10-27-2018, 09:44 AM
[ ooc ] this is just an ic reason for bakugou disappearing for the nine days i'm away doing my exams. pretend that this happens on the 28th sfdkjljsdffjk
An aching in his bones, a tremor that persists. Hands outstretched, intangible to the skin, intoxicating to the timid mind. Emotions intermingle and coil like snakes, knotting themselves over and over; disarranged. Sanguine seeps within the empty cracks. No room for sentiment, illuminating to the eyes of glass. Gaze like a mirror. Behind: the soul remains unknown, unseen to the onlooker who fails to be invited. There is only embitterment within the roots of the ineffable entanglement, frustrations slither within the penumbra of tall walls, tipped with stealth and glamorous uncertainties. Colours are diluted, drained and dripping into the wooden floorboards, swimming within the foundation of sands. The dust of embers soars through meticulous smoke, the thick and groggy air, darker than plaintive clouds that breathe a heavy grey. Warm but golden glow, red and orange dew, sunlit cries. Sound echoes between the metal clangs – a resonate reverberance, ringing in both ears. He recoils, draws himself backwards with a materialised breath. Alabaster departing from his lips. No flicker of good bye between the shower of sparks.
Every fibre, tired and needs a break. Restlessly shifting from gear to gear, hearth roaring against the glint of earth. A ravenous hunger rumbling at the heart of a fire. The luminous glow of heated metal melts at the brim, pouring and unable to be contained, dead light when it touches the ground in an inaudible fall. Muscles made of lead continue to hammer. Soreness tightens at each cell, constricting every time stone hits stone. The work is steady, maintains a certain rhythm. Too late to slow down for fear of inviting unwelcomed sounds, dissonance to the trained ears. He is accustomed to the unmistaken noises, a choir that continues to sing in tune the longer he blacksmiths. Day by day, his forge becomes more crowded, walls closing in with weapon after weapon, piling without end. The stone blade hisses when he drowns it within the embrace of water, wheezing as it spills at the edges. Scarlet eyes drip towards the almost finished work, tracing the curved shape until he finds a place to begin chipping the finer details with his earthly abilities. Engraving in a mechanical font: Goldenluxury Roux. This was her commission, after all, the last commission he will do before setting off himself.
Hours passed until his own room was tinted with the paint of sunset, pinks and oranges stretched along the floor like carpet stains. Body – still. The cogs that had been turning have stopped, frozen in place, rusted. Eyes fixated towards empty, negative space. Dust particles drifting in the spotlight, vanquished by the touch of coming darkness. His lips are dry and cracked, bones whisper the sensation of deep fatigue. Constellations of stars embodying the sky can already be seen through his foggy window, winking at the sea that was calm but brooding. Feelings come in tides, brushing the shores with unnamed tones, no real intent as it moves. Intent. Motive. He has a motive, he has an intention. And yet, for some unknown reason, he can’t bring himself the will power to move. Weak. He feels vulnerable. His walls are still higher than ever, old stone bricks rising to the sun, reinforced by the nest of vines growing between the spaces. But who was to say that these emotions were unable to take flight? They are soaring above the walls he had left to grow so tall and diving him, raining his fears and discomforts, refusing to be ignored and begging to be understood. Epiphanies drizzle into his mind, epiphanies that weren’t supposed to dawn on him until he realises another. All that’s left is self-consciousness, a deep and sonorous fear.
If he were braver, he would like to bury his face in his paws, close his eyes and tune out the living world around him. He is a creature who lives on the surface of a breathing planet, full of life and intoxicated by mortal sin. Usually, he feels nauseous because it’s as if he can feel the very rotation of the earth, moving him and making him lose his touch, unable to keep balance. He is yet another insignificant speck, floating and undignified. Somehow, crying about it felt less weak than getting angry and fighting others about it. Maybe it was because whenever he felt this rage, this familiar and burning fire, it was because he was refusing to see some aspect of it…as if he was repelled by his own being, disappointed in himself and unable to truly accept things as they were. Instead of crying he feels himself stiffening like dry clay, giving up and sulking, muscles hardening. He would stay this way until, suddenly, his bones begin to click in place, forcing himself to breathe a little lighter. They move, cracking into reanimation, lifting him upwards. Perhaps the bravest thing he can do now is run away for a while, leave the island that has been rotting and choking in negativity, infested by his emotions that continued to brew within the conditions of his insecurities.
