Matthew Williams
Pansexual/Polysexual
Canada can do nothing but forgive because Canada was born and raised on the unforgivable.
Posts: 62
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Post by Matthew Williams on Feb 24, 2010 4:15:21 GMT -5
Here I am, a rabbit-hearted boy Frozen in the headlights I must become a lion-hearted boy Ready for the fight [/size] ══════════════[/center] It was quite surprising that Barcelona had an ice rink, and Matthew was secretly thrilled.
Less than a week had passed since he had flown into Spain and become acquainted with the ‘charming’ school where he was to finish his last year of high school, and he had been dreadfully worried that the entire semester would have been just awful. Home had never really been a ‘home’, at least in the sense of a well-adjusted, emotionally stable place, and so he didn’t quite feel as homesick as some of the other students seemed to be. Then again, it seemed that most of the kids placed within the school were sent against their will, so he couldn’t really sympathize with their plights. If anything, he was actually quite alright with his accommodations, because after all, it wasn’t like anyone was missing him or anything. Having come from a rather…dysfunctional family unit, Matthew wasn’t entirely inclined to believe that the dorms were any worse for him than any of Arthur’s estates back in England were, and besides, he had been living in Canada for years now and doing well on his own, so it wouldn’t be too hard to adjust…or so he hoped.
Now it was obvious that it wouldn’t be possible to ruin his time abroad, because no matter how oppressive the environment was, no matter how often he was ignored, the ice was always there, nonjudgmental and ready for him to vent all of his frustrations at. All of the comforts of Canada, but with the added oddity that he wasn’t entirely sure what in the world anyone was saying to him. It was exotic and homey at the same time, and made for a definitely unique experience.
Ice skating, despite how foreign and out of place it must have seemed, didn’t seem to be very popular, however, because unlike the rinks back home in Canada, Hielo Gimelo was barren as it could be. Of course Matthew wasn’t complaining about that, if only because it gave him more room to maneuver around as he practiced, but it still seemed rather odd. For a moment he was worried that perhaps he had broken some kind of social taboo, but after an hour or so, the realization that the place was just unpopular was beginning to make itself known. Either that or the sight of a tourist (essentially), skating up and down the ice in hockey training gear was just too weird for anyone else to stand.
There was a fresh ‘shhnk’ as he skidded to a stop, panting slightly with the exertion. It wasn’t as if there was ever anyone to play against, but he still liked to make sure that he was at least in shape, if the occasion ever did actually occur. Then again, with how invisible he usually was to the world, Matthew wouldn’t been surprised if there was a league or team at the school and he had merely just been overlooked. The thought should have been disheartening, but after years of such treatment he was used to it, and there was only a mild pang of disappointment that people were still the same, even in another country.
That wasn’t too important though, and the blond pushed it out of mind as he made for another lap, gripping the stick tighter despite the rapidly growing weariness in his hands. Just a few more runs, just a few more and he could feel accomplished for the day. Of course it would have been much better to have someone to actually compete against (hockey was one of the few things that he conceded was much, much better with a violent, skilled partner), but there were none to be had. Training wasn’t bad though, and the knowledge that he was getting better and better was enough to fuel his determination, no matter how misplaced it was at the time. Or perhaps it wasn’t misplaced, because the violet-eyed boy was bound and determined to improve for a very specific reason.
The Olympics, well the winter Olympics, were going on back in Canada, and he sorely missed being back in the country. Okay, so it was probably crowded and obnoxious in Vancouver, but still…it was something that he regretted missing. Even if his team had lost to America, of all nations. He was still a little sore about that one, actually, and the Canadian pursed his lips, exiting the rink and slumping down on a nearby bench. The resistance band was the first thing to go, and Matthew sighed in relief, leaning down and rubbing slightly at his aching ankles. It had been quite hard trying to figure out where in the world to find supplies for ice training, let alone hockey in Spain of all places, but his effort had definitely been worth it.
After all, he wasn’t about to get soft. ══════════════ Word Count: 814 Muse: Rusty as all hell D: Tags: None~ Music: Douce France - Les Enfants du Pays Comments: Holyfak I’m rusty.[/blockquote][/size]
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Ivan Braginski
Pansexual/Polysexual
"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control - these three alone lead to power"
Posts: 325
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Post by Ivan Braginski on Feb 27, 2010 20:37:44 GMT -5
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A waltz of the malcontent—a dance of expression, gliding across the ice. Ice skating held different meanings for different people. For so many years, it had been a simple concept for Ivan; it was beautiful to watch, fun to do, and a method through which to impress other nations in the Olympics. Now…now it was a mere vent for frustration.
Research was well enough—from a theoretical point of view, Ivan ought to have been pleased. Had he not come to learn? Was that not his sole intent? The equation was strewn out before him, but the formula didn’t work—what variable had he missed? What great, unknown mystery so easily eluded his grasp? While his goals came closer to their fruition, his passions waned. His thirst for life, the need to push forward… all but missing. He trudged forward like a little toy soldier—marching where he needed to go, without knowing why anymore. He only knew that he had to, that it was his duty…his duty to change the rest of the world. A cold world that turned its back to all who sought its sanctity. A cold people, living day to day to step over others to make their stamp on the planet. These were the people he sought to save—a people who would sooner see the laws of morality depleted than the gold in their own pocket.
There was no solace to be found in camaraderie when there was none to be had. Ludwig had vanished, Yao busied with his own matters. There wa, in fact, no real proof that Ivan hadn’t simply been stumbling through a haze for the past months. A wispy dream, filled with illusions of success. It would certainly explain why they had no emotional effect on him. To be able to see what he wanted, but not feel what was supposed to juxtapose itself with success. He could remember the days where a simple bear-hunt would send blood pulsing through his veins, his heart-beat ringing in his ears as he chased after his prey. Now he could hardly bring himself to feel the slightest tinge of excitement. Faking the emotion was easy enough; putting on a show was a ruse he was well used to. There were many things Ivan couldn’t fathom about his situation—one thing he did know, was that his reputation was the last thing he wanted to lose.
