@conquermonger​​​ asked: [ lit ]  your muse lighting a cigarette , spliff , etc. for mine . / for Valentin from Sasha /  ❥      NON - SEXUAL   ACTS   OF   DOMINANCE .

Whatever words he had planned to share with his companion die upon his tongue the moment their steps lead them out into the dark wintery night, golden eyes glazing over with an iciness of his own ( one that mirrors the cold winds filling his lungs with the shuddering inhale he quietly takes ) before they lose themselves in the vastness of a first snowfall. Tension befalls his body, blooming from between his shoulder blades before it conquers and claims his spine vertebrae by vertebrae, perhaps with the intention to render him unmoving or perhaps simply wanting to give him goosebumps he cannot shake, he does not know, and yet it does not matter what it wants but how he chooses to proceed, chooses to fight against it.

It is almost ironic how averse he is towards something as plain as snow ( bordering on hatred and yet he can never quite bring himself to feel as strongly as the word would suggest ), considering how present it has been all throughout his life: from his birth in the white planes of Siberia to his death in the frozen mud of blood and sleet to his resurrection from his cold grave ( rising like Lazarus, with wings as white as the flakes that buried both friends and enemies alike ), Father Winter has always been by his side. And as many times as he has seen it fall from the endless heavens, he cannot quite ever shake the implications that it brings. Death, hunger, lonliness, an empty house with figures made of ice that barely resembled his мать and отец, coating everything in a soft blanket of white hue. Goodness, maybe he should hate it.

Almost mechanically does his hand lift to take a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, the half-full carton an indication that smoking is a rare indulgence for him. It rests between his lips as he continues to scan the horizon for something he himself cannot quite place before the sound of a lighter being flipped open tears him out of his reverie.

Valentin blinks at the sight of the flame and then at the smaller man, barely illuminated by the flickering light and yet he can see all of his features with crystal clarity: from the way the tips of his ears redden as the cold begins to nip on them to the manifestation of his breath, depicted in small clouds of warmth curling between them. A sign of life in this bleak scenery and it is enough to melt the graveness from his own expression and shift it into a small smile, genuine, eyes radiating appreciation. “ Thank you. “, he leans in, letting the cigarette burn until he takes a warm inhale of smoke, easing worn muscles, leaving nothing more but sweet fatigue. A second passes and then he simply offers it to him with nothing more than an extended hand and a smile that does not move.

# 3,724

Yoko Shimomura + Isao Abe + Syun Nishigaki: Street Fighter II: The Definitive Soundtrack (2015)

I first read about Street Fighter II in an early issue of Electronic Gaming Monthly. As all of us know, the original didn’t make much of an impact. It was there, but no one cared. At the time, Capcom’s fanfare was in the home market with franchises such as Mega Man, Strider, Legendary Wings, Bionic Commando, the 194X series, and the soul-destroying Ghosts N’ Goblins. What did they have in the arcade market at the time? Magic Sword, Forgotten Worlds, Air Wing Carrier, and Final Fight. I didn’t realize how crazy people went for Street Fighter II until I saw it for the first time at the local mall’s arcade, one which my pop used to take me every Sunday to. I get there (on a Saturday) and I see six kids standing around the cabinet. They were all getting into it. Finally, it was my very first shot at Street Fighter. My opponent was Ricardo, a gay guy who was close friends with my family’s babysitter’s daughter. I chose Chun-Li. He chose Blanka. “Brazil!” the machine exclaimed. It’s time for a showdown.

Well, that was over quickly. Ricardo won two rounds to zero. He got miffed because I stole his character on him. If it was, would’ve he had his ass handed to him by someone else? No matter. Time to play another machine and choose one of the many Neo Geo MVS mutli-cart systems loaded with many of its fighter knock-offs. World Heroes, Sengoku, and Burning Fight? Here’s Super Eightman instead.

Summer came and Capcom’s business was booming. Every stationary, ice cream parlor, laundromat and the pizzeria had machines. Of course, the pizzeria. Which ones didn’t? You’d have at least three to eight of the worst kids from every block in one of the worst neighborhoods on Long Island waiting their turn. Second Av. down the road from the middle school was three years of my life, dodging these odd but itchy numbers asking for quarters on every turn, avoiding the middle-school big-shot who was friends with 98% of the school while you were one of the unlucky few who became his daily bullseye for harassment. That bigshot backed it up by being real good at this game, beating almost everyone in his path and at once scoring 1,034,000 points to take the high score.

But life goes on and people fuck off and scatter as the years go by. I haven’t seen him since forever. Last I heard of him, he was in the papers crying hard over a close friend who died. But that was ten years ago. No social media but he lives east from what was an era long gone. Mortal Kombat, Killer Instinct, and Capcom’s other franchise Darkstalkers tried to punch out Street Fighters profits, yet here we are and we have the n’thteenth version of Street Fighter V, just like when II had Hyper Fighting, Rainbow Edition, and various bootlegs. What also hasn’t changed? After so many years, the pizzeria is still there and so is the original marquee; faded beyond recognition. It’s the only business in that strip mall that still exists. And the former neighborhood is still a horrible place to live. It’s never outgrown its violence or the page-five news.