It would be like salvation. A mother who cradles her young, offering redemption no matter how great or small the price, kissing him gently on the forehead. Sweet grasp, holding him. Weightlessness finds his heart, beating softly with reassurance, quietly loving him. He imagines it to be so graceful, kind and giving, the sensation of drifting into clouds. Maybe one day his own flames can come to resemble that love that he believed to be real – real but unattainable, locked away and out of his reach. It was a disgusting move: to flaunt something so beautiful in front of his darting eyes, skimming over her wonderful form only to realise that she was just an abstract idea, a malevolent manifestation of a dream. It was a dream that tasted like ripe, plump fruits, succulent and refreshing. The reality of that dream is bone dry, not even sour or bitter. Nefarious is the universe that watches him, staring without pity through those uncertain irises, clouded with indifference. Desires only strangle his ability to function, shaking his pride that had been ruined countless times. How dare they, he thinks, give him such feelings. Life wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't know what love was.
His ego is the only thing that keeps him going, the only thing that makes him turn a blind eye to all those thoughts that refused to simply stay put. Silence is always broken by the murmurs, the feelings that can scream within the midst of a vacuum. Horrifying memories, countless in the past. Some are waiting to be made, lurking within unforeseen futures, poised with venom. Standing without warning, flared as a threat, biting when he is unarmed and unprotected. The Reaver shudders a sigh, slowly gathering his items. Only the valuables, he reminds himself. He shifts through them slowly, rummaging within his bag, trying to keep things orderly. It would give him some peace of mind to know that at least something sits in his control. He needs time for himself, time to think and escape the island for some time. Maybe a week, maybe a month. It was ironic how he blamed himself for not being there, how all he felt was swarming guilt that grew within him like weeds. Oh, but he needs to be stronger. He would like to be stronger, able to push past the struggles of both himself and those around him, carry everyone to safety. At least by then he’d feel like a real hero, no longer having to feel so miniscule to the ones around him.
Everyone must be destined for glory and he can sense their shadows looming and growing above him. It exasperates his very core, shakes and rattles him the wrong way. His fury are the fault lines of his temple, rumbling into earthquakes, avalanches rolling from mountains – crumbling and dilapidating. He’s always felt so small, too small to fit the size of his ambition. The way he has always coped with it was to keep working, to continue to thrive and push his limit, to keep walking forward. With every step he feels gravity tighten its grip, feeling his paws sink further into the ground as he organises his home, keeping everything in place for when he will be away. He doesn’t have a particular plan in mind. He will let the earth take him where it wishes. Hopefully it will be somewhere quieter, harmonious strings wrapping him, telling him it will be alright. No longer will he have to be bedridden by the recent memories, the resounding shrill that patterns within the convolutions of his brain. Maybe he could think himself a danger to society but, despite the insults and death threats he fired, he never really intended to destroy everything he touched. And yet he was realising how uncontrolled he was. If he wasn’t careful, the entire island could catch on fire from his own emotions, paying for the anger that was nurtured within him.
The door swings gently open, the ebony of the night swarms his light body, engulfing his bright appearance. Speckles of stardust is glittered across the blackened canvas, unoppressed by clouds, disruptions vacant for the serene sight. He too is a disruption of the landscape's tranquillity, daring to walk within the territory of the sleeping sun, his current goal to find the Dealer and place her commission at her doorstep. The weapon has been carefully wrapped in animal skins, shape indenting the soft fur, allowing the eyes to immediately guess what exactly was inside. He is careful not to drop it. Although it won’t break, he would rather everything was dealt with professionally, without a single grain ruining the texture of its covering when he finally places it down. Breathing feels a little easier, maybe because he knows that at least one thing in his life here has gone right. Nothing has been ruined.
