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ofkontra​:

               he’s had his share of appalling manners, truly a given in the field. there’s little to be said for propriety, and even less for politesse, when you’re dealing crates that could earn you ten years in the katorga. he’s never been one for the lion’s share of talking, now, never one for the waltz required by companionship. this, though, was just fucking snappy. ari has drunk, and fought, and fucked his fill of snotty brats, exactly this common type—half-twisted sparrows, a twig’s consistency to their bones and a holy rage within. he’s glad to be shod of it, right now ; glad it’s not the kind of relation he needs to cultivate, to preen. 

                  when he watches the medik catch fire over thin air, he thinks, well, you’re nothing new, tyke. this sort of greeting, non-sequitur that it is, yeah? it doesn’t make him balk as much as intended. if anything, ari only tips his head back, amused. but it won’t be to be shooed off like that, would it, now? as if he’s barged right on into their fucking boudoir. ‘s a bloody free city, hm, ain’t that supposed to be the point to all of this? the carnage cabaret, the swinging gallows? aristarkh can set up watch on whatever end of the canal he fancies. all the more since he’s not a stranger to the medik ; all the more since he has a genial request to make. you know what, he’s gonna shove a pigeon up his        ‘ no, fucking hell, come off it. he bleeds out his fury like a medieval cure, a razor edge to his teeth. by way of reply, the kontrabandist barks a laugh out. then, and only then, he swings a hand to the horizon, all the force of a punch to the pointing.

                  ‘ i was, in fact, mate, meeting a connection on the banks, and was gonna ask for your assistance. but do entertain me with your outbursts, hm? i imagine this trigger happy temper is really sought after in the volki. you’re, what, all of ten years old? built a safety net yet, have you? certain of your reputation enough to pull this shit? ’

                   he cuts through the distance. puts the force in his step so as not to put in his fist, a switch-flick on the energy surge. they’re kept balled at his sides, temptation out of reach. it never serves, does it, beating whelps to a pulp. same-side partisanship, and all that sort. the kontrabandist only stop smiling when he’s up in their face. near enough to see the cold splatter red veins on their cheeks. near enough to pull out the joints in their neck, if he reached ; if he deigned, dared, slipped. call it whatever. a verb is only measured against intention, and right now, he’s got nothing in him for this boy.

                ‘ you’ve got to afford these indulgences, mal'chik. right now, unless you’re someone’s brother or someone’s bedpan, all you’re working to is a broken jaw. ’

“Assistance? From me? Aren’t I lucky; what I wanted in a silent night became some lackluster mission with various side quests. If only you were a loutish character from a book and I could pray that the author grows tired of your storyline; that is the only thing that could conceivably make you disappear tonight.” 

Perhaps the cinnamon tea would have saved him from an argument that stemmed from his own bad attitude, but the poor thing must’ve been poured down the drain by now and damn near as frozen as the Moscow air. His previous breaths left soft puffs of condensation lingering along his cheeks like a frosty little cloud, but the hulkish figure of the man all but dimmed what little light there were keeping his vision clear. Konstantin didn’t flinch at the proximity of the other; lord knows what the men in Butyrka would do if they spotted a drop of fear-- well, he did know, didn’t he? A smudge of fear was enough to intimidate, to harass and manipulate until the cunningness of those who prided themselves in their intimidating biceps crumbled under a single bacteria that nibbled through their crafted flesh like it was a sugary treat. 

“I do not think men like you would normally argue with ten year olds; is this how you find your joy? Besides, we’re all someone’s brother in the eyes of the Lord,” he made note to peer up at the heavens with a wistful (slightly sarcastic) sigh. 

A blast of cold air temporarily deafened their conversation as the leaves upon the trees applauded their amusing exchange of temperaments. If it wasn’t for the mountain of a man standing before him he may have been blown back; thank goodness for his bad attitude, eh? Nevertheless, the medik reached up and brushed his chestnut hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear when the ribbon he wore failed to corral the strands. 