Ivan’s solution was simple: ignore it. Ignore every last part of it. If he didn’t acknowledge it, it was as if it didn’t exist. And so, here he had come. Like the rigid chiming of the clock, he had not miss internal schedule that brought him to the ice rink every week. Ice skating had been his release from the trifling, muddling quality of his thoughts. Here, he need not think—only do.
He had been in Spain long enough to map the times of activity. He knew when it was all but deserted—that was when he went. When the hustle and bustle of children and couples had long cleared, and the ice could become solace, Ivan made his appearance.
Or at least, that had been the plan. But as the Russian turned the corner and came towards the rink he had become so accustomed to, the only oddity of the place instantly struck him. He was not alone. One long figure sat—the obscurity enunciated by the fact that it was a recognizable figure. Ivan halted, standing silently as he observed the Canadian male. Matthew…Matthew something. The twin brother to one Alfred Jones—the loudest child to have ever come into existence. He knew this child—had watched him from afar. The one the others seemed to ignore...what was he doing here? In such a boisterous, flagrant place as Spain, it seemed the antithesis to Matthew’s usual reticence.
…Unless, of course, he had been sent, as so many others, to La Campana. Perhaps there had been yet another turn in the Soap Opera-esque lives of his fathers, and Matthew had re-entered the picture? Ivan may not have spoken much during the family meetings, but he watched—he was always watching and listening. He saw the fights, heard the stories. Knew of Matthew’s seizure from Francis, of his independence from Arthur. Had custody come into play? Or was there a hidden element of homophobia in one of...no, it would have to be Arthur. Francis’ reputation preceded him.
No matter the reason, Ivan’s curiosity piqued. A quick visual scan had him walking back to the rinks foyer and, six-hundred pesetas later, walking back with a hockey stick in hand. Of all places, he reflected, it was amusing that he would be reacquainted with the boy at an ice rink. He did not know the boy personally, per say—but he knew from where he came. A broken home, living in a cold, land. He appeared so meek to an outsider’s perspective—Ivan didn’t believe it for an instant. One didn’t live in such conditions without strength. Strength of mind, body, soul, whatever one might call it. The only question, then, was why Matthew didn’t show it.
He leaned against the rink’s gate after he had approached, slamming the stick to the ground to catch his attention; Ivan had never been one for simple greetings.
“DObriy den', young Matthew~” He smiled wide as he spoke, his voice a soft, airy thing—holding the illusion of pleasant conversation. “Perhaps you would like some…friendly competition?” Ivan clutched the stick he was holding, hoping the Canadian would get the point. He knew very well what he was getting into—knew that he hardly stood a chance. For all of his finesse in ice skating, that didn’t cross over to hockey. He had barely seen it played—only known that it was a violent sport that involved a puck. Such hardly mattered; he was curious of the boy, not the sport he excelled in.
He scanned Matthew, watching for his reaction. He could refuse the invitation…but if Ivan remembered the boy, he knew he wouldn’t be rejected.
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❧ Word Count; 1015 ❧ Outfit; UP TOP BRO ❧ Notes; Ahhhh. So rusty. M' sorry this is so...I don't know. Not my norm, but I'm slowly getting back into Ivan mode. Also, I feel a bit creepy. Hurp. ❧ Muse; A lot of Lady Gaga, strangely enough.
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Matthew Williams
Pansexual/Polysexual
Canada can do nothing but forgive because Canada was born and raised on the unforgivable.
Posts: 62
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Post by Matthew Williams on Feb 28, 2010 3:54:41 GMT -5
Here I am, a rabbit-hearted boy Frozen in the headlights I must become a lion-hearted boy Ready for the fight [/size] ══════════════[/center] His heart raced, and the slim figure hunched over on the bench, more winded then he would have cared to admit. He was lucky to have periods off from classes that he could practice, but sometimes it seemed like all that he was doing by slipping off of campus was continuously exhausting himself day after day. Even when he inevitably ended up missing his last few periods, it never mattered. No one noticed, after all.
As usual.
Still, it was solace in a foreign environment, and even if it meant missing a few periods, he preferred the cold sting of the frigid air to the boring, oppressive environment of the school. Here, it didn’t matter if he was invisible, for there was no one to forget him. It was quiet, but he was used to the calm, and the constant ringing of metal upon ice was enough to soothe his nerves and put him at ease. Hockey was a way of releasing all of his pent up frustrations, though certainly it was more satisfying when there were other bodies to check and shove. A violent sport, yes, but it was enough for the Canadian; a little piece of home in an foreign, bizarre world.
Perhaps others would have found it a lonely existence, but in comparison to the chaos of everywhere else, it was a welcome isolation. Sure, he would have preferred for life to be easier, to be noticed and loved like every other child, but he was making the best of his situation. It was entirely possible that both of his fathers didn’t even know that he was in the school yet, which was slightly sad, and he frowned, looking down at his skates. Contemplating ending for the day, he fidgeted with the laces, trying to decide if he really felt like going back to the empty dorm he had been placed in. The quiet in the school was far more disconcerting than the quiet in the rink, and he decided that he preferred the cool building much to the home that he was supposed to be rooming in for the next year.
A loud crack jolted him out of his reverie, and his hand flew to his chest, fingers tracing over his wildly racing heart. Obviously he wasn’t alone anymore, and a flush graced his pale cheeks, embarrassment blindingly evident. Instant hope that no one had seen his drills flashed through his mind, but as he turned around the feelings warped and changed to something much, much more complicated.
“I-Ivan…?” Violet met lavender as Matthew stared up with an expression of peculiar shock. Thoughts raced through his mind, trying to make sense of the fact that somehow, hundreds of miles away from any one of his many homes, family had managed to appear. He didn’t remember too much of the Russian, actually, despite the numerous gatherings and meetings that their extended family so frequently held, but even so, the familiar childish voice and pseudo-friendly lilt was unmistakable. How was it that the man was even in Spain anyways? It wasn’t as it anyone really even lived there, well aside from Antonio and occasionally that other younger Italian, but there was the question as to if Ivan cared about his relatives. “…what are you doing here?”