The original soundtrack was released ahead of its 25th anniversary. Triple-disc, digital, and vinyl pressings were released. Some of those vinyl pressings come in double translucent blue and double translucent orange vinyl equaling four platters total.

@conquermonger​ asked:  🎉 Russian good luck New Year's kisses from both Sasha and Slava, for Valentin. 3 cheek kisses from Sasha and one right on the lips from Slava. One coming right after the other. May the upcoming year be gentle on this angel and his beautiful soul ! /  Send ’ 🎉 ’ to kiss my muse at midnight on New Years Eve.

This night is warmer than the others, he has come to find out. The wind still dances with the same wild, fast footsteps as it has done days before, blowing through his hair, tugging on his coat, guiding the cold towards any patch of skin that has escaped the shelter of a scarf or a pocket and yet still he does not tremble, does not even seem to realize that every exhale paints itself in tiny clouds and travels between them or that his naked hands do not shake. And he does not act so ignorantly out of delusion or habit but simply because he has found his warmth in the presence of the other two, in the gratefulness he feels to have made their acquaintance, to be here, with them.

He smiles at something Sasha has said as they stand together, gazes flicking from their watches to the dark sky above, counting the last remaining minutes of the year. It is almost odd for him to be this relaxed, with the tension that has settled between his shoulder blades disappearing enough for him to stand comfortably, to rest and not be concerned or attentive towards anything that happens around him. Golden eyes break their routine from watching the watch hand move to glance at Sasha: small, young Sasha who he feels he has known for so long, who had and has to endure so much, who will see him beyond the soldier or angel, who he will always be here for. And then Slava, tall and strong, who had found and saved his life from the piles of frost in Siberia; he hopes he can make it up to him one day but until then, maybe his patience and words will be enough.

Perhaps he should have said all of this, should have let them know but suddenly the last second escapes him. Midnight. Fireworks claim the heavens above, a spectacle that immediately steals his focus. A smile paints his expression as he stares upward in awe, watching the different colors explode in the sky and illuminate the grounds below with a variety of red and blue and green hues ( and is it not entirely wonderful? There is almost something akin to childlike wonder within him as the fireworks go off around them and he does not even realize that his eyes sparkle just as much or that he is laughing for once ). He wants to turn to both of them, wish them a happy new year but it appears that Sasha is faster than him: there is no time to prepare or to even consider what he plans on doing when a pair of lips finds itself on his cheek, a kiss repeated three times. It is so abrupt and yet so smooth that Valentin finds himself stunned, stuttering, blinking, raising his fingers to catch the ghost of Sasha's lips still lingering on his skin. A blush blooms on his ears but before he has time to react, Slava guides him away to face him and actually kisses him on the lips and then his entire expression turns crimson which he, in turn, tries to hide with the back of his hand. They kissed him, simple as that, without any rhyme or reason. And it was nice, such tender moment, such gentle touches. And despite his embarrassment, Valentin smiles, peeking up at them.

" You two will be the death of me. " Thank you. And a happy new year, my dearest friends.

@conquermonger​ asked:  are you keeping your hands clean and your bodies well-buried? (for Alfred from Adal! Be it in a teasing manner or him mocking this particular artist being so innocent in his eyes, he's not actually knowing. Just him making bad jokes) /  first kill sentence meme. episode 1 - 3.  

It is difficult to deduce the intention the joke is formed under, to understand whether it is ridicule he hears or simply words arranged as a product of banter. And yet he still chuckles quietly at the implications they carry, at everything Adal does not know, does not assume about him, blinded by an appearance resembling an angel in a Renaissance painting, by a faux innocence created by golden locks and big, light eyes. Alfred does not fault him for such conclusion. After all, how could he even come to be aware of the obsessions he hides? That the battlefield has come to be his greatest inspiration, that his fingers tremble in excitement when he sees a corpse’s spine bent and broken in such a degree that even god himself would not have thought to be possible? Itching to peel flesh, to paint in blood, to melt bone, to make something beautiful; his hands certainly are not always this clean but he is in good company, is he not? And, therefore, he has to look his best and wash the remnants of his work from beneath his fingernails.

His back rests further into the leather of the armchair, legs crossed over one another, hands resting in his lap. The light of the room is dim enough that the darkness of the night creeps into every corner and claims everything the flame of the candle cannot reach, fabricating both a relaxing atmosphere and an inability to read the other properly. A thoughtful hum manifests itself from the depths of his throat, head tilting, smile spreading easily. He wonders how Adal’s perception of him would change if he did know, ponders briefly if he understands, could appreciate the fine arts hidden away in the attic of an unassuming home. But he should not enforce his artistic views just yet. That would be terribly impolite.