“This whole time you still have not clarified how I may be of service? If it’s only a temporary burst of violence you seek, I personally would not practice mutilation on someone who may hold your life in their hands in the future--unless you prefer the fresh relief of death, I suppose. Many do. I do not judge; I get extra practice, after all. ”

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sovietniik​:

the way aleksei sees it , there ’ s no need for veneer amongst comrades .

     ❛ a scolding? I truly envy you if that ‘ s your definition of such a thing . would you rather have me bat my eyelashes next time ? ❜     candor only lightly mocks as the cigarette slips between his lips .     ❛ if the words do the trick, why bother with the tone? ❜     

there are few things that sorin could have said that would have caught his attention quicker . a code ?     ❛ what ’ s this now ? ❜     this sovietnik has an insatiable hunger for such things , a mind for them too — a sudden gleam in his eye — he takes no shame in saying he’ll bite immediately at the prospect dangled . 

he leans in for a closer look a the journal presented . he doesn ’ t know if this is sorin ’ s attempt at cryptography or if the brigadier has stumbled upon an encrypted correspondence and just decided to share ; aleksei gives an unbiased answer either way . the spy starts with the dots and dashes , setting the symbols aside for the moment . for the tallies — if there are only ten symbols achievable with the system, the chances of it being an alphabet are less likely ( — binary though … he ’ ll put a pin that possibility ) . his first instinct is that they represent the integers 0 - 9 … either that or they ‘ re being used here to keep track of large sums because of the ease the grouped numerical system provided for such matters —

     ❛ at first glance , i ’ d suppose i was looking at either coordinates or an inventory list . ❜     

he points at the dot tallies to indicate that ’ s what he is talking about first . he supposes they could each signify a callsign as well , but , well , it is piss poor cryptography if they do . aleksei will give the intelligence of this esoteric cryptographer the benefit of the doubt for now and assume that they don ‘ t . 

     ❛ i ’ d also assume whomever wrote this was  french or possibly a spaniard , that ’ s how their generals mark down tallies and keep count  — unlike our hatch marks . it ’ s a good way to throw unwanted hounds off your scent if this is yours . ❜     

his gaze moves to those symbols, working to crack them.     ❛ is it yours ? or did you find it ? ❜

“If only your lashes proved to be more impactful than your tongue. I assumed that men who discover secrets for a living would be careful not to gamble their last breath on a word or a tone--there are sensitive folk such as myself out there, waiting to be insulted and hungry for a game of russkaya ruletka.” But the attention seemed to shift to the journal instead, what with Aleksei’s interests peaking the closer he inspected it. Sorin sat the book down in front of the other, returning to his indulgence of wine and cigarette as he pondered just how feeble his little code was. He watched, drawing his tongue along the edge of his glass to catch the last tart, sweet drop and raising his brow once the man began to share his analysis. 

Coordinates, no. Inventory-- in a way, he supposed. Sorin’s response was a soft hum of agreement, not of affirmation or of disagreement but, purely, to acknowledge the hypothesis now floating between them. He reached over and tore the sheet from the journal at last, folding it four times with care before allowing the flame from his favorite lighter to lick at one corner. 

“An old friend of mine taught me to tally. He always told me he was Dutch, fucking liar.” The revelation came with a rare smirk illuminated by the dying flame as the final corner fell into the wine cup with the rest of the ashes. “I was counting the deeds of each boyevik. One point for errands, two for efficiency. A cross for death.” Sorin paused. “I am sure you have heard about Olezka. One night ago, in the alley. Shame he was alone; if only rats could attest.” 

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dbratvaborn​:

maksim raised his brow in answer to the medik’s question as if the response should be obvious. he was not the sort of man who liked parks or squealing children at all. this boy reminded him a little of a child, dainty and small and constantly biting his tongue. 

