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This blog is now an archive.

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Sounds like a porno???

#*cries* #x. crack

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One point in time, many years back, its precise pinpoint perhaps no more than two or three years ( felt longer, the trickle of time itself not sand trapped within the hourglass but the slow, awful tar-drip ), he would have acted with, what this people called defiance, and not valor; not duty to protect the Motherland and all those many mothers and wifes left at home, each single one joined in a camaraderie against those who thought they could shackle them without being show what a grave error they had comitted, what force they had dared awaken and chosen to defy; would have acted with what had only been left of him, the drive of a misanthropic bastard and the patrotic view of a nationalist who saw nothing else in life but the hell-bent desire to tear and rip apart this man’s very own mankind, plagued by them in waking and in dreams alike. Until he had realize, it was not entirely them but one-single man who had proceeded to tear from his hands what had been most precious. Taking with it not just his honor but life in the form of a lifeless Nadezhda. Nadezhda ! Even her name mocked -  Nadezhda, Nadezhda. Does it not mean hope ? Hope. What hope does your kind even need ? Pigs for the slaughter never needed it. Hope, I will snuff it off your hands...Hope you never had. And then all cooled, like her corpse and their corpses alike. Like the steel of that broken T-38. Like that tar-drip of time. Cooled and froze over in a hardened caparace none could penetrate. They said he had let himself go. A wolf whose teeth had grown duller with time. Mangy. A flea-bag amidst this pack that now surrounded him. Ah....but he was merely bidding his time....was he not ?  

Nikolay Volkov did not look anything near his days of prime. Tired and worn, a face weathered by the harshness of the Russian winter, and hardened further by the brutality of war. He could very well be any soldier and not the alleged Volkov himself. A walking corpse whose uniform was only well kempt out of the demand for it to be well kempt, contrasting starkly with his person; a bushy beard and dark rimmed raccoon eyes that, unlike himself, rather than sporting a tired, beaten aspect held a razor sharpness of a hunter still right with those pools of dark, muddy brown. It was those same, damned stark dark eyes that held the line with which the other tried to skwer him with, reaching out a metaphorical hand to wrap it around the razor wire and grip it, cutting pieces and all. All this time he held his gaze directly, standing stoic, a statue. Suddenly the dead man sprung to life. Those wretched eyes swept Klaus Jäger. On to his collar were a single oak leaf laid displayed. Standartenführer. He almost chuckled. One rank too better than those fucking four silver pips that bastard wore. Beneath him. But he didn’t care about rank neither status, all men bled and died equally after all. 

“Ich kann dich verdammt gut verstehen.” his voice broke through, each German word flowing thickly with his accent.

@194l asked: from nikolay: *You just want what you can't have.

Klaus holding the pipe to his mouth, tilting his head curiosity. Eyes holding a razor straight line into him.

He had to admit if the Russians weren’t this defiant it wouldn’t be half as fun to crush their forces, yet their little verbal heroics were really getting on his nerves. A flat voice grumbled up, “Isn’t that the point of war?” A translator filling the empty air upon Klaus’ pause. The land of one coveted by another to a boiling point, then rifles are distributed to take it by force. That was the nature of the beast. The nature they were all subjected to now regardless of allegiance. In the simplest terms Nikolay summed up war itself.

Klaus eyebrows jumped waiting for a response, exhaling his spent tobacco smoke into the cool air. Prompting him that the Standartenführer desired one. How poor the man looked, as if color had been drained from him. His very being showing no signs of spring. It’s a wonder how he even had enough life left in him to say such a thing. Relentless men of the Soviet Union fascinated Klaus though he suspected with this man’s level of defiance he’s been picked at before by German forces.

Now Klaus worked through who, there were numerous officers that loved leaving depressive wakes like this. Which one had left their finger prints on Volkov? He must’ve been absolutely ruthless, Russians were very hard to crack let alone break open. To the point of them turning into ghosts that have continued their story long past their bodies giving up. All this time to think about his predicament yet still no answer from Volkov. Klaus tutted.

