06-29-2018, 11:45 AM
Ivan couldn't help a slight smile. It didn't lighten his mood or anything. If anything, it made him look more dangerous. He felt a stab of pleasure at the tightening of the man's eyes.
Fuck, but he wanted to hit someone. The feel of his fist slamming into a face and the satisfying collapse of a broken nose against his knuckles, the recoil of the impact bunching his forearm; jack-hammering right and left into ribs, light bending until he hears a snap; his arm around a neck, muscles hard like iron, squeezing, feeling the spastic slaps and attempts of hands to break his hold, clawing and scratching, grabbing at ears or hair or eyes.
And for some reason, he felt the power writhing inside him, as if his anger, so cold, like the iciest strongest wind in the depths of winter, his rage, burning hot, fiery and molten, had found its mate.
And he relished it, fell into it. Responsibility dropped from his shoulders like a cape, a burden crashing to the ground. He breathed deeply, felt the lightness around him, the acceptance of fate or the fucking universe or whatever. What happened, happened. He was not God. He certainly wasn't Brandon, power all gone to his head, now believing he was a god.
The man's words came to him. He had not looked away, despite the widening of the eyes. Ivan didn't care.
His voice was quiet rage. His arms were bunched, fists clenched tightly. "She thinks she is in control...I'll..."
He trailed off. He wasn't going to talk to this man, not about his plans. "What is she to you?"
Edited by Ivan Sarkozy, Jun 29 2018, 01:45 PM.
Fuck, but he wanted to hit someone. The feel of his fist slamming into a face and the satisfying collapse of a broken nose against his knuckles, the recoil of the impact bunching his forearm; jack-hammering right and left into ribs, light bending until he hears a snap; his arm around a neck, muscles hard like iron, squeezing, feeling the spastic slaps and attempts of hands to break his hold, clawing and scratching, grabbing at ears or hair or eyes.
And for some reason, he felt the power writhing inside him, as if his anger, so cold, like the iciest strongest wind in the depths of winter, his rage, burning hot, fiery and molten, had found its mate.
And he relished it, fell into it. Responsibility dropped from his shoulders like a cape, a burden crashing to the ground. He breathed deeply, felt the lightness around him, the acceptance of fate or the fucking universe or whatever. What happened, happened. He was not God. He certainly wasn't Brandon, power all gone to his head, now believing he was a god.
The man's words came to him. He had not looked away, despite the widening of the eyes. Ivan didn't care.
His voice was quiet rage. His arms were bunched, fists clenched tightly. "She thinks she is in control...I'll..."
He trailed off. He wasn't going to talk to this man, not about his plans. "What is she to you?"
Edited by Ivan Sarkozy, Jun 29 2018, 01:45 PM.