“i am not here for you.” he blew a cloud of smoke out into the air between them, as cool and collected as the icy sheen collecting on the canal. “i am here for him.” he nodded out to where a faint shape could be seen bobbing on the water too far away and too deathly still to be a wayward swimmer. “i was intending on paying you a visit, actually. but you have saved me a trip to that awful prison in which you lurk.” he pulls a notecard out of his pocket with an address written on it in impossibly neat handwriting. “i want you to pay a visit to the ivanovs. the little ones have not been showing up to school.” he holds the card out to zorkin. “linger, take as long as you need. i want to know why, and what their father has to do with it.” he levels the boy in a blue stare. “can you do that, medik?” it was not a question, though it was posed like one. 

“I am not here for you either--”  Perhaps that was a bit rude, so he quickly added (with a rather broad gesture at the body as well), “I wanted to come find him too. They were saying he was a Romanov and--” I wanted to see for myself, to confirm that there was another dead branch among their dying lineage “--just curious, is all. Guess he was important enough to warrant a second glance from the great leytenant. May I be graced with the same blessing once they lay my soul to rest.” Preferably not floating among debris, though by the looks of this conversation, he may as well purchased a spot next to the bloated corpse as well. Upon hearing the other’s request, Konstantin took the card between his thumb and index finger, scanning the address in silence. Several comments came to mind (yet none reached his lips): 1) he was already late for work with this stupid little detour-- this mission would keep him out of commission almost entirely for the night if he was lucky, tomorrow as well if he was not  2) the address was a hour’s walk and it felt like two, given the state of the weather 3) didn’t they have stupid, blubbering tryhards for jobs like this?

He drew his index finger along the edge of the card in thought. “You require my assistance over that of a shestyorka not because you want me to wait outside their windows and familiarize myself with their movements, but because you fear the children are ill..? Or am I misunderstanding the intent?” Kon carefully pocketed the paper at last, “Otherwise, I fear I am not as stealthy as you envision me to be; I will do my best, though my abilities align with other practices.” 

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bratvaborn​:

“mmm. but that cat, at least, cannot talk.” he busies himself putting his things away from work. “and does not steal out of our pantry.” natya, of course, would not call it stealing, and maybe it wasn’t, but any excuse to grumble at konstantin was taken. he rolled his eyes without bothering to hide his displeasure as he might at the theatre as he stretched himself out, laying claim. 

“get your feet off my couch. 그것 참 역겹다.” jaehyun sat down on the floor by the door and began peeling himself out of his wet coat, and water-logged boots that had soaked into his dance leggings below. “i forgot it this morning and i didn’t want to hang around at the theatre. there are worse things than a little rain.” 

“Neither can a corpse. Guess who I’d prefer to be around at the moment?” Even though he spent his days attempting to save those doomed and disorderly from succumbing to their many ailments, Kon did have an appreciation for the silence that death brought. Despite Jae’s insistence, he made no attempts at adjusting his position besides nestling his neck against the crook of the couch cushion to get a better view of the man struggling with his boots.  “People die from a little rain,” Konstantin murmured, “Accidents, fall, a bit of a cold that turns into something more. Infection.” His eyes pointedly fell on Jae’s legs as he spoke. “Sepsis. Amputation. No more dancing. Sadness. Depression. All from a little rain.”

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sovietniik​:

there are others , perhaps , who would have flinched beneath the eyes of sorin lazareseu - - but aleksei has perfected the art of visual flaying , the separating of skin from bone with nothing more than a calculated flick of the iris from one point of the face to another . a thousand eyes have stared up him , a thousand daggers , a scrutiny under which he still managed to convince kings to break their crowns . aleksei notices the pen that rolls to the toe of his boot , notices the pointed gaze of his comrade . without much trouble , the stoic man plucks up the writing instrument like he is pulling a daisy from the earth and pockets it . it is his now . sorin should have been swifter if he really wished for its retrieval and now , if he wants it back , he can ask for it nicely and alekei will consider the plea .

he does not give the pen a second thought after that . aleksei opts out of a chair, instead choosing to perch against a panel of wall near the brigadier . a cigarette emerges from the pocket of his coat, and matches follow soon after . cheap medication for a weary mind . 