“ Ach, aber Herr van Wolfenhang--- “, his voice curls smoothly around the German phrase, the tone, which accompanies the other’s name on his tongue, friendly, unoffended by the possibility of mockery. Using the pause within his reply, he unfolds his hands and lifts one to lean his cheek against his knuckles, his gaze never leaving the man in front of him. “ Why would I need to bury my bodies? Shouldn’t I present them for the whole world to see like the masterpieces that they are? “

@fcrrous​ / test muse: alfred lehmann.

He moves through the thick opacity of the darkness with graceful ease, as though he does not need the faint halos of light the lamps provide to maneuver his way around these broken remnants of a building, as though he had known he would need to traverse this path and memorized it before with a keen glance alone. Or perhaps it is simply the smell of death lingering in the air, in every breath he does not need to take, that draws him closer to his destination, breaking into several scents all too familiar: broken bodies, spilled blood, kept at bay with the rarity of morphine but more often bandages, needles and threads. Something within stirrs at the thought of such mended flesh, an excitement that is certainly an underlying cause of his visit to the aid station but he masks it within the excuse of being a Leutnant concerned about the well-being of his men. Surely that is a reasonable explanation as to why he is out so late during the night.

His hand raises to softly knock against the frame of where a door could have been once, alerting the other of his presence with a pleasant and yet wide smile, nodding. When he speaks his voice is calm and smooth. “ Good evening, doctor. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. “ Grey eyes flicker across the room, taking it in before they return to take the man in fully, an odd emptiness lingering within then. “ I simply wanted to know how the wounded were doing, if you could enlighten me? Today has been-- eventful to say the least, in the worst way possible. I’m certain you must be busy. “

@conquermonger​ asked:  ❝ that storm doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. ❞ Sasha @ Valentin /  ╰┈➤ STARTER PROMPTS : Assorted Sentence Prompts

Every droplet of rain, every gust of wind that hits these skeletal remains of what has once been some sort of building sounds and feels as though it permeates his very flesh with unrelenting ease, hitting against his own bones and stealing every crumb of energy that remains in his body as he tries to shield himself from it. The noise itself borders on unbearably loud as it echoes through his head and blends almost perfectly into the ringing in his ears singing celestial hymns and he thoroughly has to resist the urge to cover his ears with his own hands for he knows best that it will do nothing than make him focus further on this sound of heaven hissing into his mind.

‘He should have known better’ is a mantra he repeats every time this happens and every time he chides himself for it, for using up all of his strength knowing what the consequences will be: his muscles trembling, his back burning under the phantom of his wings, gaze clouded and unfocused as it is difficult to take anything in with this loud godly ringing. It will take a while to regain his sense of self and not be lost in this haze of sickness-like symptoms but until then, he will be a hindrance, someone his men will want to rely on and see nought but a bird stumbling over its own wings. But unlike student or soldier, Valentin appears too stubborn to make sense of his own advice ( for is this not his mission? That he has to do everything in his power to lead his own people to safety and execute those who pose a threat? And if that is achieved by shaking hands or feverish dizziness--- well, that is a price he is more than willing to pay ) and, thus, here he is, with barely enough energy to keep himself upward as he slowly but surely gives into the sweet desire to lean against the closest wall.

Alexander’s voice breaks through the pattern of rain and whirring ( his voice cooling, soothing ), drawing golden eyes clumsily towards his frame lingering by the window and blinking when he finally realizes they are meant for him to decipher as they rest between them in the air. The pause he finds himself in takes too long, hesitating when he should not be but, somehow, he still hopes that the other man will not catch onto his delirium-- a futile wish, he is aware, knowing his keen senses and watchful glances.

“ Yes. So it seems. “, a short phrase but his tongue is fatigued, his mouth dry. He tries to stand upright but his body protests, breaking into a small huff at the effort. “ We should--- we should stay in for the night. “

@conquermonger​​

A frown adorned the towering man looking as disgruntled as he always did. He made no secret about not wanting to be here, about the discomfort those elegant clothes and this fine music brought him. Even if carrying the looks and being part owner of a name, which brought both prestige and intimidation. The house of van Wolfenhang was known to be made of vicious military men, who had collected and continued gathering their fame from victory to victory. That was, until their latest capable son has seen the light of day. The man now grown, more disgrace than he was pleasure to be seen with.

And still he stood, invited to this gathering of aristocrats and noblemen, although both sides wished he rather would not have been. He had counted the half-hours at this point, emptying one glass after another, making sure to keep each and every conversation of a woman or two nevertheless approaching him short. Two differently-colored eyes taking in the many faces he did not wish to remember, until they had settled and remained on the man with blond, curly hair.

An artist.

Even if Adal could try to recall the name and possible works that were attached to it: he already knew that he would not remember. Could not, because even though the fine arts (be it visual, literary or the art of performing) were a constant companion and topic in his strict upbringing ─── he now did not care less about any and either of it. He did not care about the likes of them, and especially not about those people finding joy in whatever was created by these unblemished, delicate hands...