There had been times at meetings where he had seen the larger man, observing as others had given him a wide berth. Though he had never been particularly noticed at the gatherings, it was obvious that the other had been mistrusted, perhaps even feared, and Matthew wasn’t entirely sure why that was even. Aside from one incident of being…sat upon, he really hadn’t had much interaction with his relative. Come to think of it, he wasn’t entirely sure what Ivan was in regards to his adoptive family anyways. Some sort of cousin or uncle seemed to be the best answer, but it wasn’t the matter at hand. Something that would be better figured out later on, it would seem, because the Russian seemed to be waiting for an answer. Why in the world did Ivan play hockey in the first place anyways?
It was actually quite interesting to think that someone he knew actually might have shared one of his interests, and a small, fleeting smile crossed his lips as he stared up. Clutching his own stick for support, he drew up off the bench, flipping a few errant locks of hair out of his eyes. His ankles were still sore from the resistance training, but without the band it was easier to move and he felt much more free. “Er, alright. I didn’t know you played…?”
Knowing that he probably wouldn’t get a straight answer to any of his questions, he merely rolled his shoulder, staring over at the pale-haired man with a look of wary curiosity. Grabbing the puck he had been using before, he motioned with one arm out to the ice. He was still confused, still entirely unable to process the fact that his family was steadily migrating towards the town of Barcelona in Spain of all places, but there was hockey to be had. There would be adequate time to demand, or perhaps ask for, explanations later, hopefully when the both of them were recovering, and hopefully, just hopefully he could get straight answers out of the Russian. There were so many things that didn’t make sense, after all, but to refuse the man…even though he hadn’t interacted with him much, Matthew had heard the stories about such things were just plain bad to do.
Then again, there was also the chance that he had fallen, slid into a wall, and hit his head and that everything was just a grand hallucination. But why in the world would his mind manifest Ivan of all people instead of Alfred or either of his fathers? He shook his head slightly, trying to make sure that his observations were not just figments of his imagination, and when the tall Russian was still there, he laughed under his breath.
Please let this be a good idea… [/blockquote] ══════════════ Word Count: 1015 Muse: Medium Tags: Ivan~ <3 Music: The Star Trek moive Comments: Soooo, I'm pretty sure I'm on crack. Random post is random~ Also outfit~[/blockquote][/size]
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Ivan Braginski
Pansexual/Polysexual
"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control - these three alone lead to power"
Posts: 325
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Post by Ivan Braginski on Mar 2, 2010 1:00:26 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - ❧ - - - - - - - - • • • • • [/font][/color] we are just M I S G U I D E D G H O S T S - - - - - - - - ❧ - - - - - - - -
Ivan wondered if there was a special hell for the people who so greatly enjoyed startling people—if so, he would gladly take his rightful place among them. To see those eyes snap to his with such shock and recognition, it was all Ivan could do to restrain his laughter. He knew the exact word he would use to explain the look in Russian—the closest he could come in English was ‘adorable’. Almost like a frightened young doe, eyes turned unsteadily toward the headlights of a speeding car. Scared and confused, no doubt questioning the appearance of the strange relative; perhaps even questioning the fate Ivan had in store for him?
Ivan took to the ice easily. The transition from ground to the frozen terrain appeared as though a simple glide—there was no moment of falter; it was as if he noticed not change whatsoever. A natural on the ice, one might say. He made a long, sweeping arc—gliding as a swan on a pond’s still surface. Lifting one leg, he leaned back to grab the back of the skate and pull, gradually leaning forward as he moved. Though he had never played, Ivan had no doubt that it was strenuous—he wasn’t about to start the game without limbering up.
It was an amusing image to the Russian. There he stood on the ice in naught but a black tee-shirt, pants, and a scarf. Just short of form-fitting spandex suit bedazzled with jewels, he looked ready for an ice-dancing competition. In contrast to Matthew, garbed in what Ivan could only assume was an official hockey uniform, he hardly looked ready for the sport. Certainly he had enough weight to throw around when it came to a game of violence, but weight could only get him so far. Math had never been Ivan’s strong suit, but he was certain that the probability of him winning saw the odds stacked against him. What Matthew lacked in stature (which, compared to anyone besides Ivan, was hardly a ‘lack’), Ivan was certain he would make up for in skill. Ivan was used to taking long, graceful strokes when spinning along the gossamer surface. Violence and aggression were factors Ivan was used to in his life, but they were not things he had associated with the gentleness of ice. He had never had to apply them on the ice—not for competition, at least, and never without a pistol in hand. Perhaps, though… He thought to himself, moving slowly upon the ice, “This will prove a good talent to have. At the very least, I’ll be able to examine him.
The truth, for Ivan, was that he considered most of his ‘family’ a waste-land of ignorance and self-fulfilling righteousness. Oh, they were easy enough to manipulate, and as thus good to have around, but nothing short of despicable…for the most part anyways. Yet still, despite his distaste for the majority of them, Ivan made it his duty to know the goings-ons of his family. And Matthew fell into a rare category with the Russian. Relationships, for him, were black or white. He knew he disliked, he knew who he liked. He could usually determine this within first meeting someone. Matthew, however, was one held in neutrality. An intangible blank slate, Ivan had never truly considered his relationship to the boy. He knew exactly where he stood with Arthur, Francis, Alfred—just about everyone the Canadian was affiliated with. A small smile crept onto his face; it seemed as though it was Matthew’s turn, then.
And of the little he knew of the boy, he was aware of the boy’s affinity for hockey for years now. ”No, I never have~” Hands behind his back as he moved, Ivan spoke in a sing-songy voice. He had decided to conveniently avoid the boy’s first question—no need for him to know that his dear uncle was teaching in a school wrought with homophobia, was there? As he moved, he kept his eyes locked on Matthew—his gaze never once faltering, as though he might read the boy’s playing style by analyzing his every move.