#woop woop I finally reply to one #wolfsaugenjager #x. Rust is showing on my armor || c. Nikolay Volkov

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Morgondagen-edit 

#that lonely bar fly #x. aes || Wojtek #x. Poor wretch I pity you the fate you predict || c. Wojtek Slaski

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Adal just standing, staring. Watching them with his typical gaze. A gaze that is a little different than the others but not the least unfamiliar, for Johanness and Hermann Graf both.

It is a gaze that is so rare that only they know of, that only they are aware even exists. Desire, want. A deep craving for flesh but at the same time all that lies beneath of that. Lust, love. The type of devotion to offer one's all, here, on this spot, at this instant, no matter the price, willing to give the highest sacrifice. Give everything and take everything from them, in turn. As is meant to be. As is written in blood and marred skin coming in the form of a scar binding two and with it three souls into one.

Those eyes. He looks at them with those murderous eyes and all he can think of and wonder is how many kisses can he place on those two pairs of soft, alluring lips until this year would sound its end in the upcoming new year's celebration.

The near emptiness and silence in such a day fit wrongly for the Kautzer residency. Those four walls so used to the buzz and chatter of visitors and family alike during holidays like this, now nothing but ghosts of a past that might never return. Miriam's own phantom of gossiping tongues and the faint wafting of her floral perfume as she danced between each, seeking a prospect with the desire to finally be rid of them. Her wishes only seemed to become shattered more and more with the passage of time. Even if the military had been a miniature blessing of good riddance it had not just taken with it the Grafs but her dearly beloved ( smothered ) son. 

Unwanted as they were, the sons of Herman ( van ) Graf shouldn't have been here, in a home they had never belonged to. Ironic that the two who fit like wrong keys to any of those doors of the residency had become the only ones who had ever bothered to return to it ever since the Kautzer's left for Sweden, fleeing from the bombings and an imminent death. They should have abandoned this place as had its heir long ago. They should not be in this home. A home that had not exactly been home, a thing Stefan might have called a prison and that, paradoxically, the young orphaned Grafs had indeed considered home up until their teenage years. A home. What even was a home ?

Mirror-like they turned to look at the son of Van Wolfenhang, raising the glass of wine to their lips to take a sip of it, always one and the same. A home. It was this. Not the four walls they strained themselves daily to protect against the bombings with wards ( a distant, thankless job that cost more than when they were this close ) Not this memories that more than sweet were bitter. A home - it was him. This very man that sat at this table and shared their last year's meal with; a meal that had for once not been prepared by servants,nor Lotte the only maid who had cared to hide the children’s mischief but but by themselves. This very man whose gorgeous heterochromic eyes always spelt murder and violence. Eyes that with them spelt nothing more but longing and love; murderous and blood stained hands capable of viciousness turned to tender touches. Their gift. Their own soul as was their own split in two - three and one now. Oh, and who was ever to know ! That feeling of a missing something, of a longing for something in years prior thought to be spurn by the inexistance of a blood line to the last of their kind - him, him, him ! That had been it surely ! Had it always been so ? A plot of destiny. The final piece to a puzzle. Found at last between rotten mud and water and the end of a trench, and held tightly between the jaws of this two foxes. If this perfection of the moment could be permanent only....

Their gaze dropped for a moment. The old grandfather clock on their left marked four till midnight and they felt their chest contract. This fucking war....

Three till midnight. Soon it will be over and they will have to be forced to return. To hide behind trenches and broken homes, thieves in the night, casting furtive glances between each other, spilling emotions in paper between false names - Erika Kautzer, Helena G. What a lie ! And how easy it could be to drop it all just now. A new year was, after all, not a new beginning ? They could easily vanish. Could easily desert. Could easily, if lucky, pretend to be dead if they were caught by another air raid by the RAF in the upcoming days, who was to say and deny the fact ? Just the three.....just the three....How strange and vile that for once family mattered not. Rewind back time and their past selves would consider this atrocious thoughts blasphemous. Now, here, in the present, to return their name to its former glory, to continue the line of the Van Grafs...what a joke it seemed. The name could die and they would cling instead to his own ( as matrimony commanded ). Let it not be Van Graf but Van Wolfenhang. All the work, all the sweat, blood and tears mattered no more but him to whom their heart and soul beat for. And yet, would they truly risk it ? To be caught. To be sentenced under treason out of love ? The two would, but to put their beloved wolf under the noose out of their own selfishness for a normal life ? The wine quivered within the glass. No, a normal life was not meant for beasts made and trained for war like them. Stories like theirs always ended in one single way: blood.

