FUNKY, CHIC & SMOOTH | joining

[ASYLI]

[align=center][div style="borderwidth; width: 500px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; line-height: 15px; font-size: 9.5pt; font-family: arial"]To this day, there was and never would be anyone Bodkin admired more than his Nana. She was one of the strongest people he had ever had the pleasure of meeting, her presence alone brought people to their knees and had them baring their throats in submission—she took no names, held no prisoners, and had a heart so golden one would have thought King Midas himself had held it. She set every single standard Bodkin had for what a good person should be, what the purest of people were. There was a time when he’d thought her invincible, that she was a storm that never ended and there was nothing in this world that would stop her, nothing that would even dare get in her way. He had, however, forgotten that no matter how powerful a storm may be it would always come to an end; death bent for no man, it made no exceptions for anyone and Kin’s Nana was yet another one to fall in the grand scheme of things. It still felt unreal, like reality was playing a cruel game on him like the other children had done when he was far littler. Why did people take things from him? Why did the universe feel the need to lessen the amount of goodness in the world? Why, specifically, did it have to be his Nana? He had no one else, why couldn’t it have taken someone else instead?

Everyone else in his community taught him what evil, destruction, and unprecedented hatred was. They taught him to hate himself because he wasn’t normal, that he would never be normal because he simply did not meet their own expectations of what purity and goodness should be. He felt terrible for wishing it upon them but he couldn’t help himself—why couldn’t it have been one of them? Why couldn’t someone else have died? They were… mean, maybe they didn’t deserve to have death wished upon them but Nana had never done to him what they had and he simply couldn’t wrap his mind around this. He wasn’t sure he was even thinking straight anymore, his mind had always run fast but now it was jumbled and flashing and no train of thought outside of his feeling of unfairness truly wanted to run. He believes whatever being out there that held some proverbial hatred of him felt that this wish, this similar desire that he knew others had held for him all his life, was cause for punishment. Kin supposed he’d deserved it.

The home he’d shared with his Nana burnt to the ground.

His home.

Reduced to ash.

He can’t remember much else of that night, it came in blurs and an emotional agony that Bodkin had never felt before—not even after the truth of what happened to his parents had come to light had he felt so broken. It was selfish, he felt, to feel more love and heartache over the loss of his grandmother than the loss of those who gave him life. He felt guilty, he felt bad. But he couldn’t change it and, even now, there was a hollow feeling in his chest that he was sure would ( could ) never be filled. His Nana had been his everything, she was the only one who looked at him with warmth and love in her eyes. It was a little biased, of course, seeing as how they were both a little odd and their shared blood brought them closer but… it still meant the world to him. Her love was what kept him going, what kept him happy despite everything his fellow villagers put him through. She was the light in the darkness and she had been snuffed out and now the young boy had no idea what to do with his life. He had never thought this far ahead.

He had no idea where he was, where he was going, or what he was going to do anymore; before everything, he had assumed he would be taking over the shop but now… his life felt, well, empty. What was there for him to do? He didn’t know how the world worked outside of his village, he’d never had to leave the safety of the village limits before now. There were creatures out here that could kill him, that would kill him if given the chance and he would have no idea what to do. He didn’t want to die, not out here, not yet. Heck, how would he know if something wanted to kill him? How would he know the difference between angry and murderous? He still didn’t know, he didn’t understand—why were things like this? Why couldn’t he breath? His chest hurt, it ached deep inside of him and it was confusing and his thoughts were moving too fast, the world was moving too fast, he wanted it to slow down.

In an instant Kin’s feet fell out from under him, his shoulder slamming against the ground and a confused shriek ripping from his sewn lips. It didn’t hurt, nothing ever hurt, but he was confused and disoriented and his heart pounded harshly against the inside of his ribcage. He hadn’t been watching his feet, hadn’t made sure his elongated mess of limbs weren’t flying off and doing their own thing and as he slowed to a stop he let out a huff of air. He wasn’t sure if anything was broken, wasn’t sure if there was anything wrong at all but as he pushed himself onto shaking paws he felt nothing distinctly off. He paused, breathing in and finally allowing his mind to rest—it hadn’t been planned but maybe he’d needed the fall, he knew becoming too wrapped up in his mind was dangerous. Nana wouldn’t smacked him upside the head if she knew what he’d thought, what he’d allow himself to think. He let out a small smile, moved a paw to secure his dirty hat and nodded once.

He was hurt, he was lost and confused, but he had to be optimistic; holding onto the hatred and fear of the past weren’t good for him, for anyone. He had to make the most out of what he had, no matter how little it actually was.

[ ooc ] Holy shit, it’s been so long since I’ve actually written something please excuse… all of this.