     ❛ i am of the opinion that if you can not come to a decision about your food on your own , perhaps you should starve . a little hunger might do wonders for your uncertainty . ❜     words his father said to him in his youth and words aleksei repeats now , paying homage to a body too buried in the earth to hear them . his utterances do not hold nearly as much malice as they could though . they sting , but do not stab and , from aleksei , there are few better indicators of camaraderie . his hawk - like gaze falls onto the carefully guarded notebook by the other ‘ s side , and the sovietnik is immediately struck curious of its contents . it is foolish to write anything down in their line of work and he knows sorin is more than well aware of this . so what is this ? recreation ? he gestures lightly to it with his cigarette .

     ❛ don’t tell me you’ve taken to journaling . ❜

There were actions that were normally taken-- giving the pen back, apologizing, attempting to meet his silent gaze with a likewise one riddled in shaky confidence-- but to withhold the item from Sorin could only be an act performed by someone who found themselves to be his equal. Light annoyance aside, he returned Aleksei’s comment with a lazy drop of his wrist onto the silver cigarette case nestled against his shirt pocket, the smoke from his own cigarette soon joining the gray wisps already congregating within the pub. “I was not aware that a simple question will lead to such a scolding. Your use of words have always captured my attention, but your tone might need a touch of polishing.”  At the mention of the journal, Sorin scooped up the leather book and flipped to the first page, extending it out to the other. Several unique symbols followed with dot dash tallies lined the paper, each done with a careful scrawl that hinted at careful consideration for each marking. “What do you make of this if you found it laying around? I’m curious.” 

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amarineberger​:

The dark streak on her hand did not scrub off. In the early days she had tried, with all manner of soaps and washcloths, to clean the perpetual grime that came with a mechanic’s profession. But Amarine knows better now, strolls into the garnizon without a thought to the smear of oil on her wrist. It’s not out of place. A handful of the younger men from the Boneyard accompany her inside. They hand her something strong, jostle each other as they navigate through the crowd, teeming with Volki and Volki-affiliated.

When one of the men knocks into her, sends her bumping into one of the tables, her anger flares.

She wheels round, barks at him in French.

“Bête!”

To send her bumping into a brigadier, no less! The coworker scrambles to pick up the pen, hands it to Amarine before muttering something sheepish, now wandering off in the direction of their usual table. She stares at Sorin, sets the pen down quietly at the table.

She’d watched him. She’d watched all of the Volki before, particularly at the Boneyard, delivering their shipments of artillery, wildly curious of the way they wielded power. Violence.

It was, in a word, fascinating.

“I don’t like lamb.” Amarine comments flatly, lip twitching in something unreadable.

“I think of their little faces and feel guilty.”

She ate all other kinds of meat readily- beef, poultry, fish. But there was something about lamb that made her stomach curdle, pricked some moral consideration that didn’t extend to most humans. It was funny. Her hometown was known for its foie gras — pale slices of flesh drowned in port wine, served at affluent tables. Never at her own family’s, though. The kosher butcher hadn’t carried it.

Amarine stood amongst the thicket of smoke and low chatter, thinking only that it was a blessing she hadn’t spilled his wine as well. Her eyes skate back to Sorin’s. He’d requested recommendations.

“The shashlik is good.”

Amarine thinks of grilled meat and her stomach tightens reflexively. It was, in truth, delicious.