But you are meant to die. But you are meant to bring your family back....but you are head of family. Die for family. Die for country. Fuck it all.

One to midnight. Johanness hand rose with the glass. "Prost." I don't want it anymore. Give me my home....

It followed with the same voice from his left. "Prost." If death were to come, let it be for him and him alone.

They watched him, their expression calm. Studying his physique and beauty under the light. Always a beautiful perfect imperfection. They knew that look, and in knowing it is why they slowly rose from their seat, the glasses of fine wine still in their hands as they move to the other side of the table, right at the head were they had made sure he took his place. Right were that witch of Miriam often sat.

"Frohes neues Jahr, schatz." Johanness voice was followed by the first strike of the clock marking the start of the new year just as he settled down on the lap of his husband, the ring in his finger glinting right under the light.

"Are you wondering...?" Hermann's voice whispered right against Adal's good ear, his slender figure draping himself right behind him.

A chuckle. Thin fingers found his chin, guiding it upwards. "How many kisses ?"

"Twelve for each. "

"Twenty-four."

Already leaning in both catch the corners of his lips. Twelve. Like wishes. Like rain on drought season.

#conquermonger #x. inbox #x. The veins are pumping diesel || c. Johanness Graf #x. The pores are sweating blood || c. Hermann Graf

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But. What if, give a muse to one of your muses ? Or at least work a bit more on Wojtek's actual novel more. It's bound to be fantasy and about a unicorn. It's sad that with the war he's probably lost a lot of progress on it, with  His writing now being used as small fictional snippets with coded words and phrases for the resistance, making him seldom ever be able to actual work on any pieces; off-shots and speed fiction being so rare and getting rare, which is a  growing frustration for him altogether.

He'd make all so purple prose everyone is bound to hate reading it.

#x. hc || Wojtek #x. Poor wretch I pity you the fate you predict || c. Wojtek Slaski

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““Icarus. The original myth had two parts. Daedalus said to his son, ‘I fashioned these wings for you. Two rules. Don’t fly too high, or the sun will melt the wax. But, more important, son, don’t fly too low. Because if you fly too low, the water and the waves will surely weigh down the wings, and you will die.’ We’ve left out the second part of the myth. We don’t say to people anymore, ‘Don’t fly too low.’ All we do from the time they are 4 years old is warn them against hubris. We have created this industrially led structure that says: How dare you.””

—

Seth Godin (via petrak)

flying too high melted his wings, yea, but it was the ocean that killed him in the end

(via xekstrin)

#x. isms || Friedrich #x. Icarus flying towards an early grave || c. Friedrich Katzcynsky

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During a couple of boxing matches Heinz has - as can be expected - gotten a few teeth knocked out. Two molars on the right side and a fang on the left side. All three have been replaced with gold crowns. Despite it being gold he considers it a bit tacky.

#he also ended with a nose fracture that same day #not the best match and one that left a sour mark on his record - in his opinion #x. hc || Heinz #x. Where the street dogs roam || c. Heinz-Günther Von Abendroth

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#x. playlist #x. playlist || Armin

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Tiny fact that Wojtek is actually left handed.

#x. hc || Wojtek

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The Pianist

#x. aes || The Graf Twins

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Wojtek. Likes it nasty and sloppy, doesn't he? To be wanted and desired, to both see and feel the hunger his partner holds for him. He craves passion, entirely and utterly, to the fullest. Overwhelming and not holding back. Rough gabbing and bruising, perhaps. Being moved and shifted and lifted around. Being manhandled by someone taller and much stronger than himself? Dirty talk but paired with praise and given compliments? Nothing belittling. Still can see him wanting to hold his sense of power and control over his partner, to guide them and show how to properly do it. A little harder, a little rougher, I won't break. A sense of being devoured by greed and lust of another being, while at the same time feeling like he is safe.  A sense of being fucked senseless so he does not have to think. Break himself open and lie himself bare, and not be hurt or disappointed, or worse. Something that brings absolution and salvation. @conquermonger ​ ||  Send me what you think my muse would be like in bed and they’ll respond