[Grey]

The past is not something he likes to dwell too long on. He has admired heroes, those who were strong. Bakugou can remember a time his heart was so fixated on the idea of climbing to the top, being a star. Even as a child, the adults had fed him a certain image, some criteria he had to meet to feel worthy, to feel powerful. He loved the limelight. He craved the feeling of being envied, watched through jealous eyes. He wanted to flaunt his strength because it made him feel admired. He wanted to be admired as much as he admired that certain man, that certain hero who carried the world’s hope on his back. The young Quartermaster feels his chest shudder, lungs disrupting his moment of thoughts. The past bites him like a venomous snake, it coils along his heart. The memories ache to touch upon but they are always spinning and replaying somewhere in the back of his mind, remembered through that of a greyscale filter.

Before coming to this world, he had only known there was good and evil. It was a black and white world. Breaking the law meant you were a villain, enforcing the law meant you could be a hero. He never paid any mind when they called him a villain, he thought it merely amusing when he had been kidnapped under the impression that he would swap loyalties. And yet, after the one he had admired most had reduced to nothing more but a normal civilian – a mere bystander of events, he begun to re-evaluate himself. He was destruction, he brought nothing good. Bakugou bites his bottom lip. Then there was the day the apocalypse came. People were dying and, when the time came to prove himself, he died a worthless death. He died letting his guard down, letting his weakness arise. It hurt accepting that things were his fault, hurt accepting the blame. He was angry that he had let himself die in the first place and the sensation of death had haunted him the moment his eyes opened.

There was that strange grogginess of waking up in this world, the same sensation of waking up after not realizing you have fallen asleep. It was that awful in-between of being blank of thought, not remembering who you were and not caring. Then the identity returns – your history, your feelings, your thoughts. A shock emerges, panic overwhelming that tears begin to flood, and your body burns with emotion. He cried until he felt dry, couldn’t handle the fact that he had failed. He was vulnerable to the feeling of fear that crept upon him, the realization that he had been dead and not known he had been dead. There is an indifferent calmness that comes with not existing, no conscience to speak to him that his mind is a void, a nothingness that encapsulates his body. It was like sleep and the fact that he had made the comparison to death and sleeping frightened him. The simple act of closing his eyes could induce trauma.

The young Quartermaster hurries his steps, focusing on his walking as he pushes his memories aside. He’s bad at clearing his mind. He always has to think of something but, to be honest, thinking of his presence or the future is just as unbearable. He doesn’t know what he has done to deserve his role. He is aware that he is unpleasant, that he is an awful soul. Caesar’s outcry of his promotion is still fresh in his mind, remembering the way the Savannah had lashed out in rage to attack the Captain. He would have been fine with that duel. It was insulting that no one had believed him, that everyone had gone out of the way to protect him. He didn’t want to keep thinking of himself to be weak. Funny how his emotions become so vulnerable through a simple act of respect, but he didn’t want anyone to extend themselves trying to save him. He wanted to feel strong again, to validate himself so he can finally breathe a little easier.

Bakugou stops instantly, halting his self-brooding when he hears a voice cry across the territory. Birds flutter from the trees, the silent forest suddenly alive, moving and rustling as it tries to once again reach that middle ground. He changes directions, following what he assumes to be the source to investigate it, ears rotating like radars and nose twitching for any new scents at the border. An ugly creature, mummified in appearance but, unfortunately, living and breathing. The foreigner he has come across is the undead, a moving plague that he looks sickly to touch. The idea of being too close to him almost makes him feel germophobic, like the male is a walking disease. Dirty, awful. Bakugou is hesitant to get too close and one can see clearly in his eyes that he intends to maintain a distance from the feline, clearly judgmental of his appearance.

”What are you doing here?” Bakugou asks blandly with a scrunched up nose, head raised slightly as if he were a picky child turning his eyes away from the look of broccoli. ”If you’re lost then you’ll find the cemetery can be found in that direction.” He was pointing to nowhere in particular but if the foreigner were going to die, he would prefer he left his corpse somewhere else. It would be rude to die out here. Of course, to Bakugou’s misfortune, the stranger would turn out to be mute and will likely take up more of his time than he wanted.

[PEPPINO]

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//this is terrible and rushed but your writing is wonderful!!

The awful things people did to each other for so many equally terrible reasons was- a haunting pain, and the almost healed burns itched like a reminder of the sorts of things they were willing to do to each other for association. The "us" versus "them" mentality harmed so many, but he couldn't force communication or conciliation. With his duties, the most he could do was...clean up after those incidents and try not to get in the way, though the latter would be difficult. When someone needed help, they needed help; it wasn't Pip's place to decide whether they were deserving, or what counted as worthy. What he did consider right was lending a hand. Turning a blind eye was one of the worst things a person could do to someone else when they were in need, and the young canine wasn't going to start now.