”Though…I have watched it played.” Skidding to a stop near the gate, Ivan bent over, grabbing the hockey stick from the other side. Unprepared and mal-equipped, Ivan could feel his excitement growing. There it was again—the long lost feeling of adrenaline flowing, the competitive soul rearing its head again. A challenge—an opponent he would be hard pressed to beat. Slowly, he ghosted over to the nearest goal-post; he was nearly ethereal in his movements. Like a music box finally unwound, he finally came to a stop. As a cheetah might stalk its prey, he silenced himself. He smirked, bending his knees to better support his weight. ”Think of it this way: you are in a…how do you say…win-win situation, no matter how this occurs. Either I take to the sport with ease and provide a fun game…or I do not, and you get to have a good laugh. Da?” The question, as rhetorical at it may have been, came almost as a challenge—as though Ivan dared Matthew to question his logic
Suddenly, as if it were but a passing thought, Ivan spoke again, ”And dorogaya...it is good to see you again.” A small sentiment, perhaps, compared to the man’s ulterior motives. He stood at the ready, stick clutched between his hands like a lifeline. Building and building, anxious for the game. A false confidence built within him, assured that he could win the game. He awaited the boy’s first move, his lips curled into a smile.
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❧ Word Count; 916 ❧ Outfit; Saame ❧ Notes; Ahaha! Cocaine sharing time? ❧ Muse; My philosophy professor's monotone voice. :B
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Matthew Williams
Pansexual/Polysexual
Canada can do nothing but forgive because Canada was born and raised on the unforgivable.
Posts: 62
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Post by Matthew Williams on Mar 2, 2010 12:10:27 GMT -5
Here I am, a rabbit-hearted boy Frozen in the headlights I must become a lion-hearted boy Ready for the fight [/size] ══════════════[/center] There were times when it seemed that the universe was entirely out of position and that reality was completely skewed. While they were few and far between, Matthew was entirely sure that the sight of one of his distant, rarely seen relatives showing up out of the blue in the middle of a foreign country, dressed in uncharacteristic clothing, remembering his existence, and challenging him to a game of hockey was entirely impossible, even by the looses standards of ‘bizarre’.
For a moment he wondered if he was entirely sober, but he dismissed the thought rather quickly, because after all, he rarely, if ever, risked partaking of less than legal substances during the school day. Not that it was a normal occurrence, after all, but there were still a few times when he had been coerced into doing such things back in Canada, and it seemed that the habit had followed him across the ocean. Still, he was entirely certain that he hadn’t done anything of the sort for the last week or so, and so no, it did appear that somehow, despite the odds being heavily stacked against everything, it did indeed seem that Ivan was there, and that he was indeed…on the ice.
And his question still hadn’t been answered!
Even taking away the bizarrity of the situation, the fact that the elder Russian could move so smoothly (not to mention his flexibility…), despite his size, was rather impressive, if not entirely surprising. He wouldn’t have thought that Ivan would be one to enjoy such activities, and for a moment all the Canadian could do was stare, slightly lost as to how to take everything. On one hand, his brain was screaming at him that there was something undeniably odd about everything and that it wasn’t a good idea to get involved with things, but on the other it was strangely refreshing to have someone else around during his practice hours, even moreso because said person was actually, maybe, sort of, interested in what he was doing. Given Ivan’s posturing and not-so-subtle challenge, it was unlikely that he was being given a choice in the matter, though truth be told he wasn’t too displeased with the prospect. There was only the matter of making sure that neither of them was actually injured, not that such a thing was likely. He supposed it might be foolish to be worried about hurting the other man, if only because Ivan was built like a tank, and Matthew was sure that it wouldn’t hurt to be a little nice, maybe just a little easier when it came to checking and roughing, things would be alright.
He balked at the last comment, slightly suspicious and even more worried about how things were to unfold. Not only was it abnormal for any of his extended family to be in Spain, at least as far as he knew, it was also just as abnormal for any one of them to remember him, much less be actually pleased to see him. How many times had he been warned by Arthur and Alfred against the mysterious Russian man? His father would rail on and on about how Ivan was dangerous and unapproachable, even going so far as to threaten punishment to either of his adopted sons if they dared be in his presence. Alfred, on the other hand, had taken such warnings with gusto, harboring a distaste for the man that bordered on psychotic and neurotic at times. He himself, however, had had no real qualms or opinions about his reclusive uncle, mostly stemming from the fact that they had never really interacted. From all that he had observed at the frequent family meetings that were held, it merely seemed like Ivan was a quiet, if somewhat disconcerting, man that everyone seemed to avoid for some reason. From his own experiences, none of the caution was justified, but that didn’t override the fact that right now, he was most definitely sure that there was something wrong at the time.
The words were almost too sweet, too gentle to what he was used to hearing from the rest of the world. Even his own family, not the extended branch that Ivan belonged to of course, wasn’t as polite to him when they actually remembered that he existed. Though it was slightly mitigated by his French father, everyone seemed to merely pass him by, and so the fact that a man that he had been warned against multiple times was even bothering to acknowledge him…the though sent a shiver of unease down Matthew’s spine. “It’s…very nice to see you again too.”
But no, no, there were other things to worry over, and he tried to push the feeling to the back of his mind, stretching slightly as he stood, making his way seamlessly onto the ice once again. For how invisible and slightly awkward he was everywhere else, the delicate ease needed to balance and move along the frozen surface came easily to Matthew, born of years of practice and some sort of innate talent that he was rather thankful for. His muscles protested slightly, but weariness was second, however, to the thrill of having an actual competitor. Running drills was fine and all, but there was nothing like the feel of knowing that there was actual danger within the game. Sure, there were all sorts of rules and regulations to prevent play from turning deadly, but there was still an innate amount of savagery wrought within the game that played to the boy’s baser instincts. All in all, it was a test of skill, but it was also a test of ferocity and spirit, of how bestial one could be without descending into pure, unadulterated, animalistic nature.
