch  it."  brown  eyes  glance  up  to  meet  blues.  "you  gonna  trust  me  to  do  i'?"  some  of  his  accent  starts  to  bleed  through  -  and  he  kicks  himself  for  not  keeping  on  top  of  himself.  he's  still  in  the  field.  he  shouldn't  get familiar  out  here.  his  gaze  drops  back  down,  brows  visibly  furrowing  beneath  the  mask.  a  discontented  grunt  escapes,  before  the  growl  of  ghost  creeps  back  into  his  voice. 

   "give  me  orders,  captain."  he's  pulling  out  the  suture  kit.  "i'll  kill  'em  all."  there  it  is  -  the  reason  no  one  else  wanted  to  touch  the  ghost.  that  part  of  him  that  is  geared  to  vengeance,  that  part  that  wants  to  spill  blood  in  retaliation.  how  he  can't  swallow  that  beast,  keep  it  down.  claws  come  out  every  time  -  and  he  doesn't  hide  it. order  me  to  indulge  it,  captain. this  kind  of  shit  doesn't  stand  -  people  he cares  about  injured  never  will  stand.

[wardogsong]

If you could have any other vigilante in bed, who would it be?

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."

[nexttm]

standard issued layers forgone for something more casual, more comfortable, the heavy carrier keeps some heat in thanks to the thicker hoodie underneath - he's got hands jammed under the sides of kit, sacrificing comfort for warmth as winter creeps and creeps and creeps further still into the safehouse of foreign freedom fighters hellbent on providing assistance. (why is it either unfathomably hot or miserably cold. what happened to a temperate fucking climate.) he can't complain too much, admittedly, it's better than being in a tent in the rain.

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? 

Too many thoughts are warring for attention, and by the time the kiss is no longer a kiss Simon is finally catching up to the moment itself. Tongue darts out to swipe at his lift, as if tasting what remained on his lips before sucking in his lower lip. Chewing on it. Head nods for Rick to come closer, it’s the only movements made. The balaclava remains where Rick left it. The hands remain on the surface of the table. Much like the thoughts in Simon’s head attempt to win over allowing him the remain in reality and the moment. 

[crimeloyalty-arch]

it’s the quiet that harleen’s come to hate most of all.  once all the adrenaline of the mission has been eliminated from her system,  once her guns and uniform are relinquished into the custody of the united states government,  once she is locked behind bars with nothing to do but relive the past days or weeks,  all that is left is the quiet and the way her head aches,  constantly,  right where waller’s doctors have implanted a bomb under her skull.  it is almost unbearable,  and she’s nearly cracked her own skull open on the concrete floor of her cell more than once trying to get the damn thing out. 

waller’s let her go,  this time.  her sentence is up,  thanks to task force x’s latest mission,  and harleen quinzel is a free woman.  like most newly free women,  harley quinn has nowhere to go. she remembers taking sociology 101 in undergraduate,  could recite a hundred statistics on recidivism and reintegration.  nobody would care,  waller least of all,  so harley keeps her mouth shut for once in her life.  she walks out of belle reve and she doesn’t look back. 

unwilling to return to gotham city and unable to afford the greyhound fare anywhere else,  harleen ends up on her captain’s doorstep.  don’t ask how she found his address.  she knocks,  rhythm evocative of circus music,  spreading her arms grandly when he opens the door as if to say it’s me. she’s soon perched on the arm of his couch,  having snatched a blanket from his bed -- it’s the first time she’s been inside his apartment,  but she’s pretending to be at home,  because harley quinn doesn’t have the luxury of being uncomfortable anywhere,  even if every muscle in her body is tense,  even if she won’t stop rubbing the back of her head.  

there’s so much that she could say.  thanks for letting me stay.  can you believe i just killed that guy yesterday,  with my hands?  did you see me do it,  with my hands?  i don’t remember doing it.  i don’t remember yesterday. do you have any xanax?  no? shit.  beer,  or vodka,  or something?  do you know a doctor?  did you invite me in so i would sleep with you?  you know i will.  i know you wouldn’t ask me to.  not like this.  not right now.  i think i know that.  i think that you wouldn’t.  do i know you as well as i think i do?  what’s waller got on you?  how’s she keeping you here? do you actually want me here,  or are you afraid of me,  or do you just feel sorry for me?  

instead,  she exercises her newfound skill of holding her tongue,  smiling carefully at @warhunting​ before she says, “ your arm okay after yesterday?  i know they got all those fancy docs for you guys,  but i know my way around a suture kit,  is all i’m sayin’. i also offer bandage changes and i’ll kiss your forehead when i’m all done. ”

[phasmasum]

⁽ ᴾᴿᴼᴹᴾᵀ ⁾ 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗘 𝗟𝗢𝗔𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚 . . . 𝙵𝙾𝚁: 𝙺𝚈𝙻𝙴 '𝙶𝙰𝚉' 𝙶𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙺.

