09-07-2018, 08:50 AM
At one point, sleep was difficult for the cream-furred reaver. He couldn’t sleep because he was paralysed by this sense of unsettlement. Who could say that his time here was guaranteed? His limbs always feel stiff at the thought. No matter the hard work of smithing weapons and armour, the soreness which made his joints feel as though they’d give way, he always felt as if he was already dead. It was as if he hadn’t come to grips with his inevitable conclusion. Perhaps he is still dead, just a rotting body abandoned in a ditch or the side of a road that’s seen fire. Maybe he’ll go to sleep and never wake up because his soul has decided to rejoin reality, the homeland he had been born into. One time, back when he was still living in his old hut, he woke himself up in the dire darkness of the night. Morning was coming – he knew that much at least because his paws were usually cold and Bakugou later realised they were dappled in the salt of his tears. He never thought himself to be a night crier, to be so overwhelmed with emotion that even his unconscious mind was unable to allow the stillness of the universe.
Mother nature is so unkind. Always there is that superior detachment, a nameless beauty that enshrouds her indifferent eyes. He always feels like he is being watched or is at least enchanted to feel as though he can never truly feel happy. Bakugou’s a fool for thinking this must be a godly sort of punishment. If there was any sort of supernatural being, an ultimatum all written into the code of their lives, blaring at him. A being that was waving their spectral arms towards him, screeching in frustration which soak within their unknowable face. He dreads a sense of half-life. To exist but only exist within his own plane, unrecognised or even acknowledged by the many darting pupils of creatures and pests. He can imagine himself shouting at the top of his lungs, hearing himself but doubting his own existence. What does it mean to exist if others didn’t even know you were there? Sometimes, being so confined within the walls of his own mind and thoughts, it feels as if he’s isolated from the world’s population. As if he were not even worthy to be recognised as a speck in the void within the cognition of various, haunting spirits which roamed in fleshy holds.
He’s always felt this vulnerable, open to be consumed by the jaws of the underworld, swallowed whole by the suffocating silence of reality. No. He can’t simply write it off as ‘silence’. It is more like a blurred mesh of noise, bizarre because it’s so loud that it was like silence, a gulf of nothingness. He’s gotten used to the obnoxious wave of sounds, the belly-flopping tides, that it’s drowned him into thinking there is nothing out there. Even the fire he stares at lacks a symbolic strength. He knows that if he reaches out his paw, dares to touch the golden glow, that he will burn himself. It is a selfish kind of thinking to care so much about the universe, to curse its very nature. There are planets, galaxies and endless scapes of space and light. To even think that the universe, for one moment, would stop to care about his own insecurities makes him feel only foolish. And even though he knows this, the world continues to revolve around his anguished manifestation. The despair embodies him, wrapping her delicate hands along his fur, squeezing him. Always he has this contradicting way of thinking. He knows the universe cares little for him, but he also knows that this world as he sees it revolves around what he sees and believes. No one exists until he has met them, that was the law of cognition.
As far as he is concerned, there is no such thing as a god. The universe wouldn’t even dare to consider making one, or even allow itself to be insulted by the all-powerful hands of a superior being. It is like the ocean who refuses to be restrained. Never will the ocean act submissively. It knows its strengths, it knows the devastation it can cause. It is the very ocean which becomes personified through a poetic art. It exists simply as a mass of moving molecules, living as one piece, and yet it somehow remains unique. A centrepiece, a muse, for devastation and beauty. He realises that no matter the world or landscape he finds himself within, the ocean has always been romanticised to a certain extent. Like humans, even the animals find themselves baffled at the seams when they realise the true indifference which lived within the gravitational pull of the sea.
The ragdoll closes his eyes, breathing deeply the leftover ashes which coat along his skin. He has yet to clean himself off after having been working in his forgery all day, dressed in a mourning tone. It would be a shame to drift himself to sleep when he’s in this ruffled mess but at this moment, the reaver feels restless. There is a foreboding dread which shapes the red outlines of the fire before him, altering the atmosphere around him. He feels himself to be bewitched, distraught at the idea of death despite having already gone through it. Well, maybe he was never human. It is possible it was all a dream, a deep trickery of his mind. Who was he really? He feels his memory sparking hazily, a dying ignition trying to remember something as though he were two persons in one. How did this happen anyway? He can’t expect the world to think he’d believe it if his body just materialised into a new world in a cat. Can he even count this ragdoll body as new? Was there an original host of this body, one who inhabited it until he forcefully ejected their spirit into that other hell? Not realising you had existed at all?
Sleep intimidates him and the more he thinks about it, trying to convey the darkness behind a little snooze, he feels himself drowning. He didn’t die from water and yet it still feels as though he has died that way in maybe another life, or perhaps the feeling of being unable to breathe surrounded by a substance you could only try to propel through faster was distressing enough. The taste of saltwater is only but a distant memory. He’s gone down the beach many times but never really chose to allow its reach to encircle any more than his knobbly ankles. Bakugou doesn’t trust the sea. He respects its command, but he can never allow himself to submit to it, the same way the sea will never submit itself to the hands of a mere, ordinary mortal. The male can only begin to imagine the taste which leaves the mouth dehydrated.
