Stranger Things
JVL
oozey mess
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hello vonnie
Kiana Khansmith
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Love Begins
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JBB: An Artblog!
taylor price
Discoholic 🪩
roma★
RMH
⁂
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Cosimo Galluzzi
sheepfilms
dirt enthusiast
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@edclweiss-blog
edclweiss:
tinyfeuerkopf:
gott–mit–uns:
orzel-bialy:
tinyfeuerkopf:
gott–mit–uns:
Why wait? Let’s just go wreck his shit and be done with it.
Can’t. I’m dead
Can’t. Currently K.Oed.
Fine, leave me to deal with the homicidal madman all by myself, I see how it is.
❝ Uh….. ❞ slowly raises hand.
卐 — Da fuq was that you b i t c h?
Slowly sets raised hand down. Maybe not..... You on your own Flannery.
卐 — In a sudden spark of enlightenment (and in self-talk soap opera style) ❝ Puppies shouldn’t be left out to play in the streets…especially mongrels without a collar. ❞
Why wait? Let’s just go wreck his shit and be done with it.
Can’t. I’m dead
Can’t. Currently K.Oed.
Fine, leave me to deal with the homicidal madman all by myself, I see how it is.
❝ Uh..... ❞ slowly raises hand.
@heinrxch ♡ for a lyric starter !
“They are packing up supplies, preparing for a long trip That they may not survive, but many of them know this They would rather die, than to leave the question open So this is why we try? We bet it all on hopeless?”
The River, The Woods ; Astronautalis
@soldierforfreedom ♡ for a lyric starter !
“Wohin führt uns dieser Krieg? Voll Schmach und Grausmamkeit Selbstverachtung ein Leben weit Gefangen in Maschine Zeit.”
Maschine Zeit ; Funker Vogt
@tinyfeuerkopf ♡ for a lyric starter !
”It's something I am ill-prepared to remedy But let it slow the time It takes to die and close your eyes to your enemy.”
Simplest Mistake ; Seether
kaleo–“way down we go”
@majormeyer // ♥
Ovation came in whistles and heckles the moment the feldgendarmerie had placed the tip of their boots in the old Kosatka.
Like hounds out for a hunt. Fromm thought without twisting his neck to look at them and confirm something that the nickname Kettenhunde floating near his ear already had.
The place was lackluster. Seedy but fancy for the pathetic low caliber town they had added to Germany’s map; good enough too for men whose pay felt like a winter’s crop, scarce and ungiving. Almost obscene yet sanctuary offering for a day that had been too hot, and for they who were weary and bored.
They are screaming because they are children placed on curfew. They are screaming because some just want out, infected by defeatism. And they are screaming too because they are drunk mad.
Puffing away at his cigarette he continued to stare outside the window for a while more. Drumming his fingers on the table he quietly addressed one of them.
“Are you looking for someone, gentlemen?”
He’s a bit drunk. A bit high. A bit trying to maintain serenity and his responsibilities from falling to the floor, because he still has his men and is still meant to command even if he ceased to give a fuck about ranks, partisans, law and order an hour ago.
“Or is it that you are wasting your time on piety insubordinations that fall into ridicule once again?”
@soldierforfreedom // ♥
Silence is how everything begins.
(Silence is how it began)
Silence is too how all ends. Save for a bird’s flapping wings and caw, and occasionally, a curious animal’s skitter.
K.F. 194—
They had stood in silence for half an hour closer to the border of Sł—— waiting for the order that would set them marching further into the gray woods of spruce; roofed by gray skies that threatened with an early snow, shivering with cold more and more as time lapsed. Then from the right came crawling the command ‘Forward’, ceasing at once the slow bitter grumbling that had begun to form from some of the men.
They uprooted their feet and mechanically set onwards noiselessly once again through the woods. And the cold was forgotten and senses reawakened from their momentary slumber, for fear does that, and fear lurked behind those gray woods of silence and shadows. Sharp eyes probed the forest, acute hearing the silence, hands gripped weapons so tightly it turned the knuckles stark white.
As if they knew, and in knowing were ready. Like a sixth sense which Schriber acknowledged, planting himself perfectly still for his date to come. Young, quiet Schriber, too small and bony and easy to miss, and whose last sight were the tree tops of fragrant spruces. One moment there. The next unstrung on the ground with its powdery snow and Death’s kiss upon his brow.
Silence had reigned. Then Schriber was dead and silence was shattered by piercing whistles.
“Down!” Fromm’s voice broke instinctively in command.