His gaze followed the woman who held the pen and not the pen itself, offering a small nod in thanks instead of a verbal affirmation. Dirtied hands, a merry band of patrons with a thin layer of grime covering exposed skin, an almost cartoonish type of clumsiness from a lot of them -- it would be a surprise if they didn’t work with labor. Of course, among those who physically tensed when they noticed him, she was the one who handed it back; perhaps she was an active representative among her coworkers? “I pity the poultry who did not impress you with their appearance,” he responded, fingers extended to grab at the pen and tucking it back into its rightful place next to his notebook. Her recommendation would have created an ounce of amusement if not for his impressively rigid expressions. “Shashlik is usually made from lamb, are you suggesting I try your favorite animal in another form instead?” 

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bratvaborn​:

maksim sokolov spends so much time waiting, it is almost an art. waiting for the moment to strike, waiting for a will to break, waiting for men to die. he has a cigarette lit as he waits tonight, blowing smoke into the air like zephyr making mist. it is the next of kin he is waiting for, someone to claim the body of the floating man in the canal who the volki have claimed as prey. there is business to attend to, and maksim will go to any lengths necessary to see it done efficiently. 

it surprises him when it is not the rival gang member who shows up, but rather the white-haired medik. he knows every member of their ranks by face if not name, and he is instantly suspicious of his presence here. 

the boy’s insolent tone would earn perhaps a blow from vladimir, but leytenant and pakhan operate on two very different paradigms. it is a mistake for those who assume they are not as ruthless as each other. maksim’s eyebrow shoots up cooly and he looks him up and down in an agonisingly long moment. “i don’t know, can i?” he says, exhaling smoke over one shoulder. “i am no great fan of pushkin. nor parks,” he paused and stared the boy directly in his eyes to let him know he knew him. “zorkin.”

“Not a fan of parks? Not even when they’re filled with children and laughter and the occasional brooding, sad faced protagonist?” He cooed, stuffing his hands into his pockets now as he soaked in the man’s presence. Kon didn’t have a death sentence-- to insult a higher up would surely lead to an accident involving him and a rather putrid river bed, but that mouth of his carried him from chicken shack to the home of a Duchess. It was difficult to turn off on a whim, particularly when faced with someone of uttermost importance; still, he chewed on the inside of his cheek and frowned.  “You still have not told me how I may be of assistance tonight, or are you simply passing by?”

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bratvaborn​:

who: konstantin ( @fxghtclxb​ )

when: late evening

where: natalia and jaehyun’s apartment

every muscle in his body screamed for rest as he pulled himself up the stairs to the apartment he and natalia shared. it was near enough to the nightingale that to be convenient, and in a downtrodden enough neighborhood that they could afford it and the neighbours only whispered about an unmarried man and woman living alone together behind their doors. 

it was not the life he had ever imagined for himself, but it was a step on the road back to it. it would have been tolerable enough had there not been a shadow leaving silver-white hairs and a dip in their couch so many nights of the week. “기생충이 돌아왔다.” he grumbled as he opened the door and saw his roommate’s friend curled up on the couch, drinking their tea as if he owned the place. “is natya here? or did you come in the window like the neighbours feral cat?”

“You are so lucky I’m not that cat-- I would have soiled your pillows for being such a terrible host.” Was he there a bit too often than he should be? Of course-- but Natya was a close friend (the closest out of the handful he would actually consider friends) and though she had an insufferable roommate, no dead faced, wide shouldered dancer would shoo him away from the comforts of her home. Konstantin carefully placed the mug of tea on the coffee table before stretching, almost cat like, to turn the radio on a bit louder so it can drown out Jae’s movements. Deciding that he was much more comfortable reclining instead, he slumped against the couch cushions instead. “You look like someone threw you into the river,” he commented, watching the other, “How are you able to pirouette but you still do not know how to use an umbrella?”