Motioning with his free hand, he bade Ivan over, more to the center of the rink to make sure that everything was well and fair. Even if his blood was racing, there was still civility in his actions, and the last thing he wanted to do was to be rude towards a member of his own family. Letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, he nodded in confirmation once again trying to smile reassuringly, if only for his own nerves, before fidgeting slightly, trying to settle his nerves. With a steady hand, he held out the small rubber disk, then, after a few pauses, dropped it onto the ice with little fanfare.
A surge forward, and he had captured the puck, shoving the other out of the way none too gently as adrenaline flowed and his heart raced. It was, if nothing else, a thrill unlike anything he had been used to for a long, long time. [/blockquote] ══════════════ Word Count: 1120 Muse: Medium Tags: Ivan~ Music: Would you believe me if I said my professors are listening to “Sex Bomb”? The irony of this amuses me greatly. Comments: Yes, yes, cocaine sharing time~ And apologies for the rambling crap.[/blockquote][/size]
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Ivan Braginski
Pansexual/Polysexual
"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control - these three alone lead to power"
Posts: 325
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Post by Ivan Braginski on Mar 5, 2010 5:29:56 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - ❧ - - - - - - - - • • • • • [/font][/color] we are just M I S G U I D E D G H O S T S - - - - - - - - ❧ - - - - - - - -
In silence, Ivan followed Matthew’s silent instruction. He could see the severity in the boys’ eyes and wondered if the same was mirrored in his own. An excitement for the game—the hunt for victory. Ivan was a competitive man by nature. Even when it seemed he was doomed to fail, he often kept at the hunt. Only when his own life was at risk did he ever pull back. He sneered, eyes boring into Matthew’s; he wasn’t going to give up. Not when the thrill of the game pounded through his veins, urging his movements.
He crouched at the ready, hoping to seem more adept than he knew himself to be. His eyes bounced between Matthew’s hand and his eyes—he felt stiff from the anticipation, muscles poised and ready. Time seemed slowed as Matthew’s hand finally moved, dropping the puck. It clattered to the ice, the sound magnified in the abject silence of the skating rink.
Before he could react—before he could even formulate a plan of action or even practice moving with the stick, Matt was past him like a blur. For a moment, Ivan was almost in a stupor; flabbergasted that someone could move so quickly and with such precision. In that moment, Ivan had a sudden epiphany—he had seriously underestimated Matthew. Ivan, for all of his lumbering size, took a certain degree of pride on how quick his reflexes were. His ability to recoil and move had thus been unprecedented. How amusing, he thought, that the one boy he had been told was so blasé would be so full of surprises! He stumbled on the ice from the force of the push. He was quick to regain balance and even quicker to give chase to the boy, his skates slashing violently against the ice.
He moved with an urgency he didn’t know possible, closing the gap the younger male had put between them. Instinct told him to throw the hockey stick to the side and tackle the boy—the wooden instrument was certainly irritating enough. To his inexperienced hands, the instrument felt like a crutch. He wanted to pump his arms to propel himself forward, but instead found himself clutching the foreign entity before him, pushing it forward like some obscure broom. A small triviality, a minor inconvenience at most, Ivan quickly ignored it. He would not master it, but he could control it. That was all he needed.
It was a strange sense of bliss he had long forgotten. A sense of self that arose when, finally silenced, his own thoughts ceased. He was not longer Ivan Braginski—a complex being of constant thought. He was simply a being, urged forward with a simple animalistic desire. He did not think philosophies or analysis. No, there was no question of the moral implications of hockey. It was simply he, Matthew, and the ice. It was only his body, blood coursing to the muscles and straining against his weight, charging toward his long-ignored relative. So close, he could almost taste it. Blood, excitement…whatever it was, the flavor burned at his tongue. He had caught up, his heart slamming in his chest. He had no rules, no limitations—only objectives and obstacles; those he had an easy plan for solving.
What he lacked in finesse, Ivan made up for in brutality and body-weight. With a quick jolt of strength and a sudden push, Ivan issued Matthew a body check from the side. His shoulder slammed into the boys’ side, tossing all of his strength into the act. He could hardly feel the impact—either his own body fat protected his impact, or the adrenaline that presumably overtaken his body had numbed his body from physical pain. He moved his stick to steal the puck, breathing heavily as he did a quick turn. He stopped for but a moment to speak to the boy he had assaulted. “Did that hurt? …I certainly hope so.” And just like that, with a smile and a laugh, he took off skating in the other direction.
Amidst his laughter and as he moved, Ivan realized something: he was having fun. A simple concept in theory, but one that struck him suddenly. Fun. He was having fun. This was not work, research, or the manipulation his life had come to revolve around. It wasn’t muddled down by variables and ulterior motives. It was violent and dirty, and it was pure enjoyment.
Most of all, it was something new—both the game, and the boy.
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❧ Word Count; 827 ❧ Outfit; Same ❧ Notes; Ack. Sorry for taking forever, and giving you such a small post in return D: ❧ Muse; I'm ashamed to admit that it's Miley Cyrus. Le sigh. Ivan muse was being a fickle mistress, I'm afraid. Also, I didn't proofread this...so sorry for the inevitable grammar mistakes m'dear.
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Matthew Williams
Pansexual/Polysexual
Canada can do nothing but forgive because Canada was born and raised on the unforgivable.
Posts: 62
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Post by Matthew Williams on Mar 6, 2010 22:43:25 GMT -5
Here I am, a rabbit-hearted boy Frozen in the headlights I must become a lion-hearted boy Ready for the fight [/size] ══════════════[/center] Competition. It was surreal, it was unexpected, but as the ice flew beneath his skates, Matthew was sure of only one thing: excitement. Somehow, between the surprise in seeing his relative and the adrenaline flowing through his blood, the situation itself had morphed into something so much less complicated. There was the ice, there was the puck, there was Ivan, and there was himself. All the confusion and mistrust had been put aside in favor of the thrill of the moment. There was a steady, pleasant burn in his lungs and limbs providing a temporarily grounding accompaniment to the elation, enough to keep him from completely forgetting what he was doing, and while he was sure that it was going to make for a rather unpleasant day tomorrow, he would take the soreness if it meant that he was able to play like this.