There was a loud clanging of equipment as they flung themselves down in panic, the others turning towards the trees for shields that spark splinters. There is no time to think, they open returned fire.
V-Pravoy-Ruke-U || Fcindbild
He had the shot. And from what he could see of the man’s shoulder and sleeve insignias, he was an officer too. A bonus. Silly man. Wasn’t he aware that officers always stayed behind the lines, behind the lower ranks as not to make themselves obvious to people like Polyakov? He supposed it was true…the Germans were indeed so full of themselves and so sure of their military prowess that their men didn’t feel they could be touched on the battlefield. Still, he had the shot…and Dmitry was fully intent on taking it.
His finger tapped lightly against the trigger, completely lost in the tiny world of the powerful scope of his rifle. He should probably aim a little higher, given the weight of the rounds. This was a golden opportunity and he didn’t dare waste it. The crosshair drifted and set on the German’s forehead, nearly between his eyes. The sniper waited until his target stood still. His finger tightened on the trigger… …just as a crow cawed close by. The noise jolted Polyakov, his arms jerking the rifle to the left, his head away from the scope. There was no way that round struck the Kraut and he’d given away his presence.
Cursing loudly, Dmitry abandoned his rifle, gathering up a rushed snowball. With a growl, he flung it up towards the bird, striking it. The crow cawed again, taking off in a panicked ball of feathers and white powder. That was the tribulation of snipers; it was so easy to get consumed in the tiny world of the scope. With another grunt, Dmitry stomped on the fallen log he’d been resting against. Trying to get his anger under control, he dropped back down to the snow, picking his firearm back up and trying to reset.
On sordid days like this he would think back to the days he thought himself a poet, when love thrived and Johanna still belonged on his heart. More often he would just stare blankly into the murky horizon and let the mind wander to to-morrow.
Somewhere ahead laid MURMANSK. This was their goal and when it fell to them it would be the end of their troubles. The Oberleutenant however had other expectations. It would not be the end, an an end he never knew. An end came in a coffin. A mile costed lives, and days dragged to years. After Murmansk would rise another hydra head to hack at. One he would gladly do so at with a worn heart and calloused hands. He clung only to his job for survival. And sanity. Johanna was no more.
There would be no further advancing that cold day of —–.
The men laid themselves down to rest, yet not he.
Patrol, he called it, the desire to be alone in a world of loneliness itself, amid men of his own and men not of his own. Spoke to them in fatherly tone, sweet in praise and chastising when commanding. Watched each as a child unborn and unbeared by he whenever one passed him by with dull eyes and lifeless bodies. This were the children Karl-Reiner From left behind, with a modified Karbine for the sniper work hanging on left shoulder, a trench knife, and a mind that soon swiveled to the one whom he had not thought of in months. Mixing and unmixing in the world of white and pine.
What laid out there in all that silence? Snapped across the mental world like a whiplash that set his course back to the right track.
There had been no echoes of fire neither skirmishes. If there were Russians out there, certainly there had to have been spotted. None of the Finn’s that set out to place landmines had reported anything. The landmines had remained untampered.
Choking fear made him catch his breath. Sky hues turned themselves upwards to the steel-gray sky searching in the quiet. The forest is never silent Martti had pointed out to him once, well knowledgeable man, the Finn’s knew their woods. They were one with nature, but here silence was heavy and burning. Fromm’s stomach tightened. The sky seemed dizzying, all around spinning.
❝ Ach…❞ the Oberleutenant lowered his head gingerly trying to control the vertigo.
Yet, no sooner had the idea to return to their camp entered his mind that fear gave away to rage. Rage at the long days of war that dragged. Rage at this fucking iceberg place and it’s eerie woods. Rage at the FUCKING VANILLA ASIANS. Rage over things he could yet not name and whose name no longer matter in that static white blinding world. Rage at his own scholarly desires and love that had his men fall like sacks on 1941.
Hoisting his karbine Fromm is on the move again. Three steps further and his trek is halted. His head shots to the left at the caw of a crow and a bang!
Snow flies by his right and the German drops to the ground. Without time to check he drags himself with knees and elbows over the snow to the nearest tree for cover were he quickly pats his body over his mantel in desperation. His breathing is heavy, swallows heavily too, and his rapidly beating heartbeat is too loud and deafening in his ears that fear strikes him again irrationally —– The enemy will find him by their noise —– but he is fine, and reassured he drops on his belly on prone position with his firearm at the ready, cocks it back, eyes madly searching for the enemy through his own scope.