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setting ;; the garnizon, 18:15 PM who ;; open

It took him almost two decades to realize that he worked best when he was intense pressure; it felt like controlled chaos in a sense, allowing him to align his priorities in a mental task list filled with parentheses, scratch outs, and occasional commentary that wasn’t very noteworthy when visited for a second time. Pen took to paper when his thoughts became too cluttered for cigarettes and alcohol to fix, though more often than not his scribbles were lost in translation, too difficult to decode, or sacrificed to the fire that fueled his next nicotine hit.  As he leaned back against the wall to stretch out his legs, Sorin finally relieved his hand from the clutches of his disorganized thoughts and placed the pen back down along the spine of his notebook. His meal was mostly forgotten, as was the wine glass that trembled with each footstep that strained the floorboards beneath him. He lifted his drink first, taking a sip that, unfortunately, did not come with an epiphany he very well hoped for-- though his spontaneous decision saved its delicate body from getting knocked over when an absentminded patron bumped into his table.  Once his fountain pen made contact with the floor, several things happened at once:  -The patron made a low noise that sounded slightly like a sharp inhale caught in his throat when he spotted his misdeed, regret already coiling his brows into furrowed little nubs  -The object happily rolled itself to kiss the toe of someone else’s shoes, as if waiting for attention from a person who would give it a moment’s rest during normal sleeping hours  -Sorin lazily crossed one leg over the other, catching the individual’s gaze momentarily before it flickered down to the pen next to their feet, then back up again. He silently waited for a response, noting that something so insignificant as picking up an item off the floor could speak volumes on the personality of a person. Slowly, he raised his glass to his lips once more. “I fail to align my taste with the likes of lamb today. What do you recommend?”

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setting ;; the canal, 22:23 PM who ;; open tw ;; death

Just when he he pulled his coat further against his body did the memory of his abandoned cup of warm tea invade his mind, taunting him with what could have been a relaxing, relatively noninvasive evening. Though he operated under the Volki, he felt what could almost be categorized as admiration for the doctor at Butyrka prison to the point where he continued working there for the night shifts. The routine prior to his arrival included sbiten, coffee, or tea (cinnamon this time-- tis the spirit) at a café or pub of his choosing and a late dinner (early breakfast?), however, the hushed whispers sprinkled along the walls of the Garnizon could not be ignored. Admittedly, most words were slurred between hiccups and chants for ‘more wine, I’ve been waiting for ages!’, but heavy handed accusations that were spat from chapped lips resulted in a pipping hot drink without an owner. And so he walked along the canal, almost toeing the edge with fickle balance while he tried to identify the ‘floating Romanov’ one of the pub patrons so lovingly labeled the corpse. A few spare tires, some trash heaps, and rotting dead leaves aside, he has yet to come across anything that resembled human. Only when he tore his eyes from the muck below did he realize he was not the only living soul near such parts-- a chill jolted from his fingertips down his spine, almost catapulting him downwards with a single misstep if not for the saving grace of a well placed pole nearby.  “Can I help you?” Konstantin hissed, kicking the stupid ground in a childish act of punishing it for daring to be so uneven. Once the split second tantrum concluded, he turned back to the other with his pale cheeks slightly tinted, “If you are here to have a good cry and lament over the state of your love life like Onegin, this spot is taken. May I suggest a park instead? Perhaps you can tell the pigeons how you have been wronged.”

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we are broken // paramore

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 hi !! i’m j, here to play a fake faith healer turned medik (konstantin) and a rough handed brigadier who admittedly fell in love with an anonymous letter sender (sorin).

i wrote some tidbits about ‘em below, as well as provided some wanted connections too !

click here for kon !

click here for sorin !

always love to plot, but if you want to get a feel of how your muse reacts to either of them that’s totally fine with me too !

excited 2 meet u all  ✨

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obsessionarts​:

“The Agnew Clinic” (USA, 1889) Oil on canvas, By Thomas Eakins

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Bill Skarsgård as Gordan Merkel ⇾ ATOMIC BLONDE (2017)

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Bill Skarsgård as Henry Deaver CASTLE ROCK (2018-2019)    ↳  1x09 ― Henry Deaver.