"If you can handle me." this is all he says, laying himself back against the surface of a soft mattress. Of hay or the hard surface of a floor or table. The setting is the least important. It is the act. "....and if you're good, then perhaps I can let you do whatever you want." If and only if, teasing with words right at the ear and a delivered light bite at an earlobe, long slender legs curling their toes as they wrap around the other’s waist, one of them moving downwards, feeling the naked skin below in a caress with those milky white digits. Just because someone has a nice looking cock doesn't mean they know how to use it. He hopes to be mistaken, walking his fingers up the nape towards the vase of a hairline. One after the other in tip toe that clamps down hard as his expression breaks, feeling his body tremble at the sensation of being filled. Those leg grip tightly the waist, an order to stay when he's too busy feeling, mewling, getting used to the girth and lenght; releasing.

"You don't need to be careful....I'm not some fragile creature." Breaks into a moan, that small body arching in pleasure at the first thrust. It's enough to shut his demands for a moment.

Sex for sex is something. A quick one behind the door or an alleyway. An act that comes and goes and is easily forgotten once their needs have been met, but sex, the actual act of making it is more an art so few have mastered. He knows well his place, knows well what he wants and deserves, you can't treat gold like pyrite. What he gives must be met with equality or bettered. That's always his catch. Treat him right. Treat him like royalty and a whore in perfect balance. Between huffed praises and groans, between the creaking of the mattress as he feels his body move in unison, slow at first, harder until the bedboards hit the wall, his voice always coming between grunts and soft whines; between the blooming of bruising grips and bites, those mementos of passion he often re-travels in a warm shower or at night; stirring in the right direction until he is left breathless, thrown overboard into the sheer blind-white pleasure that each ramming into him brings. Catching the cool bedsheets between fists, nails digging into skin. There, just there, stay there and don’t stop, don’t you dare move from there.

#x. inbox #x. Poor wretch I pity you the fate you predict || c. Wojtek Slaski #nsfw

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“[…] I burn’d And ached for wings,”

— Jonh Keats, from “Ode on Indolence,” in Selected Poems (Bloomsbury Poetry Classics).

#x. isms || Friedrich

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Hands reach up, cupping Stefan's face, gently. Slowly pulling him down and a little closer, carefully. They wore no gloves, long and thin and cool to the touch. Cool and quite bold, daring such an act, as if totally discarding rank.

He comes in peace, the subtle smile adorning his face for the very first time proves such. Even if his doing was dangerous, given that they were not alone in this gigantic house, that every moment someone could walk around the corner. They both had overstepped a line and it seemed that Erhardt did not plan on backtracking his steps.

"What if we took a warm bath together? Make time for me?" // @conquermonger (unprompted)

Amid the shelter of those four walls there was no rank. Not to Kautzer at least. An erroneous form of thinking he was well aware of - pretending there was no war, that there was nothing dividing them when it came to pointless things like this. They were just two men. Two men in this preposterously large home playing a dangerous game of hide and seek between familiar walls; a risky game that had injected into Stefan Kautzer’s life an excitement he had never had and which was often sought in childhood. The thrill. The rush of adrenaline. The euphoria of sentiments. The joy of being alive. Alive ! For once to feel alive and wanted for himself. For once to feel as if life truly belonged to him to mold and shape as he wished, stirring it towards whatever path he wished to go rather than follow along a set route with blindfolds on. To feel alive and to feel his heart beat with doting adoration towards this very man that stood before him, painted in a myriad of beautiful pastels, feeling the sensation become augmented every time he saw that beautiful smile graze Erdhart’s face. 

War could never be entirely forgotten, this was their life, smelling of it - the deep scent of salt water and the scorched earth and gunpowder -  screaming reminder after reminder of the beasts they were; no, he simply chose to close the door to it; not now. Simply. Not now. He would not think of the war. He would not think of his duties. He would not think of all those within this four walls. Not now. Blind and bewitched as he was by this creature of sea-foam eyes.

Taking one of those hands into his own, Stefan turned his head and delivered a kiss to the palm. Repeating the act two more times before delivering a single kiss to each of Erhardt’s fingertips, daring to catch one between his lips. Taking it in. Sucking on it. He turned the hand in his own with a delicate movement, kissing his knuckles next.