“ It's just a flesh wound. Nothing major. ” said @warhunts.

“ 𝗦𝗛𝗨𝗧   𝗧𝗛𝗘   𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞   𝗨𝗣.   𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧’𝗦   𝗔𝗡   𝗢𝗥𝗗𝗘𝗥. ”   To   say   he   was   pissed   was   an   understatement.   Misguided   rage   redirected   towards   a   bleeding   soldier   through   gritted   teeth,   in   spite   of   the   fact   that   buried   beneath   it   all,   he   was   only   angry   with   himself.   Angry   at   all   of   the   shit   that   had   hit   the   fan   and   gone   awry   during   the   last   mission,   angry   that   they’d   just   barely   made   it   back   to   the   rendezvous   point   by   the   skin   of   their   fucking   teeth.   All   whilst   underneath   Ghost’s   tutelage,   and   he   had   failed   them   on   a   near   catastrophic   scale.   If   he   couldn’t   even   protect   his   own   men,   𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯   𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵   𝘵𝘩𝘦   𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭   𝘸𝘢𝘴   𝘩𝘦   𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨   𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?

Palm   pressed   against   an   open   wound,   applying   pressure   to   stop   the   blood   from   spilling   until   the   combat   medic   could   gather   up   what   supplies   they   had   available   to   them   and   MacGyver   a   temporary   solution   to   a   much   larger   issue.   It   wasn’t   nearly   as   bad   as   it   could’ve   been,   but   it   was   enough   that   he   wished   Gaz   had   said   something   sooner.   Wished   he   hadn’t   waited   until   they   were   ripping   through   terrain   in   the   Foxhound   to   get   back   to   the   safehouse.   𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵   𝘢   𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨   𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘵   …   but,   one   of   his   idiots   nonetheless.   ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ( 𝙽𝙾   𝙼𝙰𝙽   𝙻𝙴𝙵𝚃   𝙱𝙴𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙳. )

“ You   get   hurt,   you   fucking   say   something,   do   you   understand   me? ” Tough   love,   they   called   it.   The   only   type   of   affection   he’d   ever   known,   and   the   only   way   he   could   express   that   he   actually   gave   a   shit   about   the   man’s   wellbeing. ( 𝙽𝙾𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙰𝙸𝙳 𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙴𝙲𝚃. )

[siabann]

❝ [ 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚃. ] ⸻ @warhunts ( price. )

𝙰 𝙲𝙷𝚄𝙲𝙺𝙻𝙴 ⸻ 𝙰 𝙷𝙰𝙻𝙵 𝙳𝚁𝚈, 𝙷𝙰𝙻𝙵 𝙷𝚄𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙾𝚄𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 ⸻ burns  in his throat, dry and raw from dust and smoke, bringing a painful fit of coughs along with it. When he pulls his hand away, his glove is stained red, but it's dull and already seeping into the fabric; he suspects that's probably from a wound somewhere on his body he's yet to pinpoint and assess in the midst of his entire body throbbing in pain, some parts screaming louder than others. Truly, Price couldn't have come at a better time. He would have barely lasted a moment longer in this sorry state. But he won't linger on that thought. Soap  is  alive, and Price  did  make it. Bailing him out of the lion's den, as always. At this point, he owes Price so many damn favors, he might as well sign his soul over to him now, as advance payment.

Still, he grins through the pain and labored breaths, arms resting almost limply at his sides, hands curled against cold metal helicopter floor, head lolling to the side to turn his eyes in his captain's direction.  ❝ Hear that's a side effect of feelin' like shit, Cap'n. 'M still pretty, though, right ? ❞  He can afford a joke and laugh or two; he's safe now.

[soapfcrce]

" well, at least we know the smoke alarms work, right? " from roach || @warhunts

It wasn’t until he had met Gary all that time ago that he realized that it was indeed quite possible for sign language to come off sarcastic as all hell. 

Which was how he ended up here now, maybe giving that smug face quite the look to accompany the annoyed pout already forming. It wasn’t his fault; the chicken clearly had no business burning when he just walked away for like two minutes.  

Or maybe it was five. Soap wasn’t exactly keeping track while on the phone. 

“Don’t--don’t feckin’ start with me right now.” A bit of a grumble, already getting a trash bag to put his poor chicken charcoal in. “Steamin’ hells, swear the thing’s broken.” 

[designedparadigm]

❛  how fast do you think i can make you come?  ❜ / @warhunts

   an  eye  roll  is  what  soap  gives  ghost  at  first,  before  affixing  him  with  a  blunt  stare,  a  single  brow  raising.  "dinnae."  he  says  it  loftily  -  as  if  he's  not  laid  out naked  before  the  man  he  wants  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  as  if  it  won't  take  record  timing  -  with  the  way  he  already feels. 