Skidding down the ice, he maneuvered stick and puck skillfully, years of practice allowing him to move seamlessly even with all of the supposedly encumbering gear he wore. A smirk graced his lips as he moved, unaware of the impending collision that his Russian opponent was planning. He was confident, overly so. Perhaps it was a bad habit he had picked up from Alfred, though he despised to think that he had taken anything from his overly brash twin, but Ivan had said himself that he wasn’t too skilled after all…even though it was obvious that that fact wasn’t too true. Either way, he was not at all expecting the other man to catch up as quickly as he did, and he was completely unprepared for the crushing hit as the larger body slammed into his side.
He jolted across the ice, momentarily stunned by the force of the blow. Even with the padding and protective gear, his ribs burned and ached, his breath coming fast and heavy as he strove to recover as quickly as possible. For a moment Matthew fleetingly wondered if that was what it felt like to be run over by a truck, but his mind quickly zeroed in on the fact that not only was he quipping rather flippantly and laughing, but more importantly Ivan had the goddamn puck.
It was curious how quickly self-preservation disappeared when one was motivated by animalistic instinct. All thoughts of going easy on the Russian fled, and Matthew grunted, quickly righting himself and taking off towards the lone figure, barreling down the ice in a carefully controlled rage. His movements were fluid, seamless, and as he gained on the larger man, he crouched lower, centering himself for the inevitable impact. Though things were undeniably against him as far as size went, it didn’t take much to set people off balance when speed and momentum came into play. There was an art to the impact, a certain finesse required to take down men so much larger than himself, and he prided himself on knowing exactly how to manipulate things to his advantage.
With a swing of his shoulder, he rammed into Ivan’s back, lifting up into the blow, not trying to knock the giant down, but instead trying to upset his balance for a few precious seconds. Combined with the blow he had been dealt earlier it was still quite painful for him as well, but it was well worth it as he managed to snake his stick in front of the Russian’s, knocking the puck to the side of the rink, away from the both of them. With that he broke away, coughing and panting, but intent on chasing after the hunk of rubber in order to reclaim it. He was lucky enough to take control again, and though it was against his better judgment, he looked back, almost mimicking his opponent’s earlier stance.
Purple eyes were bright and sharp like a warrior’s, a bit of cocky challenge within them as he momentarily met the man’s gaze before rocketing off down the ice in the opposite direction with feline grace. It was exhilarating to finally have opposition, and he laughed breathily as he tore down towards the goal. Thoughts of improbability were gone, and instead he was merely glad for the chance that he had been given. Neither Arthur nor Alfred had ever had the time (or perhaps the desire) to practice with him, and so to have found someone not only willing, but actually decent on the ice. Perhaps if he had been thinking correctly he would have wondered why Ivan was used to skating in the first place (he didn’t seem like the sort after all), but currently all Matthew was focused on was the thrill of actual competition for once in his life.
After being ignored for so long, it was wonderful to have someone treat him like an actual threat. Never mind that it was in a particularly violent game that did have the distinct possibility of leaving him quite injured; all of that was unimportant. For the first time ever he had found someone that was both, at the very least, competent enough to handle the ice and patient enough to play the game as it was meant to be played: rough, fast, and dangerous. ══════════════ Word Count: 865 Muse: Medium Tags: Ivan~ Music: Katy Perry, I hate to say Comments: Oh don‘t worry about it at all! I feel bad for responding with such drek. It‘s hard to write out hockey, y/y?[/blockquote][/size]
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Ivan Braginski
Pansexual/Polysexual
"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control - these three alone lead to power"
Posts: 325
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Post by Ivan Braginski on Mar 10, 2010 17:01:21 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - ❧ - - - - - - - - • • • • • [/font][/color] we are just M I S G U I D E D G H O S T S - - - - - - - - ❧ - - - - - - - -
Had someone asked Ivan a mere hour earlier what he thought of young Matthew, his answer would have spoken of the boys’ soft-spoken, reticent nature. This was, after all, all Ivan had ever seen of the boy. The young child who avoided conflict and sat complacently in the large shadow his twin brother—this was how he had always seen him. Even as such, Ivan knew that even noticing that much in the boy was more a kindness than most showed him; most simply ignored his existence altogether. Or perhaps they even forgot the child amidst their heated arguments and melodramatics?
In so quick a moment, Ivan’s thoughts had done a complete 180 turn. Matthew was by no means timid on the ice—being rammed in the back had been quickly destroyed that notion. With his claws unsheathed, Ivan felt as though he was truly seeing Matthew for the first time. Here was a boy who knew how to play his cards—and knew how to play a damned competitive game of hockey.
And he had, to that effect, become a threat in Ivan’s eyes. A part of his mind knew this was only a friendly spar, that he still had different motives for having engaged in the game in the first place. Yet that part grew quiet under the screaming intensity that raged through the rest. The desire to run, harm, and win had consumed his mind. To watch the otherwise quiet Canadian take off with the small, rubber disk that he needed to satiate the ever-growing desire for victory…it set something off within in him. Rage, blood-lust, violence; he could not quite find the word to explain the ever-mounting feeling within him. There was no perfect word he knew that could explain that growing, festering desire to see the young boy thrown violently to the ice. He wanted to exert his full strength. He wanted to crush this young child, and force him to beg for mercy. It was a rush to simply imagine it—he was briefly reminded of his days as an ‘interrogator’. The thrill of seeing how far someone could be pushed, how much pain they could take; this was Ivan’s sort of game.
He had suffered a momentary shock from the push dealt to him. Forced away from the puck and to focus only on his balance, he was blind-sighted by Matthew’s maneuvering. He stumbled forward to catch his balance, free arm flying out to steady himself. The blow had been hard, but not enough to completely unsettle him; dazed momentarily, but quickly recuperating. When he was able to come back to his senses, the realization that Matthew not only had the puck, but was a good few feet ahead of him, Ivan wasted no time in setting off after him.
