Post by STEFAN KOREL VARGAS on Aug 2, 2012 12:05:40 GMT -5
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AND MAKE IT A BEAUTIFUL MELODY
STEFAN KOREL VARGAS
YOU'D BE MY REMEDY
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nineteen ,.,., cia ,.,., gunslinger, spy ,.,., james franco
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full name: stefan korel vargas
age: nineteen
date of birth: 13 august
nationality: half-spanish, half-bulgarian
occupation: gunslinger, cia spy
likes: any firearm, beaches, classic books, raspberries
dislikes: disputes, miunderstandings, slanderous words
attributes: ambidexterous, detail-oriented, acute hearing, sharp shooter
family: deceased
linguist; can speak seven languages | latin, bulgarian, spanish, japanese, german, french, russian.he doesn't consider english to be part of the seven.
gunslinger; never misses a target.
prodigy, quick-witted, detail-oriented, ladies' man
"vargas," the rough, playful voice pierced through the earpiece, with no fortunate luck of eliciting a reply from the calm and collected gunslinger of a spy. it was rude, it had always been -- and now, more than ever, he was in a need for a moment to think.
he sighed, and the flames licked and flickered, the radiating glow of the hearth bouncing off his shadows, creating such a serene atmosphere that all he could just about do was smile. what was more surprising in itself was, that, for once, it wasn’t from the overwhelmingly satisfying feeling of hearing the rushing sounds of running shower from the bathroom. sitting up on the queen-sized bed, completely naked and only covered from the waist down with tattered sheets, he placed his hands on the back of his head, and exhaled deeply once more. his eyes closed, his heart slowed. he shunned the background noise, and concentrated on the magnified sounds: shower, flames, wind, sounds of water slopping and fingers scrubbing on soapy hair. her inaudible sighs and the silent taps of water droplets coating her skin.
he honed the flow of the blood pumping through his veins, synchronized all sounds in an orchestrated harmony that only he was able to identify-- "well, that’s no good." his eyes opened to the towering figure by the end of the bed, grey eyes fixated on his dark eyes. a sudden paralysis stabbed at his muscles, tensing him at such an overwhelming content and speed that it took a few more seconds before he could blink, and to open his eyes to nothing.
even now, the screams of his past still called.
"i have visual on the target," this sexy voice managed to elicit a slight huff from the naked spy, who smoothed his hand over a pillow, looking out to the balcony. "hey, stef. think you can help me relax when all this is over? getting a little jealous of princess swan over there." laughter from other lines broke out, but he noticed that one significant person did not. he massaged the back of his neck, stifled a yawn, and moved to place both feet on the floor.
rain poured.
"soy libre cualquier momento."
knowing what was beyond, what was over the fence of his confinement to this life, neither frightened nor terrified him. serving his country, to maintain the liberty and greatness of his nation through many encounters and chit-chats with death himself, ultimately creating himself as an asset to the organization was all that his life purpose had called him to. even duke, his mentor and immediate father figure, could not get himself to see what was beyond the window pane. it was a harsh reality that he did not care to think about, but managed to make him flip back to the pages of his tainted past, of the scars that left him so dead and blank before he was found, at a very tender age of six.
it was uncanny, he was told, for such a child to be able to wield a gun so marvelously.
"son of a bitch, vargas.
blood, murder, rage, and knives; the banshee wails still ringing in his ears, the agony of the soft voice calling his name, the fires that erupted and wound around him.
and yet he had a smile that melted the world.
"i have spoken to the superiors, stefan.[/b][/i]" silence. "i’m afraid i do not come bearing with certainty." his feet moved, and then he was wading across the wooden floor, slowly, towards the bathroom. he could still remember the first time he shot at point blank, right through the forehead of a german governer, two days after his seventh birthday. he could still feel the white anger burning in his chest, the calm of his hand, the way he was looked at.
it was a curse, his curse-- remembering and seeing everything, yet never really finding the what he sought after.
"i appreciate the concern, sir," he replied when no one else did. his feet touched cold marble, his eyes on the naked figure playing inside the steamed glass shower. a teasing smile painted his lips as he slid open the glass door, placed himself inside and closed the door, hands already sliding around the voluptuous figure waiting for him. a smile, a slow kiss, and he had her pinned to the wall, biting and nibbling at her ear lobe.
"but it is greatly unnecessary." [/size][/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify]
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dada ,.,., 17 ,.,., turtle shells ,.,., none
dada ,.,., 17 ,.,., turtle shells ,.,., none
lyrics from sing it out; switchfoot
this little thing was made by
dragonwick over on caution,
or rach ?! on little white lie.
don't steal! keep the credit on.
this little thing was made by
dragonwick over on caution,
or rach ?! on little white lie.
don't steal! keep the credit on.