It is then that his tired and frazzled thoughts are interrupted by the familiar accent of a sage, crying for help that his fur bristles along the guideline of his vertebral column. Bakugou hisses, impulsively wishing to move but unable to because his legs have fallen asleep. His teeth clash together, a crisp snap of air echoing towards the fire which was brimming unearthly tones. His paws twitch at the prickling sensation of his muscles, spastic and alive, neurons firing when he forces himself upwards with a reluctant heave. Usually he won’t move. It’s the kind of feeling that makes him want to curl up and stop himself from laughing, bursting aloud in a sound of non-consensual laughter. He still needs to move, allow himself to mold his figure into that of a hero as he stumbles to his door. With staggered legs, wobbling uncomfortably, he takes a deep inhale before leaving his hut and allowing his feet to sink within the coldness of the sand. He’s become defamiliarized with the coolness of the grains which encapsulate his feet as he’s been working beside fire all day.
Sanguine eyes glance around him as he sends off fireballs in different direction, careful enough to keep them high enough in the sky so not to burn the faces of any unlucky pirates. He sees multiple figures already at the scene and Bakugou releases a low rumbled growl from his coaly throat, unimpressed by the masses which are ready to address whatever the commotion was. As though he were changing channels, his eyes flick to the king cheetah, recognising the outlined wrinkles of pain across his furry face. He remembers hearing all the rumours that Luca and Marcellus were mentally and physically linked, a strange bond which ridiculed both parties if they so happened to hate each other. Bound by the soul, shackled together. He wonders briefly if it is for all eternity, ponders what on earth even triggered such a phenomenon. Maybe there truly is a god, sadistic gods which write away at their pitiful lives – giving them all bad endings for the sake of their own bittersweet amusement, loving them like mothers and fathers but leading them to a world of pain.
Pity. He doesn’t usually feel pity for anyone but there is a love which envelops Junji who approaches, singing a familiar tune. Bakugou himself feels empty, uncomfortable because the buzzed hums tug at him, nagged at him about something that felt completely unknowable to him. It was a pain rooted deeply in his chest and his stomach felt sick, staring at Luca until his look of worry turned into disgust. His teeth clench, angry because yet another crewmate has been injured and even more annoyed because he didn’t know why his heart hurt so much. Well, maybe not his heart. It could have been his lungs but Bakugou knows that they could never make his ears burn up. No, that was his blood rushing to his face, dilating to cool down his overwhelming body heat. Feeling that he should say something, and understanding that he perhaps won’t have any jobs to fulfil, croaks an almost insensitive question: ”…The fuck happened to ‘im?” And yet the nature of his words are laced with a genuine concern for the male.
Mother nature is so unkind. Always there is that superior detachment, a nameless beauty that enshrouds her indifferent eyes. He always feels like he is being watched or is at least enchanted to feel as though he can never truly feel happy. Bakugou’s a fool for thinking this must be a godly sort of punishment. If there was any sort of supernatural being, an ultimatum all written into the code of their lives, blaring at him. A being that was waving their spectral arms towards him, screeching in frustration which soak within their unknowable face. He dreads a sense of half-life. To exist but only exist within his own plane, unrecognised or even acknowledged by the many darting pupils of creatures and pests. He can imagine himself shouting at the top of his lungs, hearing himself but doubting his own existence. What does it mean to exist if others didn’t even know you were there? Sometimes, being so confined within the walls of his own mind and thoughts, it feels as if he’s isolated from the world’s population. As if he were not even worthy to be recognised as a speck in the void within the cognition of various, haunting spirits which roamed in fleshy holds.
He’s always felt this vulnerable, open to be consumed by the jaws of the underworld, swallowed whole by the suffocating silence of reality. No. He can’t simply write it off as ‘silence’. It is more like a blurred mesh of noise, bizarre because it’s so loud that it was like silence, a gulf of nothingness. He’s gotten used to the obnoxious wave of sounds, the belly-flopping tides, that it’s drowned him into thinking there is nothing out there. Even the fire he stares at lacks a symbolic strength. He knows that if he reaches out his paw, dares to touch the golden glow, that he will burn himself. It is a selfish kind of thinking to care so much about the universe, to curse its very nature. There are planets, galaxies and endless scapes of space and light. To even think that the universe, for one moment, would stop to care about his own insecurities makes him feel only foolish. And even though he knows this, the world continues to revolve around his anguished manifestation. The despair embodies him, wrapping her delicate hands along his fur, squeezing him. Always he has this contradicting way of thinking. He knows the universe cares little for him, but he also knows that this world as he sees it revolves around what he sees and believes. No one exists until he has met them, that was the law of cognition.