HE’S DONE ONE MISTAKE. Seeing the soft rain of snow and quivering branch the German sniper follows it too the log. Still there….SECOND MISTAKE. Grünschnabel. He sneers and squeezes the trigger in it’s direction.
Es war ein Edelweiß
AESTHETIC MEME: list your muse’s aesthetic from tastes, smells, outfits, and sceneries. add as many subjects as you like, it can help with people tagging you in aesthetically pleasing things towards your muse! (repost, don’t reblog!)
TASTES: the bitter copper taste of blood, melted snow on a tongue’s tip, rain water that you swallow as it drips into your mouth, the punch of cheap vodka and bitterness of beer, salt and pepper, tasteless watered down coffee, cold gruel and old bread, Schweinsbraten and cabbage salad, fresh milk and crisp apples at midday of a hot summer, the high class bourbon and aged wine that was luxury and is even more so on days of war stricken famine.
SMELLS: moist soil and hard soil, then smoke as it rises from smashed craters, gunpowder and smoke from an old rifle, the moist grass in the early morning, the wilderness and the spruce and sap of snapped twigs, the freshness of mountain air, a female’s perfume that lingers on your skin after night
SIGHTS: the world below and the world above while you ascend a mountain, snow peaked mountains, white edelweiß petals dancing on the wind and smashed between dirty fingers, roughened hands, rope and a man’s shadow plastered against stone, Johanna’s glimmering gray-blue eyes like the heavens on a stormy winter day, frost in the windowsills, dewy grass in summer days, powdery grounds on winter, lined paths of fallen leaves in Salzburg streets, Russian fields, wheat dancing in windy rhythm with far away farms, a woman’s eyes of rancor as they march by dusty roads, rust and steel, gutted buildings, expensive furniture lines neatly and dustless, the filtered light through laced curtains that hits you in the face each morning, a warm glow from a lamp through a smudged window in a rustic house, a thunderstorm rolling in, a snowstorm’s haze, her fingertips and plump lips, bright blood on snow, smoke rising from a fire across the land, blue eyes filled with melancholia, splinters of trees and ground turned black, the glimmer of liquid morphine
SOUNDS: distant gunshots in a war zone and gunshots that whisper right by your ear, tree limbs creaking in the forest and at night by a window, marching boots that pound concrete, the sucking sound of mud, a river’s song as you cross it, German voices and voices of foreign tongues, his heartbeat whispering in his ear, a loud scream that freezes blood, pebbles and gravels, a rock’s tumble down a craggy fall, the crumbling of a mountain’s side, landslides and the dropping of melting snow from the eave’s of a house, the shattering of a frozen lake as it’s being crossed
SENSATIONS: the chill of an early morning dew on the skin, crisp fresh air from the mountainsides, lips trailing the soft skin of a neck and shoulders, the harrowing cold of Russian winters, stark hunger, the comfort of the past and uncertainty of the future, the chill on sweat broken skin, the warmth of coffee and hot meal in the cold months, the roughness of rope, cold steel, snow against your belly and steel against your cheek, wool dirty and muddy, the heaviness of cloth, a bullet’s burning poker-hot pierce, a whirring dizziness, the relief as morphine paves its way through the blood stream, acute senses, the shaking of limbs, a needle’s tip breaking through skin into a vein, the bite of shame
OUTFITS: field gray wool stained gray and brown, mountain boots old and worn with a couple missing hobnails, wool putees wrapped tight around the ankles, a Bergmütze with a short visor and an Edelweß pin whose stem always faces the right, a wind jacket that comes and goes of his shoulders with the seasons, stone gray trousers
BODY: broad shoulders, eyes like the skies of winter, strong calloused hands hammered as so by mountain ranges and war, valley lines of scarred tissue, a weathered face with one wintry eye, nightshaded eyed ripped by vultures shaped like bullets, night sky colored hair of raven wings, dusty and sweat broken, be-speckled silver by snow and stress, a strong foundation meant to smite a weak inside, muscles well defined and carved to carry the world’s weight
R O L E P L A Y C H A R A C T E R S T A T S S H E E T
Repost, replacing the old information with your muse’s information.
Hover underlined ‘links’ for better explanations, should you need them.
Pass it on to your mutuals for a better understanding of their muses.
