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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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Andulka
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we're not kids anymore.
KIROKAZE
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@russiankingfish
Holding a hand up to wave, she just kept walking.
“I’m walking away from you when you’re talking to me! I’m not coming back for a while, either. You’re so grumpy!”
"Natasha! If you do not come right back here this instant, I will ground you! And with guards! I will ground you with guards outside your door and window and every exit to your room!"
The brunette soldier found herself a quiet spot, sitting with her back against the wall. She softly placed her gun down on the ground next to her and removed her cap, wiping away any sweat that remained on her brow with the back of her hand. She stared a head of her with a blank expression, the silence that surrounded her was starting to hit her hard.
“Fuck!" She hissed to herself, throwing her cap down in frustration and burying her face in the palm of her hands. She had no idea what had come over her, but she pretty much just wanted to be left alone. "When girls go to battle, they aren’t supposed to cry." She whispered to herself, her breaths shaky and her lip quivering as she tried to remain calm. As she remained quiet, she picked up on certain sounds of something around her, and whatever it was it seemed close. She raised her head from her hands slowly and glared at the setting around her.
"That better be just a rat, or I swear to god…"
Not too far off were Ultranationalists stationed in a small building, one that admittedly someone did not have enough decency to make the walls a bit thicker. This ended up in even the leader having to step out after he couldn't get enough silence to map things out, the men playing a loud game of poker in the room neighboring his. Of course he hadn't left without sitting down at the table for a round and ultimately defeating them, causing the men to let out a chorus of groans all at once, which got a slightly smug look from the blue and green eyed male. Here he was now, wandering on his own, his gun lazily slung over his shoulder, a cigarette between his shoulders as he slowly walked, no actual destination. Well, that was until he heard the sudden foul word in English, which made him tense up. He slowly and cautiously advanced on the location he heard it from, and soon, he was looking around the corner, noticing a woman dressed in a soldier's uniform. A uniform that he recognized by now as his enemy. The Russian leaned back on his heels, humming to himself as he thought for a moment before stepping out of his place, his gun now raised, the cigar still settled between his lips. He pointed it at her, but didn't pull the trigger, instead staring her down with half lidded eyes. "I must be one big rat, yes?"
Good god almighty.
Tongue swipes out to wet his lips and jaw begins to tremble. This won’t end well at all. Talking his way out isn’t his thing. Roach is a soldier. He shoots his way out.
It takes a moment, but he reminds himself. He isn’t a typical grunt on the field. He was asked to the 141 for a reason.
He’s going to make it out.
Sanderson feigns laughter, pretending it’s just a casual conversation. “No, no, s’alright, waste of bullets really,” he swallows. Smiles. “Let’s have a chat, eh? Just us, one on one. S’been a while.”
The sergeant officially has no clue what he’s going for here.
"...A chat. Out of all things you could be asking for, little Roach, you are asking me to have a little conversation with me. What are you here for? Are you looking to figure out your ability to talk with a hole in the back of your throat?" The idea made him pull the gun out and now he was pointing it at the man in front of him, his brows furrowing as he stared the young soldier down. "You people do not merely come here for a little chit chat. I know for a fact as soon as I settle, you will take aim on me and try to kill me."
“I’m not your little girl anymore.
You can’t ground me like you used to.”
She quickly backed up, and within a second’s notice, was walking away, taking her cellphone from her pocket to type something in.
“I am not dealing with this.”
"Natasha, you had better not be walking away from me when I'm talking to you." Watches her with narrowed eyes, his lips forming a scowl. "Natasha! You come back here this instant!"
(( whispers if you like this asshole, you might like this one too ))
Domination. Strangulation
"Being the dominant one and strangling? 10 and 7. Dominated and strangled? 1 and 2."
"But you were open to one, and so I asked you." he laughed watching the other.
Bi-colored eyes rolled as the taller male leaned back, his hand twitching in temptation to draw his handgun, which he ended up doing anyways. "Shut your mouth and move along."
Domination. Strangulation
"Being the dominant one and strangling? 10 and 7. Dominated and strangled? 1 and 2."
"Aren’t you a fun and bossy one dear angry man." he chuckles.
"I have one question, stranger. Did I ask for your opinion?" He scowled at the man, his brows knitting together as he stared him down.
Domination. Strangulation
"Being the dominant one and strangling? 10 and 7. Dominated and strangled? 1 and 2."
Send a fetish, sexual position, etc, and my muse will rate it on a scale of 1 to 10.
Well shit.
Offended, or angry? …Both. Both is good.
How he gets himself into these situations he’ll never know. Gritting his teeth and muttering a low stream of curses beneath his breath, the Brit takes on something of a defensive stance.
“‘Ey up, Makarov—how’s tha doin’?” Sanderson grits his teeth despite the amicable greeting. This meeting ending in death isn’t too likely, he’d wager, but injury is always an option. If Roach is getting screwed over today he’s got no plans to let this bastard get away without something equally as bad at the bare minimum.
At first, the mutters make him raise a brow, but as soon as he sees the man take a stance, his hand settles on the handgun in clear sight for once on the side of his leg. He finds himself getting agitated with the way the other male asks such a simple question in his presence, especially the way it--the way he asked. It made him annoyed. "Would this gun being unloaded on you tell you how I am doing? Maybe I should ask how you are doing after a bullet passes through your skull and hopefully that small thing you call a brain?"