The perfect, the beautiful, the immaculate. Everything so far off from the reality that hounded, haunted, did lie in wait outside city borders. Shielding, masking those weak souls from the true horrors that life brought, that war wrought. They were blinded and prefered to be so, weak and miserable and a waste of good air and space. Those that were faint-hearted and would collapse at the first sign of blood. Those that were too unsophisticated to see the true beauty in it all, the splattered blood spreading like a patch of undying flowers, the violence leaving a broken body battered, torn and utterly broken. The power, the strength, the passion, to form something beautiful into something ugly and contorted and still be able to love it.

A silent scoff, at no one in particular but obviously directed at them. Calling themselves artists, playing around with their brushes and paint. No, they would never understand what true beauty was and meant. Only a man drenched in blood and covered by the stench of it and the surrounding rotten would get it. One that had seen what he had seen and still knew how to smile.

From the very moment he has stepped past the doors of the building and escaped the freezing breeze of the night, it is as though the room has swallowed him whole: the music ( a gentle symphony of an orchestra, no doubt, with the cello’s notes swaying and curling around him, his steps following the rhythm of a piano ) first immediately claiming both senses and attention before his gaze parts and diverts; the warmth, a product of all bodies accumalated within, speaking, laughing, moving, the chatter mixing into the notes of the music; the sight of extravagant dresses and suits ( and, briefly, does he wonder how humans always manage to maintain a sense of normalcy when war and death and devastation linger so close to heart but the noble were particularly good at this sort of dissociation ). And he blends into it effortlessly with his straight posture and long strides, moving past groups of people, listening half-heartedly until he picks up more than pleasantries or practised smalltalk, curiosity stirred whenever familiar names are mentioned or something is spoken explicitly hushed. A waiter approaches him from his side, offering him cognac which he accepts for politeness’ sake, and, finally, it seems as though he completely bleeds into the scenery, a chameleon amidst flies that, no matter how often and how long he abstained from this crowd, this world, he always finds his way back into it; the thought gives him a sense of déjà vu, reminds him of balls in the enormous halls of the palace and of a sense of normalcy long gone by. He lights a cigarette and discards the memory with the rising smoke.

A woman’s voice makes him halt, her excited exclamation of his name a sign for apparent recognition. Alfred Lehmann, the artist!, she coos and the phrase alone is balm for his soul, pulling him back into the present, into the identity he has created for himself. He indulges her ramblings with a pleasant smile and a sparkling hint of interest within grey eyes ( which is most definitely played ) as she speaks of his latest painting before he is allowed a moment to humbly shrug of her praise, this gesture, however, honest. Not his worst work but what he truly is proud of is hidden far away in a studio on the outskirts of town, his true masterpieces inspired by the grotesque, the heinous, by broken bones, by scattered limbs, by the flow of blood---.

A fixed, sudden stare tears him out of his thoughts and guides his focus towards a lone man and the moment he sets eyes on him, Alfred’s interest is piqued. What a sight, what contrast to the prim and proper crowd they find themselves in! He gives his companion an apologetic glance before he departs from her to approach the tall man, undeterred by the harsh aura he clouds himself in. Because once he has seen the scars ( the promise of torn flesh, the utter violence that must have caused it! ), the different colored eyes, his compulsion to interact becomes almost unbearable.

“ Forgive me for assuming, Sir, but-- “, he offers him his glass, still untouched, no sign of lips on the rim, no fingerprints engraved in its sides, no heat, as though it has been in the hold of a ghost. “ --- are you on leave as well? “

@viracmia asked: [ LOVE ] for Collin and Lance, but not really because they are both stupid and oblivious / '𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙼𝚈 𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳' 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂. [ LOVE ] : while out together in a romantic setting, sender quietly holds receiver's hand as they're standing together.

" And that--- ", his finger lifts to swim amidst the sea of stars in the night sky above, pointing and then drawing along the faint constellation for Lance to follow. " --- that's Cassiopeia. Or at least I think. " Collin knows but he has a feeling that the cheeky smile he gifts the other will make him smile in return and, to him, that is much more important than a sense of accuracy.

The air curls around them in warm waves, laying itself idly on his skin ( he can taste the relentless, stifling heat of summer approaching and he isn't sure whether to blame his slightly flushed cheeks on this or on his company ). In a moment of defiant freedom, of a friction of peace that could slip from his hold at any minute, he has taken off his jacket, letting the cool metal of the plane's tail he is leaning against dig into his back. Lance is standing right next to him, the space between their bodies diminishing by the moments he has stopped counting until their hips are pressed together and, somehow, that makes this entire scene even more comforting.