“Make time, you say. For you, my most beautiful, Röschen ? ” Stefan’s voice comes between a light chuckle. Releasing Erhardt’s hand he bent slightly forward, reaching a hand downwards and hooking it right by his knees. Scooping him off the ground at the same time his lips met with the other’s in a tender kiss, bringing him closer as he lifted Erhardt up bridal style. Parting their lips he met him with a smile, resting his forehead against the other soldier as he playfully brushes his nose against his. 

Husky now, a low whisper. “Always.”

#conquermonger #x. inbox #x. Feeding the wolves - your art of war || c. Stefan Kautzer

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[Shaking up] My muse is shaking up a leaf (cold or scared) and your muse finds them. / Nathan + whoever you want || @conquermonger​

Wolves in sheep’s skin. One day you will learn to discard that heart of yours and grow instead in its place iron.

Walsh was no-one to make decisions, just a holding fresh to the rank of warrant officer and viewed unfavorably for his less than popular ideals. He was lucky only the Captain of the Wild Goose held similar views as him - drowning was a cruel death. To him it was about still preserving human life, to the Capitan it was more akin trophies.

Wet and huddled like lost dogs awaiting a sentence. They should consider themselves lucky, having been fished out of the sea and not left to die in those cold waters. Better a captive and alive than dead and cold.

One by one one they were plucked and searched between anger and mockery. He only stood guard before one special one, the rank on his collar like a laughing reminder of someone. The kaleun. Walsh’s head tilted as he watched his trembling wet figure. Deja vu. He wasn’t looking at this nameless soldier at the moment but at Altberg; miserable looking as was his heart miserable, pretending and winning over, manipulating a too young man with false offers of friendship. How the fuck is America treating you bastard...? No. He hummed. Last he heard that bastard had managed to stage a successful escape with a couple other prisoners. 

He shifted his weight on to his other leg.

“Hey.” he nodded at him. “Can you speak English ?”

#conquermonger #x. inbox #x. Depth Charge || c. Nathan Walsh

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Trusting that big bad Russian man. Why exactly, anyway? What good does he do to you? What good can you see him doing? Do you actually think that he so much as worries for your wellbeing, your health, your mental state? What do you know of him? Did he tell you anything about himself? Are you sure he will not rat you out when it benefits him, or simply trample everything you have and once were? And here you are giving the key to your only safe space away so easily. He will gut you. He does not care what the world makes of you. What this war does to you. This dumb brute that hardly has any control over himself, this Russian disgrace. He's not even that, Russian. Wishes to be, that braindead tool following each and every single command given to him because he is not man enough to speak up for himself, or to stand up for himself. Or to cut himself free. Weak-willed and ill-minded. Too much of a pussy to act on his own because he's scared they'll send him away to some cold place. Absolutely no backbone, this child of a man. Doesn't even care about the cause as much as you do, Wojtek dear. He couldn't care less and he will be a danger to everything you've worked so hard for. //  @conquermonger​Go anon ( or not ) and insult my muse’s loved ones. Feel free to go after any ships you’ve seen me on this blog. Nothing is off limits.

Every word that fell from the stranger’s mouth was as if he were hearing himself - his mind - that pesky voice that sometimes drove him into insanity; and perhaps he was indeed insane, sinking into a bathroom floor with his back to its wall as he covered his ears with the butt of his palms as if that alone would shut out the incessant chattering going on his skull, chastising him over and over like a mother about his decisions; picking wrong company in wrong places, picking company out of desperation, a stranded man at sea willing to drink sea water. What a tragedy. What a sad tale that will only end in blood. Never good enough. A total disaster.

Summer day

This was why he detested having company over whenever he was at work. Such hideous distractions, this one in particular, with a venomous tongue that wormed its way into his skull.

In a        During the first days of summe   

On a   

Another scratch at the paper and he began again the first opening sentence, writing on auto-pilot, no longer aware of what he even wanted to put to paper, his mind growing hazy, the image of the scenery growing muddy until all he could hold on his mind’s eyes was the face of that particular Russian man.