   "guess  yer  jus'  gonna  have  tae  try  it,  huh?"  a  smirk  curls  upon  his  lips,  a  smug  aura  overtaking  him.  he's  so  confident  now  -  but  it's  when  a  return  smirk  graces  ghost's  visible  lips  that  soap  freezes.  realizes  the  mistake  in  that  moment. 

   "hey  -  wait  -" 

   before  he  can  continue,  he  watches  as  ghost's  head  disappears  between  his  legs,  large  hands  holding  his  thighs  apart,  soap  leaning  himself  back  into  the  bed,  curling  his  fingers  into  the  sheets. shite. 

   the  first  thing  he  feels  is  warm  breath  tickling  him  -  and  he  jerks  back,  only  to  find  he  doesn't  move  very  far.  he's  very  much held  in  place  -  and  it  takes  his  breath  from  him.  he squirms  in  that  moment;  being  rewarded  by  a rich  chuckle. god  -  that  voice  alone  could  probably  talk  him  into  coming. 

   but  of  course;  that's  not  what  he's  being  faced  with.  something  he's  all  but shown  when  a  warm  tongue  swipes  across  his  clit,  sending  a  jolt  through  him  -  something  that  causes  his  mouth  to  open  and  a  loud  moan  to  come  passed  his  lips,  his  body  shuddering  against  his  will. 

   "yer  a  right  fockin  bastard,  ye  ken?"  soap  hisses  between  clenched  teeth  -  only  to  be  rewarded  with  ghost's  mouth  entirely  over  his  clit.  it's  quick,  the  way  there's  suddenly sucking  and  that tongue  attacking  at  him. 

   "shite  -  fockin  -  shite  -"  swears  pass  between  sharp  gasps,  soap  writing,  but  staying good  enough  to  keep  his  hands off  ghost.  he  can  do  that  much  -  he  has  that  control. 

   what  he  doesn't  have  control  over  is  the  way  it  all  builds  up fast.  he's  never  been  this incessant  or needy  with  himself.  he's  never  had someone  else  be  like  that  with  him.  he  regrets challenging  the  lieutenant  immediately.  it's  mere minutes  before  his  cries  reach  their  fever  pitch  and  he  reaches  what  he  can  only  call  an  earth  shattering  climax. 

   heat  rushes  through  him,  and  his  entire  body  jolts  and  writhes.  he's  not  aware  he's yelling  -  and  only vaguely  aware  of  the rush  of  fluids  that  escape  him.  he knew  he's  a  squirter  -  but  never  to that  degree.  he's  never  been  pushed  to  the  edge  that violently.  he  could  never  bring  himself  to  the  edge  and  over  it  like  ghost  just  did. 

   he's glad  for  the  respite  after,  when  ghost  pulls  off  of  him.  a  forearm  comes  to  rest  over  his  eyes,  soap  letting  heavy  pants  pass  him. god  damnit.  he  scolds  himself.  couldn't  hold  out  -  not  when  it's ghost. 

   "ah  ken  how  yer  lookin'  at  me  an'  ahm  tellin'  ye  tae  stop  now."  he  grumbles  it,  breathless.  "an'  if  yer  gonna  ask  me  whit  ah  learned  -  ahmn  gonna  tell  ye  shite  all.  dinnae  care."  his  lips  curve  upward  into  a  smirk.  "ain't  gonna  admit  tae  shite.  yer  gonna  have  tae  drag  it  oot."  with  that  he  raises  his  forearm  to  look  at  ghost,  a  defiant  teasing  look  glinting  in  mischevious  blues. 

  make  me  regret  sayin'  that,  lt.  yer  capable  of  it.  i  want  that  part  of  ye.

[hvndredbattles]

let’s get our story straight . / soap for yves (@warhunts)

"I don't think there's any universe where no one thinks we had anything to do with this." In particular, Yves is thinking of two LTs who aren't likely to be amused by the latest maybe-caused-by-sergeants kerfuffle.

Honestly, a broken kettle wouldn't be a big deal anywhere else. The trouble is, they're so far from another one it's not even funny. And sure, they can boil water in other ways. But Yves thinks the principle of the thing is more important in this particular instance.

"Maybe we just weren't here, yeah? Outpost ghost."

[mvnces]

" can you hear my voice ? " price for decker

The intense ringing of his ears was enough to make him wince. Everything around him muted and muffled for a good couple of moments that it took for the ringing to lessen. It definitely was not gone but Decker could at least process the words being thrown at him now. Give him a couple more minutes and he would genuinely be able to say yes — Only for the fact that all his attention was shifting to the task at hand and Price crouched down next to him.

"Yeah... Yeah. I'm all good." That was debatable but he was still shoving himself up and onto his feet. (And if he immediately felt unsteady on his feet? That was something that he could just brush off). They could deal with any hearing damage or injuries later.