His finger once again moves. " Oh! And this one is--. ", but instead of being able to finish his sentence, Collin is suddenly aware of the soft skin on his palm, of the warmth increased ten-fold intertwining itself between his fingers. It takes a second for him to register that Lance is holding his hand, green eyes blinking before his gaze switches to face his and he cannot help the grin as he looks at him or the softness that takes a hold of his expression. " That-- ", he twists their hands so that his finger points at the taller man, squeezing his hand. " -- is mo ghrian. "

@neschastnyy asked: (morning sex ) our muses are just waking up when they begin getting frisky before the coffee is even put on! Not sure whether to feel bad for Valentin but Paukka is the type of guy. Barely awake and already wanting to appreciate that beautiful man lying besides of him. / 👻୧‿︵‿︵ just fucking around !

The gentle singing of the birds is what stirs him from his slumber, a light, melodic chirp, barely loud enough to warrant opening his eyes and face the early morning hours but enough to let out a low grumble and nuzzle his face into the pillow next to him. His mind, however peaceful and serene the situation makes itself out to be, does not allow itself to simply let itself slip back into slumber and thus he remains awake enough to slowly acknowledge Paukka curling around him, his arm tucked around his waist. It makes Valentin smile, the mere realization how safe he is, feels, here within his embrace. I feel like I could stay here forever with you, he remebers telling him and perhaps he can, just for a few more minutes before the tasks of the day force them to leave the comfort of their bed and the warmth of their love.

But still he stretches, bending his limbs to shake off Hypnos' kiss and, in turn, press all of himself further against the taller man still nuzzled against him. And finally he turns, meeting him with a smile and lashes fluttering slowly against golden eyes. " Good morning. " And in exchange he receives a kiss, feeling himself be turned and pressed back into the pillows, which he goes along with easily, wrapping his own arms around his neck and, inadvertently, naively ( without considering how he hums into his mouth and how his legs make way for him ) pull him deeper into the kiss.

Until Paukka's kisses trail down his neck, down his chest and his hand comes to palm him through his underwear, leaving him delirious and desperate. Until his voice, still rough from sleep, echoes against their bedroom walls with his groaned pleading for more, blending into a repetition of his name. " Paukka, please. ", is a mumbled prayer uttered on repeat, until two fingers bury themselves within his heat and he is left panting and whining, clutching the sheets around them with every gasp that leaves his mouth, every gasp that is muffled in the kisses the other bestows upon his mouth.

But when he finally moves to push himself against Valentin's entrance, a gloved hand gingerly reaches out to stop him. " Wait---. " And before Paukka can dare to misinterpret this monosyllabic request, he is already pushing him on his back, moving to sit and hover over his lap and slowly sink himself down on his member. " Paukka, hah--- I love you. ", the flush on his face grows deeper, an embarrassed smile resting upon his lips as he leans down to kiss him again, movements slow, sleepy, the mere need to be close to him taking over every sense and every thought. He begins riding him, brushing himself against Paukka's lower abdomen, moaning loudly. " I love you. "

@viracmia​ asked:  “If I’m a monster, what are you?” (Armin to Radek) / prompt list i.

Monster. The word follows him wherever he goes, a constant reminder of the times he spat it as an unholy insult and the times he whispered it to himself, branding his new, undead skin with it as penance. He can never quite escape it, it seems, and perhaps it is less of an abstraction and more of an identity by now ( perhaps it always has been ), no matter how feebly he tries to escape it. He cannot escape the memory of crosses and fallen brethren, clad in their white robes now stained red with their own blood and the tears of the earth. He cannot escape sharp fangs and instincts that want him to ravage or the iron sword craving his flesh. He is a monster, deluded and zealous, hungry and god-forsaken.

But seeing this wretched beast in front of him, sinking his teeth into innocent skin and bone with nothing but a delighted hum makes his blood boil, the pyre within him set ablaze with the mere notion that something likes this has never known regret. Compassion. Self-hatred. Look at it sneering down at him as he breathes hard but rhythmically, his sword heavy and drenched in red as it rests in his palm. 

What is he? A vampire, a creature, some devilish thing. But his hand flexes around a blessed weapon and the remembers the mark on his index finger ( the devotion, the promise to eradicate all evil from God's land ). He will never go to heaven, someone like him has no place there, where it is pure, where the saints, the good-hearted live in the gentle flutter of angelic wings. But he still has his mission; he is a monster if he lets this thing go.

And thus Radek's hand moves, slipping into his pocket with slow, precise accuracy. " I am a monster. ", he mumbles in agreement before he quickly pulls out a knife, its silver gleaming in the moonlight. It burns his hand, a small cloud of smoke curling around him and yet he does not budge, does not wince, blue eyes set on his target. The saints, the martyrs endured much worse. This is nothing, this is for good.

" But I am a hunter, too. So I will cut off your head, you plague-ridden rat. "

@fcrrous​ asked:  “It’s freezing. Come here.” (Ludger to Val, past) / prompt list i. ♡.