On the first 

Wojtek’s wrist flicked again, driving another brusque line across the paper. The repeated action growing more and more violent as the other continued to talk, the irritability clear in the way his features seemed to change from concentration to chagrin, those blue eyes, as blue as the ink that now bleed the paper, shooting from his work to the other in warning. He was busy, wasn’t this clear ? 

Another scratch across the paper. The worm on his skull gnawed at the last image of his scenery and hungry still slithered down past his throat and to his heart were he found his new home and sunk his parasitic maw on, hitting right on the correct spot. Slaski’s shoulders rolled and he drew in a hitched breath.

Do you actually think that he so much as worries for your wellbeing, your health, your mental state? The writer’s jaw tensed and the pen tip punctured through the paper, bleeding the ink on to the second page. No. He probably didn’t. To Slava he was probably not even a friend as far as he was aware. A mere, simple acquaintance. Not once had he spoken to him as a friend. Not once had he reveled to him anything for as minimum as it could be. He didn’t even knew basic things or pointless information like a favorite color, season or food, much less would he know important information regarding his work and the war, or why he had gotten stabbed and tailed. Wojtek had never been pushy, and never would he be, granting the man his privacy just as he had granted him his own. Waiting like an eager child for the day he would offer a small light into his life that would allow him to learn more of him; wanting it and not waning it out of fear the secrecy would fade away and thus the allure of mystery ruin all, but did he not wish for it too? To know him. Perhaps one day he would. Or perhaps he was not worthy enough to peak through the Box of Pandora that was Vyacheslav Skvortsov.

Wojtek’s left feet bounced on its toes nervously, the pen on his hand flicking back and forth now like an angry cat’s tail. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Hitting the paper below him as he turned to look at the other then back at the paper. He frowned. Can’t take a clue could he ? Did he really have to be verbal and (not so ) kindly say, Can you please fuck off ? I am busy.

This dumb brute that hardly has any control over himself. His shoulder blade ached suddenly with a phantom pain, the bruise on it and his arm already less visible. True, he wouldn’t deny that, the man had a temperament of hell that needed to be kept in check, but he himself was no saint either. None of them were. No one could be a saint in war.

He snorted.

Tap, tap, tap. Taptaptaptaptap. Faster.

..... this Russian disgrace...

The tapping suddenly ceased entirely. Fingers flicked the pen around, twirling it between them with such gracefulness, dancing it around them as it shifted position. With that same dexterity did it change the grip, holding it like a knife he drove down into the paper with a force that seemed impossible for him, sinking it in deep enough to leave it standing. “He is not a disgrace !!” his voice echoed loudly in unison with the slam, filling every corner of the room. On the next room came the loud startled screams and flapping of Litwos. “Don’t you fucking dare -heh....”

“And what........pray...tell me, do you know about him ? I will tell you: Nothing as well. ” he hissed the words, bent over the desk as he was, still holding the pen that now quivered with his hand from how hard he laid gripping it, not turning once to face the other man fully save out of his peripheral. With a downwards stroke he brought the pen down, shredding the paper in half as he turned to face the other at last.

“He’s got a more well set of balls that most men I have met, and compared to you he knows well when to keep his mouth shut.”

#conquermonger #x. inbox #x. Poor wretch I pity you the fate you predict || c. Wojtek Slaski

[194l]

conquermonger​:

„ Where. “ It only came. Where is the rest? 

Not even in a questioning tone but as a demand. Not even with him standing upright and properly turning around to face the owner of this apartment, the very man he should justify himself to for rummaging and searching his safe place with hands that held obviously no comprehension or understanding of the word personal. Private. Intimate. Useless words to him and meaningless in this situation. For the towering man that had unwillingly opened Pandora’s box he did not sit idle and instead immediately had begun working on uncovering the entire truth of it. Entirely disregarding everything else, where he was, what this place was. Whom it belonged to and what his eager searching and urge to uncover could do to that very person. Blind to the possible breaking of a trust that had been gently placed into his two hands in the form of the very key that had granted him entrance to this shelter.

„ Where ! “ 

Louder this time, and while the heavy accent made it hard to properly discern a difference in his intonation there was something akin to sharpness in his tone. A type of urgency that, perhaps, he did try to hold back but somehow failed too. Bad. Vjačeslav had always been bad at controlling his temper.