Vladimir's parent's first names are Ivan and Nonna, middle and last so far unknown. He is a single child as well.
When he was about 8 or so, Vladimir became very interested in weaponry and bombs, the fact he kept learning more and more from his father, who was a soldier, didn't help much.
During his social life, he never got along with other children, later even in his teens, due to others not taking well to him and vice versa.
Within his teen years, he had began to come increasingly violent, ending up mutilating animals in his cruelty, even sometimes hurting other people.
By the time he was a young man, he thought of the world of corrupted, and the time he was in his late 20's, he had joined the Ultranationalists.
“Ugh. Why are you being like this right now?”
Natasha glowered at him, dropping her hands back to her sides and feeling in her pockets to pull out what money she had left.
“Here. Buy yourself something nice.”
Too bad it wasn’t much.
He paused, reaching out to take the money, looking through it quickly before looking back up at her. "You are offering my own money, which you took, Natasha." A huff came from the terrorist and he slowly shook his head but nonetheless put away the money within his own pockets. "You are still not going without any consequences, Natasha. Even if you returned some of my money and amused me while doing so.
Swiping her hand at him, the girl let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head.
“I don’t want that creepy man to follow me wherever I go. ‘Oh, totally not suspicious in the least!’”
Tasha did a horrible impersonation of Vlad’s voice, holding a hand up and acting as if it were talking.
"Belinsky is not creepy, he is a well trusted ally--" Almost glares at her. "Natasha, do not mock me. There will be a day that you thank me for making sure he is at your side at all times." One of his nerves says smack the hand and scold her more, but he has enough control not to and instead just settles with just glaring at the offending hand.
After thinking of what to say in order for her father not to completely yell in her face and tell her what to do and what not to do, Tasha finally came up with the conclusion that she really….
Couldn’t think.
Sighing, she rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.
“Father, I am twenty years old. I do not need Belinsky to watch my every move.”
"You are still a young woman, Natasha. I do not want to see you harmed because of some sick slob of a man. Also, you are my daughter and I see it perfectly reasonable to be concerned about your safety when I am concerned about my own." He held back on outright yelling at her, though the harshness of wanting to was clear enough in his face. He drummed his fingers along his arm as he glanced down and then around before looking at her once more. "Just please take Belinsky next time."
Wow.
The exact question she was trying to avoid.
With a nervous laugh and shrug of her shoulders, Natasha sucked in a breath, letting it out in a sort of hummed,
“Maybe. I was out.”
The foot tapping continued as now he began to squint the slightest bit at the younger Russian. "Did you at least take Belinsky with you or did you leave alone yet again?" The thought just made him almost glare at his daughter, his arms crossing over his chest as he got ready to scold the young woman. Even if she wasn't his little Tasha anymore, she still needed to take precautions, at least in the laws of his mind.
+ russiankingfish
+ britishblattodea
+ beautyqueensoldier
Natasha gave the simple narrow of her eyes, but a grin soon crept onto her face, a hand raising to give a small wave.
Once he saw his daughter, he headed right over in a slight hurry. "Little Tasha. Have you been using the money again? And where were you last night?" He begins to tap his foot in an impatient manner.
Common wisdom says that when a situation goes to hell as thoroughly as this, you should run the other direction. Saiga mulls over this as he makes his way through the area, and comes to a realization; once you’ve learned to stop paying attention to this kind of common wisdom, that’s it. You never listen to it again.
He hasn’t run towards gunfire in years, but the reflex is still there. The front line is always where the best shot will be, and there’s no question that he isn’t going to cover this. He still remembers how to move through cover, snapping shots along the way, barely registering the carnage. The smell of blood and cordite are familiar, and the conditions almost feel like home; he’s more comfortable than he should be but he doesn’t have time to consider that, however, because he’s made an impressively stupid error.
If he’d been paying more attention, he would have stopped and taken cover a long time ago. He’s alone, a fact he’d forgotten until he rounded a corner and found himself far too close to someone he has to assume is responsible. The counter is worthless as actual cover against that automatic, at best only a sight break, and if this guy opens fire, he’s dead.
This really is familiar.
The photo is taken on instinct, even though it gives away his position, and somehow, that doesn’t bother him. Footsteps coming closer, and he debates putting up his hands or staying low. It probably won’t matter much in the long run. If this guy’s willing to open fire on unarmed civilians, what’s a reporter on his conscience?
"Followed the trail." He admits to the question, shifting to kneel behind the counter with his hands behind his head. "I’m unarmed. Not security." Don’t waste a bullet on me.
The Russian is torn between out right gunning the man down and then destroying the photographs of him or just leaving the man as one of the lone survivors that occurred sometimes and get out of here fast. As he processed the trail of thought, his eyes narrowed on the man that he didn't know, nor did he like so far. Though the man was rather brave, taking pictures like this-- or stupid as hell. Once the stranger begins to speak, a brow raises slightly, and for a moment, his finger itches to pull the trigger at the 'trail' comment. Of course he knew that-- but the question on his mind was how he managed to avoid fire and stay in the building. Brushing it off, he took a few steps closer. "How can I trust that you don't have a gun or at least a knife somewhere on you?" Even if the man said it again, he still wouldn't trust him. But that didn't matter. Right now, it was more so important getting out before police arrived and time was ticking. Maybe he could leave this man to report about getting shot by Russia's most famous terrorist. Or he could walk away. Decisions, decisions.