His breath crystalizes in front of his face, small clouds that are opaque enough ( that are warm enough in this biting cold) appearing to briefly hide the worry etched in his expression, only to dissipate with the next inhale. But perhaps this worry is not limited to his expression but lingers within his entire body already. Because - while the way his eyebrows have drawn together in a deep crease and lips are pressed against each other firmly, threatening to freeze together - he also has not moved from his window for too many minutes gone by to merely assume he is keeping watch. Binoculars in hand, scanning the empty, burning streets below for a threat, for a plan, for something and yet being met with nothing but the occasional firing of a gun. It makes calculating what he will do once the night has passed difficult and he is so entirely lost in his thoughts and concentration that Valentin does not even realize his muscles beginning to shake from the cool air seeping past his uniform. It takes Ludger addressing what he keeps ignoring that finally breaks his limbs out of their trance that he acknowledges: oh, it is indeed cold. He is cold.

Reluctantly he parts from his lookout to set himself into motion and move towards the other man, sitting down next to him with another small huff that paints the air. There is still space between their bodies, shoulders and knees knocking together, barely providing any additional warmth but he does not quite know what to do with himself and, thus, he simply turns to look at him and give him a warm smile that does not budge when he sees the state he is in. Winter has taken its effect on Ludger as well, huddled into clothes not meant for such relentless season, tormented by the icy drafts, and Valentin’s ever-lasting concern switches. “ Here, take my gloves. “, he is already pulling them off his hands, placing them in his and holding onto them for a moment. Another smile, hazel eyes glimmering in the light of the dilapidated room. “ No disccusions. “

@fcrrous​ asked:  what aren’t you telling me ? + do you want me to stay ? (Bertram to Alfred) /  ↪     𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑩𝑰𝑫 ᶜᵘʳᶤᵒˢᶤᵗʸ .    >(  a  collection  of  various unsorted question prompts . )  

The heavens rumble, a flash, then thunder but it is neither a storm nor the rage of the gods that are brewing at the edge of the horizon. It’s worse, for when he creeps into the building with a weapon raised and hands prepared to break and tear if need be ( or not, he would like to either way ), boots already half-way up the stairs, he hears the dreaded whistle, growing louder with the very second he wastes listening to it. Artillery. There is hardly a moment to react, to turn, to move before the entire frame around him gets hit and collapses, burying him in the skeleton of a house and broken earth.

The sudden darkness steals his orientation, his senses. Yelling, growling, shots fired in the distance ( or his vicinity? ) do not reach his ears. They do not matter. All he can concentrate on is the feeling of being trapped as parts of a wall pin his body to the ground, lying on his chest, almost rendering him immobile. A feeling of familiar terror begins to bloom within him, a product of memories, of a déjà vu and terrible, terrible claustrophobia; grey eyes snap towards the left, then the right and then he sees. No exit. Everything is lost to rubble and stone. No exit, no exit, no exit, no exit-----. He claws at a door at the weight upon him, fingers hardening to steel-like bone to push it from himself. There is a voice in the distance and he is sure it is a guard, his family, him, őket; everything bleeds into a memory an enemy. He needs to get out. His body is shaking, his fangs growing with animalistic instinct. The bone bleeds upwards, enveloping his entire arms to tear blocked doors asunder and stumble into someone. But his gaze is wild and, thus, he acts on survival alone and cages the other to the wall with his own body.

But Alfred immediately realizes who it is. And, goodness, what a sight the doctor is greeted with: a frightened gaze, lost not to the terror of war-time death but a memory, a certain trauma; golden locks matted with dust, wild. There is a rib breaking through his side but it already starts growing back when he steps away from the other. His mouth opens, then closes and he grits his teeth as he mutters a single order. “ Let’s move. “

-----------

He has a sinking suspicion that his behavior will not be forgotten and, later, when he departs for a moment of privacy and smoke, Bertram approaches. Of course. A sigh parts pale lips.

“ I understand it is in a doctor’s nature to be curious and I truly do appreciate the sentiment--- “, a breath is taken ( a habit, apparently, when tension creeps into his body and destroys the composure he usually cloaks himself in ) and the words that follow are nothing but a hiss as he turns further away, perhaps in embarrassment, perhaps in fear of being seen; that it is not Alfred that is standing in front of Bertram but the ghost of someone he does not want to be associated with. “ --- But this is nothing you should concern yourself with. “ A pause, before he moves to rest his back against the nearest remnants of a wall, leaning his head back to rest it against the cool surface and watch the moon disappear behind a passing cloud. And then he smiles, but cannot bring himself to face him properly. “ I promise you will not see me like that again. You need not worry. “ But instead of prying as he almost assumes ( and certainly hopes he does not ), the doctor offers: offers to stay, offers to share his grounded presence again and he cannot deny that he does feel more calm with him. More at ease. But will Bertram continue to act as such if he ever knows more?