This time he actually moved too, not with his hands and arms in the acts of moving and pulling and pushing things around. Actually getting up, straightening his back to stand in all his tall and broad glory. Actually slowly turned around to face the man much smaller and so sickly-looking compared to his physique. Too small. Too thin for someone hiding all of this weaponry in his four walls. The Russian’s eyes locked on the other man. Scrutinize, trying to read past the obvious distaste for his more-or-less intrusion into something that had been hidden for a reason. Untouched by the defense-act of displayed aggression. Acknowledging it and nothing more. Willowy, so frail and delicate. Those slim and slender limbs. That thin face. So thin…

The Russian’s eyes narrowed as his eyes kept wandering. No longer only focused on Wojtek’s face but his entire body. Glancing over it, entirely distracted by his physical appearance. Until the thought resurfaced: weak. He hardly could have carried all of this into here alone. His fingers twitched. What would he even do with all of this ─── alone. The pointer of his right hand began slowly, lightly tapping against thigh. No. His tension grew. He was not alone. The tapping of the finger came quicker. He was part of something and had not thought about telling him although it had been more than obvious to him that he was involved in something, too. The thought caused a frown to appear on the brute’s face. Trust. Who had played whose trust first?

„ Not supposed to “, he spits out as if he was the one that had any right to be bitter now, and before he even realized already walked over to the smaller one with quick strides, reaching up and for him with a calloused hand. Firmly grabbing Wojtek by his right upper arm and using his momentum to push the other backwards and with his back against the nearest wall; rough and ungently. For a moment amazed by the fact that he did not even need to use a lot of his strength to achieve that.

For a moment Vjačeslav only looked at those blue eyes; his thoughts continuing their inner monologue as he continued reading the situation. Should have grabbed him by his throat instead of his arm. Wouldn’t be able to properly give answers then. Answers. Why did he even need to give him answers? Somehow it did not sit right with him. To think that Wojtek Slaski was involved in anything. Perhaps his appearance and looks was good at fooling some people, after all, it had fooled him, too. For how long however? How much? No. Men like him did not last. Too weak. 

No good.

„ Несчастный дурак… “ What have you gotten yourself into. 

Muttering under his breath and following up with a clicking of his tongue, he finally let go of the arm again. Then turned around to take in the sight of the kitchen himself; huffing. Still having to figure out what he should not do with what he had found.

Where, he asked and Wojtek's blood boiled. Nails dug deep into naked flesh but not even the sting of pain against the sweat covered palms that now trembled did anything to make him stop and think once on how to rationality go about the situation, allowing for his feelings - those wretched emotions he detested and felt twice as passionate than normal - to swirl and gnaw and tear. He was shaking with anger.

Where again came with the power of a detonating grenade that burst throughout the room, the filled spaces of the apartment keeping its shrapnel from echoing even more, but not keeping it from spilling out into those empty hallways and down halfway to the stairs. The booming of his voice shook him, startling him with a jolt of the shoulders as if snapped awake from a dream - and he laughed internally ( his lips coiling upwards to show teeth in a sneer ) because was that not it ? This fucking wake up call. The snapping of fingers before his eyes that tore away whatever shitty story he had fabricated in his mind; a friendship, a trust, all trampled and spat on before him.

Now he demand and his anger became incensed threefold. "Who are you to demand anything from me ?! Watch your fucking tone with me ! "

His first instinct was to move towards him. To grab at the casing and replace it back were it was and from were it should have never left. To clear up the mess of his once fastidiously clean apartment that now seemed like a pigsty, to add further insult to injury. Yet, the moment he began to move so did Slava and while at first he met his gaze with cocksureness and aggression he soon seemed to re-think it.

Slava stood before him like an omnibus presence, a hellish gate-keeper that moved towards him with gigantic steps, swallowing him entirely with his shadow before anything else. The bravado he felt earlier quivered, but even when he felt his muscles shake he stood his ground, for as much as he could, rage and caution mixing entirely into one and setting alarms in his brain. Another step and he retraced his back. Another and another back in this dance. Then more, slowly back, his left hand trailing over the polished wood of the table as he slid back, back, back, suddenly more rapidly; swiftly, that rabbit heart of his jumping and bouncing around turning now into a bird as he turned around to flee from him.