As fast as he could go now, Ivan skated toward the younger boy. His mind was only on the game. Thinking nothing of translation, he shouted to Matthew in his native tongue,”Вы мертвы! Я оторву ваши внутренности и пихну их вниз ваше горло!!" It was unfortunate for most that Ivan’s tone rarely changed between his moods. His ‘pleasant’ voice was the same as his ‘violent’, and all others in-between. He could be in a state of total wrath, and the only signal of this would be his actions. If his current actions were anything to go by, Ivan was treating the game almost as if it were a war. He skated forward with a quick desperation that one might expect from a soldier on a battlefield. No longer was there any hint of grace in his movements; not so much ice-skating as charging.
He caught up finally, and found himself skating side-by-side to the boy. As much as he wanted to merely throw Matthew to the ice, perhaps even tackle him to the ground, Ivan felt himself above such dirty tactics…at least, so early on in the game. Yet he also knew the extent of his abilities. As his eyes focused on the ground, and the puck Matthew quickly and easily maneuvered before him, he knew his options were limited.
Without using considerable force or brutality, Ivan leaned into Matthew as they skated forward. Not enough to make the boy topple over or even upset his balance, but when coupled with his own strength and pushing against the ice, enough to steer him away from the goal-post. Though he knew he had no hope of stealing the puck, the least he could do was get it out of Matthew’s possession. Lining his stick next to Matthew’s, he acted quickly. When the moment presented itself, Ivan made a quick flick of the round disc—sending it sprawling away from the two of them.
He briefly chuckled at a sudden thought—this was the first time he had ever touched the boy. Beyond a simple handshake upon greeting him, and one incident where he had sat upon the boy…which, he wondered, if the boy still remembered?
The thought passed quickly. He had a game to win—an opponent to crush. .
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❧ Word Count; 879 ❧ Translation; Вы мертвы! Я оторву ваши внутренности и пихну их вниз ваше горло! = "You're dead! I'll tear out your innards and shove them down your throat!' ❧ Notes; Hockey is hard to write! Ahahaa. It's just like writing anger and rage, with a bit of physical violence ❧ Muse; Philosophy teacher's voice...again. And some Indiana Jones.
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Matthew Williams
Pansexual/Polysexual
Canada can do nothing but forgive because Canada was born and raised on the unforgivable.
Posts: 62
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Post by Matthew Williams on Mar 14, 2010 21:29:29 GMT -5
Here I am, a rabbit-hearted boy Frozen in the headlights I must become a lion-hearted boy Ready for the fight [/size] ══════════════[/center] Close, he was close. The distance between Matthew and the net was rapidly decreasing, the ice a blur beneath his skates as he raced ahead of his opponent. Speed served him well against the giant of a Russian, and for a moment he allowed a cocky smirk to grace his lips. It was a rush to know that all of his constant, lonely training had paid off, and while he was humbled slightly by the knowledge that Ivan didn’t actually know how to play the game, he was still proud of his accomplishments. How often had he tried to make a name for himself when he had been younger? Of course neither his fathers or his brother had really cared to pay any attention, but now there was at least someone who was watching, participating even, and there was a small, warm surge of pride at the fact that he was actually being allowed to show off his accomplishments. Even more exciting was the fact that maybe, just maybe, if he managed to beat the other, said accomplishments would actually be remembered.
There were words behind him, but it wasn’t enough to jar his concentration immediately Whatever Ivan had said, it was completely unintelligible. One could never tell with the larger man, and for a split second Matthew wondered just exactly what the awkwardly foreign words meant. Was it something…insulting? Competitive? …threatening? Ivan’s tone was still as pleasant as normal, despite all of the inherent violence of their current engagement, which was mildly frightening. Even through all the years and all the countless family meetings, the younger man couldn’t remember the other ever raising his voice, ever losing control of his normally cheery demeanor. Unsettling, to say the least.
The thoughts were rudely shoved from his mind as he was suddenly veered off course, however, much to his chagrin. It wasn’t painful or jarring like the first time had been, but all but ruined the otherwise perfect shot that he would have had, effectively ruining his overly-confident, if somewhat warranted, mood. A second jerk and the puck had been stolen right away from him, icing down the rink to the opposite side,
“Tabernac, fils de pute!” He snarled at the larger man, all pretense of civility and friendly competition gone. It had been a sure shot, and the Russian had ruined it; now, it was a mad scramble to regain control of everything before Ivan managed to outskate him, which was a distinct possibility. It was surprising that such a large and imposing figure could move so quickly and with such grace, and had he been in the right state of mind to comment upon it, Matthew probably would have questioned how in the world the other had gotten so skilled. Russian weather was similar to his dear Canada’s…albeit a bit more harsh if he was to believe the stereotypes, so necessity? For as polite and seemingly cultured as he presented himself as, the blond knew little of places outside of where he had grown up.
C’est la vie though, it wasn’t what he needed to be focusing on. Ivan had ruined his impeccable setup, and he needed to remedy that.
There was bloodlust written upon his face, his body held tense as muscles screamed, the effort of his own practices combined with the actual exertion of meeting a worthy of opponent. Lashing out with his arm, he shoved the other man away, right into the Plexiglas surrounding the sides. Not bothering to look over at if it had effectively stopped the other, he took off towards the puck, his world narrowing down into just the ice in front of him and the raw determination that was flooding his brain. It was no longer a friendly, casual game, it hadn’t been since Ivan had blocked his shot. No, now it was war, and though he was normally peaceful and placid when it came to such violence, the gloves were off when it came to hockey. No, hockey was his retreat, and he had worked too hard to be beaten by someone who didn’t even know the basics.