Hesitation lightly marks young features ( never obvious, reaction always masked, always neutral ), uncertain whether he should risk letting him glimpse into his vulnerability, and yet still he ends up letting out a quiet laugh, nodding towards the space next to him. “ Be my guest. “ And finally do grey eyes lower to catch his, a fraction of his façade crumbling and the next time he speaks, he does it quietly, a mumble laced with another chuckle as he leans in to contain his words between them. “ Köszönöm. --- Wenn ich jemals etwas für dich tun kann, lass es mich wissen, ja? “

@conquermonger​: " Why is it so cold... " It came in mumbled sarcasm, barely spoken with much thought behind it, it appeared. Muttered under his breath, which was more than visible with every huff exhaled. Strained his breathing came and his voice sounding sour, annoyed, to those that did not know better.

The towering brute trudged through the deep, knee-high snow. Slowed by the thickness of the frozen white which, to him, seemed to have fallen more than he ever knew it could. He was not born in the land known for ice and frost. He had grown up in it however, spent within the Russian winters half of his life. He was used to it - the cold. Yet here he walked, freezing so much through his layered winter clothes, the icy Siberian wind seeping, no, piercing the fabric like thousand crystaline needles that Vyacheslav Skvortsov was actually trembling whenever he came to a halt for a second too long.

For how long he had walked he did not know. His herculean body stiff and tense he could hardly even feel his fingers anymore, let alone his nose, or the rest of his face, when he threw himself with his shoulder against the frozen, wooden barn door of the abandoned farmstead. The tall fir trees lined up at its back swaying to one side and back from the strong winds. The main building appearing to be nothing more than ruins, here was only hoping finding some shelter within here, at least for the upcoming night and from the worsening storm he feared would turn into a blizzard.

With heavy steps he stumbled inside, actually stumbling forward and threatening to lose balance as the grip on the tall man within his arms shifted uncontrolled, the weight and his strained muscles about to send them both falling. A sidestep and he caught himself, breathing relieved.

With the last bit of strength he managed to walk over to one of the sturdy-looking wood beams that helped support and carry the roof. Carefully placing down the other man he made sure the golden-eyed was able to rest with his back against it. With a fleeting movement of his hand the Russian swiped the freshly-fallen white off Valentin's shoulders, then hesitated, only to reach for his face. Lightly tapping his cheeks a few times to get his attention, for him to actually open those same golden eyes again.

" Hey. No sleeping. "

His surroundings are reduced to nothing more than a blur of motion and hue and with every step his savior takes, it begins to get more and more difficult to recognize anything at all. It is an odd sensation, he has come to find out: the stark lines of the trees against the snowy horizon and their branches reaching out towards the heavens are reduced to a mixture of green and black that, despite the repetitiveness, the monotony of the forest, does not give him a single clue on their whereabouts. It is too ungodly bright to avert his eyes from Slava’s chest and focus on anything anyway; has it always been this bright? He could have sworn that it was cloudy when he started his walk, a clear indication of a relentless snowstorm that, in both his stubbornness and perhaps stupidity, had not stopped him. But he has to go back. He needs to go back. How is he supposed to sleep off this cold ( a cold. The notion seems almost ridiculous when he starts to have a suspicion on what it actually is, when he truly considers that what he has seen was not a mere fever dream ) when his men still stand their ground on the front?

He can hear Slava’s labored breathing, can feel him move and carry him within a strong grasp. Dark lashes are heavy, laced with temptation to simply close them and lull himself to slumber to the rhythm of Slava’s body. And yet still, Valentin resists, knows that he is walking a slim line between rest and death. If he is granted death, that is; he begins to have his doubts. And thus he simply lets the other bring him wherever he wishes to go, trusting him completely ( or simply having no energy to do anything but ).

The change in temperature is minimal but palpable and he can sense his grip shift around him as he is finally lowered to the ground. But instead of frozen earth and unbearable cold he finds himself leaning back against a pillar. It is calm, for just a moment, when his body does not constantly tremble and the ringing in his head subsides and he cannot help but sigh softly and close his eyes to bathe in this rare instance of rest. If only his back would stop burning.

But the other man’s voice breaks him out of his reverie and he cannot help but smile sheepishly. “ I won't. I’m sorry you have to do all of this for me. “

@fcrrous​ asked:  i had that nightmare again. ( Misha to Radek) /  first kill sentence meme. episode 1 - 3.

Sometimes, when he feels bold enough and worth enough, he thanks whatever celestial deity may still be listening to his quivering prayers that he does not need to sleep anymore. An ironic statement to make, certainly, when it feels as though everything that once marked him human has been stripped away from him, drank away straight from the vein in his neck and spat back into his face dead. Dead. The dead do not need the tempting embrace of slumber and evade Hypnos with unholy ease and this, he thinks and almost squirms under such terrible thought, is the best symptom of un-life that could have happened to him. Because not being able to sleep means not being able to dream, reliving the horrors of Poland, 146x simply as a ghost of his mind and not as a vivid memory, as purgatory, as hell.