But he wasn't quick enough.

The beast closed on him and with one fell swoop caught his arm, trapping him right into place. Wojtek's body lurched, tugging against his captor in search of freedom, not once caring that in doing so he would instigate further aggression, not caring how the flesh of his arm screamed against not just the fetter that had become those hands but against the movement that made it worse and would surely cause a bruise.

"Let me go !" the Pole snapped at him, jerking his body towards the right now in vain. Reaching out he caught the hand with his own, trying to pathetically wedge it off. There came a whine this time. "Let me go ! You're hurting me- hnngh!"

His body hit the wall with a slam that made the cabinet next to him shake, the porcelain contents clinking against each other as they trembled. Something slotted out of place, a white piece he only caught out of his peripheral as it fell and shattered. Four more followed and joined the mutilated piece at his feet. Wojtek's shoulder blades screamed in reproach and his heart wrung itself. Besting faster. Faster. Faster. Drumming loud, loud, loud. So hideously loud. His breath was elaborate, hot and wet, making his chest rise and sink just as quickly. Every emotion that cycled within him clawed and tore at him, opening new wounds and reopening old ones. Everything became so overwhelming, trapping him into sheer rage, hurt, fear, and helplessness that tore itself into a scream, that of a scared and cornered animal that had lost all fight and surrendered itself to death.

And then

                                  Несчастный дурак…

Blue eyes stared at him, wet, miniature pools of sea water that danced and held him with nothing more but the quelling of a storm. Rage never suited him well. Rage was not his forte. Leaving him a pathetic flustered, ugly sight of shaking limbs, the need to destroy and later regret and...tears. A little laugh echoed in the back of his mind. Some old forgotten voice. Some old teasing. But Rage subsided. Несчастный дурак…Lips parted, the lower one quivering. Несчастный дурак…Is that what he was then in his eyes ? In everyone's eyes. You too ? Несчастный дурак...Pain. There was pain in those eyes now.

Released at last he felt all strength leave him. His back and arm burned. His throat ached. Knees buckled and he soon felt his ass hit the floor. The tip of his boot hit something and his right palm hit the broken shards of porcelain that bit at him. He seldom felt it now. He sucked in air into airless lungs, feeling as if he were taking in hot, swampy water. It was getting hard to breathe. A wheeze. He was no longer breathing through his nose but his mouth.

".....get out...of my house..." I don't want to see you ever again.

They aren't going to be pleased. You compromised them. Fool...Yes he was one. A fucking buffoon. Putting all in danger simply for not wanting to be lonely. Company is a luxury he can't have. What had he been thinking ? Trusting strangers. He didn't even knew anything about this man save his name ( was that even his real name ? Had he ever wondered that ? ) the rest was mere speculation from dropped talk that was hardly there. He could have very well been housing a murderer and not that white knight he thought him to be when he had saved him from being knocked out by a punch. He squinted trying to clear his blurring vision, feeling warm pool and spill past the corner of his eyes. He could have very well been the enemy and here he was....trusting. Trusting so much he had offered him not just the key of his own apartment but placed on him his trust, his self, his life, letting him come and go and and see a private side of him for it all to be defiled, taken and crumpled and thrown back at him.

                                                    You never learn.

Another hitched breath and his trembling jaw locked into placed. Drawing in on some hidden strength he reached for the half broken piece next to his foot and flung it across the room, missing Slava, a terrible throw as he was, weak and weaker now in such overwhelmed state, and a part of him was glad he had indeed missed as he watched the figure pass his shoulder and smash entirely against the wall before them. There was a pause, as if surprised at his own compulsive act, regret painting those wide blue eyes. I'm sorry I didn't- no. Brows narrowed again. Anger surfaced and grabbed him by the throat, drowning all remorse. No. He could well fuck off. Can't you see what this means ? What he just did to you ? Do you not feel it in your bones ?

The other piece half of the figurine followed, missing him again and hitting just below the wall clock.

"GET OUT !" it ripped through strained vocal chords, leaving him gasping, aching, hurting more as he coughed.

#conquermonger #x. Poor wretch I pity you the fate you predict || c. Wojtek Slaski #x. t