As far as he is concerned, there is no such thing as a god. The universe wouldn’t even dare to consider making one, or even allow itself to be insulted by the all-powerful hands of a superior being. It is like the ocean who refuses to be restrained. Never will the ocean act submissively. It knows its strengths, it knows the devastation it can cause. It is the very ocean which becomes personified through a poetic art. It exists simply as a mass of moving molecules, living as one piece, and yet it somehow remains unique. A centrepiece, a muse, for devastation and beauty. He realises that no matter the world or landscape he finds himself within, the ocean has always been romanticised to a certain extent. Like humans, even the animals find themselves baffled at the seams when they realise the true indifference which lived within the gravitational pull of the sea.
The ragdoll closes his eyes, breathing deeply the leftover ashes which coat along his skin. He has yet to clean himself off after having been working in his forgery all day, dressed in a mourning tone. It would be a shame to drift himself to sleep when he’s in this ruffled mess but at this moment, the reaver feels restless. There is a foreboding dread which shapes the red outlines of the fire before him, altering the atmosphere around him. He feels himself to be bewitched, distraught at the idea of death despite having already gone through it. Well, maybe he was never human. It is possible it was all a dream, a deep trickery of his mind. Who was he really? He feels his memory sparking hazily, a dying ignition trying to remember something as though he were two persons in one. How did this happen anyway? He can’t expect the world to think he’d believe it if his body just materialised into a new world in a cat. Can he even count this ragdoll body as new? Was there an original host of this body, one who inhabited it until he forcefully ejected their spirit into that other hell? Not realising you had existed at all?
Sleep intimidates him and the more he thinks about it, trying to convey the darkness behind a little snooze, he feels himself drowning. He didn’t die from water and yet it still feels as though he has died that way in maybe another life, or perhaps the feeling of being unable to breathe surrounded by a substance you could only try to propel through faster was distressing enough. The taste of saltwater is only but a distant memory. He’s gone down the beach many times but never really chose to allow its reach to encircle any more than his knobbly ankles. Bakugou doesn’t trust the sea. He respects its command, but he can never allow himself to submit to it, the same way the sea will never submit itself to the hands of a mere, ordinary mortal. The male can only begin to imagine the taste which leaves the mouth dehydrated.
It is then that his tired and frazzled thoughts are interrupted by the familiar accent of a sage, crying for help that his fur bristles along the guideline of his vertebral column. Bakugou hisses, impulsively wishing to move but unable to because his legs have fallen asleep. His teeth clash together, a crisp snap of air echoing towards the fire which was brimming unearthly tones. His paws twitch at the prickling sensation of his muscles, spastic and alive, neurons firing when he forces himself upwards with a reluctant heave. Usually he won’t move. It’s the kind of feeling that makes him want to curl up and stop himself from laughing, bursting aloud in a sound of non-consensual laughter. He still needs to move, allow himself to mold his figure into that of a hero as he stumbles to his door. With staggered legs, wobbling uncomfortably, he takes a deep inhale before leaving his hut and allowing his feet to sink within the coldness of the sand. He’s become defamiliarized with the coolness of the grains which encapsulate his feet as he’s been working beside fire all day.
Sanguine eyes glance around him as he sends off fireballs in different direction, careful enough to keep them high enough in the sky so not to burn the faces of any unlucky pirates. He sees multiple figures already at the scene and Bakugou releases a low rumbled growl from his coaly throat, unimpressed by the masses which are ready to address whatever the commotion was. As though he were changing channels, his eyes flick to the king cheetah, recognising the outlined wrinkles of pain across his furry face. He remembers hearing all the rumours that Luca and Marcellus were mentally and physically linked, a strange bond which ridiculed both parties if they so happened to hate each other. Bound by the soul, shackled together. He wonders briefly if it is for all eternity, ponders what on earth even triggered such a phenomenon. Maybe there truly is a god, sadistic gods which write away at their pitiful lives – giving them all bad endings for the sake of their own bittersweet amusement, loving them like mothers and fathers but leading them to a world of pain.
Pity. He doesn’t usually feel pity for anyone but there is a love which envelops Junji who approaches, singing a familiar tune. Bakugou himself feels empty, uncomfortable because the buzzed hums tug at him, nagged at him about something that felt completely unknowable to him. It was a pain rooted deeply in his chest and his stomach felt sick, staring at Luca until his look of worry turned into disgust. His teeth clench, angry because yet another crewmate has been injured and even more annoyed because he didn’t know why his heart hurt so much. Well, maybe not his heart. It could have been his lungs but Bakugou knows that they could never make his ears burn up. No, that was his blood rushing to his face, dilating to cool down his overwhelming body heat. Feeling that he should say something, and understanding that he perhaps won’t have any jobs to fulfil, croaks an almost insensitive question: ”…The fuck happened to ‘im?” And yet the nature of his words are laced with a genuine concern for the male.