And, therefore, he simply holds Misha’s sleeping figure in his arms, wrapping him in a protective mixture of a thin blanket and cold hands ( but at least he does not seem to be shivering and he desperately wishes he could offer him more ) and nestling him in the crook of his neck. His even breath is a wonderful rhythm he could spend eternity listening to, softly drawing circles into his lower back with his thumb. It is perhaps as serene as it will ever be when he is always straining his ears to hear additional voices, gunshots, threats but it is enough for tonight when it is just the two of them and their little sliver of privacy. But, alas, such blissful things never last.

Misha’s quickening pulse is the first thing he picks up on. It rings loudly and oddly in his mind, grabbing him by the heart that has not beaten in half a millennia, causing him to loosen the grip he has on the smaller man. Eyebrows narrow and shatter the somewhat peaceful expression that had settled over the brief course of the night to be replaced by a bewildered frown, looking down to see his lover in a state of utter panic: sweating, squirming, gasping quietly and, most importantly, still sleeping. Still dreaming. Still seeing something entirely horrifying.

“ Mishka. Misha, wake up! “, gentle hands shake him awake, agony washing over him the minute he recognizes pain in those clouded green eyes. And then he speaks and Radek immediately understands the connotation such a simple phrase as that nightmare carries. A hellish vision of flames lapping at young limbs, of a false conviction, of seeing someone you adore so close to death’s most brutal side. He knows. And that is exactly why he does not sleep.

He once again wraps him in his arms, this time tighter, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “ It’s okay, it’s okay, my little króliczka, I’m here. You’re safe. I promise. “ I am so sorry you have to keep living through this. God, why can you not at least have mercy on him.

@fcrrous​ asked: “Business is over until further notice, your health is more important.” (from Mark to Valentin)

It truly has proven to be more difficult than he initially thought to concentrate on the task at hand when his vision keeps blurring and both his stare and his thoughts derail the very second he dares to lift his eyes from the paper or blink. But, alas, Valentin Kirilov is nothing if not dedicated and stubborn and, thus, with a quiet, shuddering exhale, his cheek sinks further into the palm of his hand ( warm, so unbearably warm and at this point he does not know where the heat manifests from, just that it is consistent and unrelenting but the damp cold of the remains of a room he currently inhabits still manages to seep into his uniform and make him shudder without pause ) and his hand resumes the motion of an attempt at writing.

Writing. He almost would have chuckled at the absurdity of it all would his body not feel like lead and his tongue rest heavy within the dry confines of his mouth. But his body does not grace him with additional energy and, so, he glares blankly at the report he is forced to write, to recount the events of bloodshed and terror and the young hands ( praying fingers, desperate tears, placing him somewhere between pleas to god, as though both of them could do a fucking thing ) and screams that begged for him to save them while he burned his way through corpse after corpse, enemy after enemy. And here he is, recounting events for some officer that would never read it in the first place. The stench of smouldered flesh has never left his nose.

He clenches his fist and his pen falls from his grasp, shutting brown eyes in frustration, forcing his anger away with practised ease. A sigh, soft, his limbs still protesting every movement he even considers making. His powers always claim way too much of him, he knows that, almost as if he is reliving what he himself inflicts, almost as if heaven itself wants to purge him after all he does.

The other sergeant’s voice genuinely surprises him, as though he forgot that he offered his help in the first place and, finally, Valentin manages to fix his glance on him to focus on the words he has almost overheard. It takes him a moment to deduce their meaning but when he does, he counts it as a victory, albeit small. “ Ah-- no, it’s okay. I’m okay. It’s nothing I can’t deal with. “ And nothing he has not dealt with before. A smile spreads over his lips, slow, hesitant as though the motion is unfamiliar to him in such state. “ I can’t just let you write these reports by yourself. You deserve rest as much as anyone here, Mark. “

@fcrrous​ asked:  Bertram shooing away Alfred from the medical ward again with a broom. / unprompted.

It is perhaps more of a game now than an actual desire on his part to cross the threshold of where he is allowed to linger and set foot into a territory he only received a vague prohibition to enter ( one he still respects, of course, and despite his initial curiosity and stirred need for inspiration he is unable to disregard the boundaries the doctor has created for himself and the wounded in his care; his own politeness certainly more bane than strength in such case ). And, normally, Alfred would have simply accepted his loss and sought broken bodies and split flesh somewhere else ( certainly there is plenty he can find upon the vast canvas of pestilence and war; body after body after body, something simply must catch his eye ) but Bertram’s reactions and suspicions are enough for him to return every once in a while when slender limbs make him rise from his desk and lure him towards the barely illuminated hallways of the medical ward.

His steps slow almost to a halt the moment he reaches the door, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back. But it appears the other has either expected his presence or simply reacts inhumanly quick enough because no sooner do grey eyes peek inside he is met by the notorious broom. An expectant outcome, ritualistic almost, but, somehow, it still brings a smile to his expression which he quickly turns into a pleasant laugh. Gloved hands raise themselves in offered peace. “ Not too keen on company I assume, Doktor Sauer? “