He was determined now, fueled by more than just a competitive spirit. In hockey he had found the only thing that set him apart from his family in the eyes of others, and to lose…it would just be disgraceful. No, it was one of the few things that he held to himself and no other, and he had to keep that. Even if no one ever watched, even if no one ever noticed, failure would be something that he would remember for a long time running. To anyone who was normal, perhaps it wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but Matthew was not normal. He was invisible, forgotten, and the only way he could even tell that he still existed was through his exertion. No, it may have started as a simple match, but it was something that he had to win, there was no question bout it.
Propelling himself forward as quickly as possible, he reached out, trying to regain control of the puck, gritting his teeth and doing his best to prevent the Russian from ever gaining the upper hand. In a matter of sheer strength, he would have lost outright, but the blond knew his skills, and he plied each and every one, determined to come out on top. [/size] ══════════════ Word Count: 900 Muse: Horrid Tags: Ivan Music: Oh No You Didn’t - Christ Tilton Comments: So sorry for taking so long! Had a show to open and close so things got hectic all of a sudden. Hrr, not entirely sure how this ‘ll turn out, eh? Fighting? Hockey? Wut? Feel free to do something like…vicious or something, it’ll probably speed everything up~ D:
Translation: ”Shit, you son of a bitch!”[/blockquote][/size]
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Ivan Braginski
Pansexual/Polysexual
"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control - these three alone lead to power"
Posts: 325
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Post by Ivan Braginski on Mar 20, 2010 16:08:48 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - ❧ - - - - - - - - • • • • • [/font][/color] we are just M I S G U I D E D G H O S T S - - - - - - - - ❧ - - - - - - - -
Ivan liked to think that he was a simple enough man. He had simple feelings, simple goals, and simple rules. So when it came to understanding him and his 'rules' he assumed that most people would be able to follow such facile rules.
Of course, the consistency with which he had to punish those around him for breaking the very same rules often indicated the direct opposite. Of these rules, these golden, imperceptible rules, one stood strongest at the top: you never hurt Ivan Braginski. And as he was shoved into the plexiglass and tasted blood on his tongue--the moment the metallic, bitter taste flooded his mouth, it was no longer a game. Matthew was no longer a friendly, fun challenger. He was the enemy. He was someone Ivan needed to defeat and teach a lesson to. Gone was the bloodlust of an impassioned game--replaced now with a bloodlust for revenge. For in Ivan's mind, the nature of the competition had changed. The second Ivan had tasted blood, it was no longer a competition of stealing a little black puck. The second he had been harmed, it had turned into a battle of the homicidal--and the ball was in his court, now.
No one made Ivan Braginski taste blood. No one that wanted to live, at least. Steadying himself as he pulled away from the wall. Some say the most horrifying part of being at sea is the calm before the storm--that moment in which the danger can clearly be seen with the pure force and horror of what was to come nearly mocking them. Had Matthew been focused on Ivan instead of the puck, perhaps he would have had some indication towards the sudden change of dynamic in the game. Perhaps he would have seen his estranged relative and the calm, calculating look in his eyes as he stared down the receeding Canadian. He might have seen Ivan's hands clenching tightly against the stick he held, knuckles turning a stark shade of white. And, perhaps, he might have seen the smile upon Ivan's lips change. A smile far different than any he had worn when around the younger--one that was neither childish or eclipsing his own bad intent. It was a telling smile he wore, toothy and large--one that accentuated his predominant canines. Coupled with a distant look in his eyes, they spoke of a change within the behemoth of a Russian. It almost appeared as though the humanity, the minimal censors that he possessed, had all but vanished; and what had replaced it was something beastial. A man working on instinct, and listening only to desire. It was rare to catch Ivan in such a mood--where all of the pretenses of pleasantries and facades completely obliterated.
With but a sharp, excited laugh to deceive him, Ivan took off from the wall. His movement was quick and decisive, his mind a blank slate. All that cycled through his mind were deft thoughts--harm, maim, humiliate. Had Matthew not been of a relative, 'kill' would have been applicable. Adrenaline flowed through his veins like liquid courage, numbing him from the pain that over-exertion would have otherwise caused. He skated with purpose and determination--with more in mind than the meer complications of a game. And as he finally came to Matthew's rear, scarcely two feet behind him, it wasn't the puck that Ivan aimed his hockey stick at.
With one forceful, sharp swoop, Ivan cracked the stick against the back of Matthew's knees, forcing the Canadian male to the ground. The sound of the impact sent yet another shiver down Ivan's spine--tingling and warm. He laughed, batting the irrelevant puck away in the next moment; showing that the game was about to become the least of Matthew's worries.
Grabbing the boy by the shoulders, Ivan forced his back to the cold ground of the ice. He moved without falter, never once giving Matthew time to react or shove him off. Within the next moment, he had effectively straddled the boy, and pinned his arms above his head, holding them in place with one of his own hands. He had little thought for reason or explanation. For in his mind, it had turned into a battle of physical harm--that is, who could harm the other most.
Had he thought of it, he might have realized that this was the reason so many people warned against him. When he was pleasant, he was a nice enough person (beyond his constant ulterior motives)--but as soon as he worked it in his mind that someone needed to be punished, Ivan turned into a different person.
He stared down at the boy, a hunger emanating from his eyes. He wanted to watch him struggle and writhe beneath him--to beg for mercy and apologize. And, perhaps if he was feeling forgiving enough, to let the boy plead for a way out. "Ю думает, что Вы жестки, не так ли?" He laughed as he spoke, patronizing the boy beneath him. He leaned down, placing his face uncomfortably close to Matthew's. Yes, he wanted to watch him squirm!
After all--what better way of getting to know someone than to force them to show their actions under high pressure? What would they say when faced with fear, and a dangerous man deterring their movements? Somewhere in Ivan's mind, it made perfect sense.
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❧ Word Count; 905 ❧ Translation; Ю думает, что Вы жестки, не так ли? = You think you're tough, do you? ❧ Notes; Guuuurghl. I'm so sorry for taking so damn long, hun. Busy with midterms, and having a hard time finding my must D: And hurrrrr. How's this for violent? :B ❧ Muse; Mediocre
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