"Bakugou." Pip said nothing else to admonish the rude comment, allowing the tone of voice he said his name in to do that for him, since chastising the feline wasn't why he'd approached. The stranger was...bedraggled, certainly, and seemed malnourished. He couldn't be certain whether it was a lack of access to food or something else, but regardless, he began formulating a dietary plan. He assumed he was here to stay. "What's wrong with your shoulder?" Pip didn't hesitate to approach, able to blithely overlook the scent, mismatched gaze on the shoulder instead. "Are you feeling any pain?" He didn't appear to be, but some people managed to hide that.

[align=right][i]INFORMATION

[Grimm]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 420px; line-height:120%; font-family: arial; font-size: 8.5pt; text-align: justify; margin-bottom:5px"]Strange is the matter of heart, the desire caught within the complex structure of muscle attributed what the mind draws forth for easier is it to find anchor. It wants what it may with no care to the consequences entangled within such desire, in a way greedy, ever expanding and consuming the love found within central point, nought but a puppet within its strings dancing to the song of it.

Quiet is the murmur of it contained in the beat of heart, caught amongst the fine lines of veins spread through the structure of the small body. Touch of it is slight as about the edge of delicate thought it lingers, scrape of it until it is working through, tainting what it may seek to hold within light a touch. Well they know it though within its shape is different, odd within the way it has been drawn together from shattered pieces, crumbling where they seek to understand and learn of it. Brush of warmth about the complex housing of heart, within the depth of muscle and in the lining of stomach, flickering and curling as though trapped are butterflies, fluttering in vein want to escape. In a way it is pleasant, curl of it upon pale lips touching gentle features toned in light shades, working through the body until together it is drawn.

Yet within a way it is a weapon, dagger within fingers curled and trembling, difficult to hold for it sings for blood, wants with a passion that borders on something unhealthy. Raising within the skin a storm is it, unruly the destruction contained within the delicate stretch of thin skin, festering disease. To which is worse, that of the quiet raise of affection that bares within the nature of naivety wanting only to hold within something, prisoner within the delight of it, or the pain and destruction, wrought within the name of such a love, difficult is it to speak upon. Within their own ways both bore the touch of something dark, wound within the very threads of it, working through until dark was the heart of love.

To which did the faint beat of love for the man deemed father, one of three, fall. About the mind did he raise, the laughter so easy from him once and the covering of flour upon both, adorning the rich shadings he was reduced to within faded sight, enjoying simple activity. Their own laughter had risen in a bright bubble of sound, but crumbling away was it all, sound mixed and changed, within the anger of something dark. Caught in his veins was the essence of evil, the touch of a demonic being which wrought their own, found within the pale blood a home. It mattered not the touch of angel, the children he had assisted in bringing to this world that bore the twisted mess of angelic and demonic tempered with the mortal aspect of another, he was still demonic and so was the love in their heart.

Soft the sigh raising from lips, small the paw lifting to rub along eyes. Difficult had it been to sleep within the days that had passed since the incident contained within the jungle, the darkness of it hiding from them much of the sight but there had been enough, heavy the heart since it had passed. Want was there to confront, to speak of the night and learn what had happened, childish the naive want to brush it aside or have it explained within simple words they may swallow doused within sugar to make it easier to go down. Yet there was no such thing, no words upon tongue raising within his presence, instead they allowed the shaky touch of uneasy smile, pretended all was right. Nose scrunched as the small child sniffled, lift of gaze towards the canvas before them. It mattered not the weakness of eyes they bore enough sight to permit them this little hobby, the splattering of paint about cream toned fur making apparent the darkness within their work. There were no light colours as once there might have been, black and grey mixed with blue, covered the surface of wings bearing their own dark speckling.

It was within the act of pressing a paw to the trays of paint before them when the cry arose, echoing and sharp, though distance softened it some. There was no hesitance within the lurch of body, the stumbling steps of the youth drawing them ever closer to where they thought it had originated from. Difficult is the trek, many times they became entangled within roots that had pushed through the surface of the loose top soil and found themself battered, slow the raise of bruises from that night still, aching when finally tone of cream touched upon dark the shadings of backdrop. Flickering the light of flame encasing the structure of tail, sight once that may have drawn questions but now drew forth only a fluttering of heart, twist of stomach in rough hands. They remembered how Bakugou had spoken to them when first they had stumbled upon another, injured as this one before them was, remarking on things they had no knowledge of for difficult had it been to tell her state.

“Hello...” Almost voice was swallowed within the sounds of the world about them, barely finding a place where it may touch upon audible levels, dull eyes squinting as they looked towards the stranger. The words Pip spoke connected within their mind and all at once Kai was moving a little closer to the young Sage, head tilting up as they addressed him. “Can I help?”