Tagged by:
Face claim: Tom Cruise (*nervous laugh*) Name: Karl-Reiner Fromm (Originally his name was Reiner Abendroth, but his surname seems strange for me now??? Though I must say I am still not happy with the name change…Tempted to change it but I am just like nah brah, not throwing away the Erich Fromm tip of the hat.) Age: Between twenty-six and and twenty- seven. (he went a bit younger to fit timelines tbh. I still play him with my mind set on him being in his mid-thirties.) Gender: Male. Nationality: Austrian Birthplace: Frankfurt, Germany Birthday: January 28, 1913. Star Sign: Aquarius Residence: He lives in Salzburg, Austria. During war verses there is no stable residence for him, clearly. Marital Status: Unmarried. (Married later years in post-war verses, however this depends really.) Alignment: Lawful good.
L I K E S
Drink: Coffee. Wine. (It is no secret he gave in to the bottle later on, yet he had already had quite the affinity and love for alcohol.) Food: Anything, yet he does enjoy (me making things more cliche - Yey!) weiner schnitzel, preferring the ‘cheaper’ pork meat version than veal. Day or Night: Night. Snacks: Liptauer Song: (Might come back to this. Going beyond set ‘likes’ however, this one song - Compulsions - was a half-inspiration tbh.) Quote: (I’ll come back to this later) Pet: A cat Colour: Blue Sexuality: Kinsey scale 2 Romantic Orientation: Biromantic
L O O K S
Body type: Average build, Height 6′2″ Eye colour: Blue Hair colour: Black Body reference: His fc pretty much
T A G G I N G
"I want the K" (from that cute Russian boy)
Kiss meme
@v-pravoy-ruke-u
{14: Kiss Along the Hips}
He’s looking at him through the dark with those moist eyes. Blue. Cold and warm like the Kola. Their lips have long parted in a sight but he can still taste his saliva in his mouth.
Underneath him Polyakov moves in need of more, or fear of consequences. He’s trying not to think on the last himself. The night is quiet, empty. Dangerously still. It’s when a man can die in the blink but he’s ok with murder and reaches out his hands to grab a hold of the cool bedsheets and warm skin. It trembles underneath his fingers and he with it. Bathes himself in the warmth that courses down his chest and back. Lower still. He could kill him if he wanted to just then. He doesn’t. Only strangles himself out of a groan.
He’s so close. So warm. And Fromm dips himself lower. Shivers further at the skin on his lips. It’s just the cold and the taste of the forbidden. Saltiness of sweat and Russian earth. The feeling of the stomach that tense at the brush between the valleys and ridges of his muscles, between the dip of his belly button and high rises of bones. His breath is moist against them, this valley mountain of skin and bones —— his hips the worshiping altar with mouth and tongue.
Polyakov’s voice breaks and he stops in fear. It’s just quiet and dark outside. His eyes are no longer peering at him, their watchfulness replaced by fingers painful tangled on cold and dusty black hair.
❝ Entschuldigung. ❞ is all he manages to breath.
Ausflug in die Josefstadt und Blick aus dem Fenster in die Lenaugasse Richtung Kreuzung zur Schmidgasse. Abgelichtet im Jahr 1959 aus dem Haus Nummer 10 (© Walter Tomasch / Privatarchiv Singer)
♘ = stabbing them (it appears a rule for me to stab everyone with this muse)
send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse —
♘ = stabbing them.
he seems to have been lost in blurred lines, oflooming dark trees to contrast against the moon’spale ghost barely reaching cracked skin to a fume-fed fatigue briskly muting his paranoia. for thefragment of a second he’s swallowed in themoment, adrenaline a focus of what lies aheadthat it’s all he concentrates on, bullets piercing thethin air to his sides, two tongues foreign to oneanother, the bark, however, similar; he almost getsa chuckle out of it. but his lips are sealed tight,breath anticipating the change of events as he creepscloser between shattered branches reaching for theendless sky, observing the enemy through a tight griponto his gun’s frame, heads turned away from him,firing into the distracted action. one catches his aim,hardly different in form than from the few spreadingnext to him and his finger bents– but before he cancomplete the thought of firing, there’s a sharp tingleon his back, presence before unnoticed and now areason for gritted teeth. “ waffe fallen lassen. ”doesn’t have to decipher the words to comprehendthe order, yet still, he disobeys, a single shot for thetarget to drop and they’re both on their knees, agonydripping through his abdomen in a crimson hue asthe blade tears his muscle. “ sonnvabi–! ” destinymust prefer him on this account, a grenade launchingand seperating their path too close for anyone’s liking,his opponent thrown and dug into the grass. painsearing, he barely has time to inhale before he’s onhis own feet and running, teeth coated in blood ashe remembers the other’s eyes equally as cold as hisintention to kill.
Some of the greatest battles will be fought within the silent chambers of your own soul.
Ezra Taft Benson (via wordsnquotes)
