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Wrote a fanfic | x | and then I decided to illustrate the fanfic. I'm just really into Black Ops 2 right now.

Despite of this Menendez guy’s obvious fascination.
Weeks passed - and that’s what he spotted about him - Raul loved and loathed the element.
An inexplicable glint in his eye whenever he lit a match - the Comrade was a nutjob.
Of course Kravchenko would be on the sidelines with a nutjob.
Never really met a Russian who wasn’t shady.
Especially not one selling Soviet arms.
Behind his superior’s backs.
To some mobster.
God.

-”You know, a long time ago I learned that physical pain, at it’s core, means nothing. You can cut a man, he will heal. You can beat him, he will recover. You can shoot him, he will pull through. You can even burn him and chances are he will survive that too. But, the pain of the heart? That doesn’t heal. Ever. Nunca.”-

Raul mused, his hand over his chest to put special emphasis on what part of the human body he was referring to exactly - the melodramatic asshole - circling around him - he went from being suspended from the ceiling, strapped to a table, tied to a chair, forced to crawl on all four across the grimy, cold, slippery, vomit-covered iron floor like some kind of dog in front the simple, commonplace chair of his captor sitting crossed legged, cross-armed, far too amused and far too jovial as he idly toyed around with his bloodied, sharpened hunting knife - the Spaniard lost his temper often and well and his frustrations came to light in sudden changes within his makeshift little torture organization - and God, did he talk. He talked a lot. Frank, despite his pain, anguish, hunger and thirst wasn’t entirely certain if at times Menendez spoke to him or to someone else entirely. Perhaps to himself? Some imaginary demon? Or perhaps he was just insane? Coked out of his mind? All of these Latin, would-be drug-lords rising in the shadow of good, old uncle Escobar usually were. Yet, somehow, it felt like a private vendetta. Woods knew Kravchenko. He knew him like one of those annoying rashes impossible to reach and scratch. And he’s heard about the man he’s been secretly dealing arms to. From Savimbi as well. The Nicaraguan. Never has he believed it, though. That some randy talking smack and narrating endlessly would fill him with a sense of familiarity. Boy clearly hated Americans to the grave and beyond. What else was new? Frank was almost convinced he might have popped someone’s aunt or auntie by accident and that the mistake was out to haunt him in the form of an embittered family member. But, no. Raul’s loathing was like liquid fire. It infected him. It was contagious. Addictive. Saccharine. Leaving Woods with the impression that being hated by Menendez alone was akin to being hated by a thousand men all at once.

Description

Wrote a fanfic | x | and then I decided to illustrate the fanfic. I'm just really into Black Ops 2 right now.

Despite of this Menendez guy’s obvious fascination.
Weeks passed - and that’s what he spotted about him - Raul loved and loathed the element.
An inexplicable glint in his eye whenever he lit a match - the Comrade was a nutjob.
Of course Kravchenko would be on the sidelines with a nutjob.
Never really met a Russian who wasn’t shady.
Especially not one selling Soviet arms.
Behind his superior’s backs.
To some mobster.
God.

-”You know, a long time ago I learned that physical pain, at it’s core, means nothing. You can cut a man, he will heal. You can beat him, he will recover. You can shoot him, he will pull through. You can even burn him and chances are he will survive that too. But, the pain of the heart? That doesn’t heal. Ever. Nunca.”-

Raul mused, his hand over his chest to put special emphasis on what part of the human body he was referring to exactly - the melodramatic asshole - circling around him - he went from being suspended from the ceiling, strapped to a table, tied to a chair, forced to crawl on all four across the grimy, cold, slippery, vomit-covered iron floor like some kind of dog in front the simple, commonplace chair of his captor sitting crossed legged, cross-armed, far too amused and far too jovial as he idly toyed around with his bloodied, sharpened hunting knife - the Spaniard lost his temper often and well and his frustrations came to light in sudden changes within his makeshift little torture organization - and God, did he talk. He talked a lot. Frank, despite his pain, anguish, hunger and thirst wasn’t entirely certain if at times Menendez spoke to him or to someone else entirely. Perhaps to himself? Some imaginary demon? Or perhaps he was just insane? Coked out of his mind? All of these Latin, would-be drug-lords rising in the shadow of good, old uncle Escobar usually were. Yet, somehow, it felt like a private vendetta. Woods knew Kravchenko. He knew him like one of those annoying rashes impossible to reach and scratch. And he’s heard about the man he’s been secretly dealing arms to. From Savimbi as well. The Nicaraguan. Never has he believed it, though. That some randy talking smack and narrating endlessly would fill him with a sense of familiarity. Boy clearly hated Americans to the grave and beyond. What else was new? Frank was almost convinced he might have popped someone’s aunt or auntie by accident and that the mistake was out to haunt him in the form of an embittered family member. But, no. Raul’s loathing was like liquid fire. It infected him. It was contagious. Addictive. Saccharine. Leaving Woods with the impression that being hated by Menendez alone was akin to being hated by a thousand men all at once.