Disorganised, the ragdoll returns to his abode, sitting in front of a blank page. Candlelight illuminates all that is needed, shadow stretching as a pencil hovers with a ghostly grip. To be frank, he doubts anyone will even care. It’s always bothered him with the idea that he might have to announce his plans even though he knew that no one was really phased by his leaving. Even when beneath all that earth, regenerating from his injuries, the main sort of ‘concern’ he was given was a reminder not to act too brash after he had just narrowly escaped death. His teeth press together, sitting between the grooves. There is Eijirou, he reminds himself, but even then, he knows that he hasn’t seen much of the Privateer. It was as if the other male wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe he now only had time for that reptile. It was his fault. Those were the words that so frequently echoed in his mind, always pointing the blame at himself, unable to find solace because he was so racked with this undeniable feeling of loss and sentiment. He just wanted to feel whole again. In both worlds had his sense of victory been stripped from him, his ego shattered. To prove himself worthy was something that continued to draw miles of distances away from his grasp.
The writing is jagged, sharp edges define the main features, reminiscent of how he wrote kanji. Graphite is pressed hard against the sheet of paper, unsmudged because there was no palm to obscure the writing, dark and contrasting to the ivory page. No letter can be mistaken with another as if the formation of each letter was carefully decided upon. For a moment, he considers posting the notice on his door, but he knows the rain will wear it away, erasing his efforts that he leaves it on his desk. If anyone so much as cares to look for him, they will likely help themselves, probably knock before entering anyway when there is no response. It hurts to assume that others will look out for him, but he doesn’t want Kirishima to think he has purposely left his friend, or Goldenluxury to be displeased with his commission and need it changed. All these things had to be put into consideration, but maybe it was because he liked to feel needed. It was nice to know that he wasn’t another extra, a being that existed only to fill up space, become one with the backdrop. He wanted to be more than his destiny allowed him to be.
When he places the pencil back onto the table, a soft tap could be heard upon the wooden surface, a crispness to its muted noise. He leaves two pebbles to hold down his explanation note before gathering his items, hauling it over his back and leaving through his front door. He doesn’t keep his leaving a secret; there is no need to remain concealed within the veil of the abyssal night. He knows he will come back and there is no real reason to be ashamed of what he was doing. The Reaver was always out training for something but he now needed a bigger field, a place where someone wouldn’t be hurt if they walked in at the wrong time. Elsewhere. He isn’t erred by his need to become stronger, it was natural for anyone to want to continue to build themselves up. The only thing he was bothered with was his weakness and how much he would need to train. Thus, it seemed a priority to him to focus on his combat, his training. He doesn’t need distractions or anyone holding him back, but for now he will focus on his walking, the strides of his feet.
The ground felt a little cold as he moved away, pawprints left behind. He doesn’t fall for the temptation to look back, disappearing without fuss.
An aching in his bones, a tremor that persists. Hands outstretched, intangible to the skin, intoxicating to the timid mind. Emotions intermingle and coil like snakes, knotting themselves over and over; disarranged. Sanguine seeps within the empty cracks. No room for sentiment, illuminating to the eyes of glass. Gaze like a mirror. Behind: the soul remains unknown, unseen to the onlooker who fails to be invited. There is only embitterment within the roots of the ineffable entanglement, frustrations slither within the penumbra of tall walls, tipped with stealth and glamorous uncertainties. Colours are diluted, drained and dripping into the wooden floorboards, swimming within the foundation of sands. The dust of embers soars through meticulous smoke, the thick and groggy air, darker than plaintive clouds that breathe a heavy grey. Warm but golden glow, red and orange dew, sunlit cries. Sound echoes between the metal clangs – a resonate reverberance, ringing in both ears. He recoils, draws himself backwards with a materialised breath. Alabaster departing from his lips. No flicker of good bye between the shower of sparks.
Every fibre, tired and needs a break. Restlessly shifting from gear to gear, hearth roaring against the glint of earth. A ravenous hunger rumbling at the heart of a fire. The luminous glow of heated metal melts at the brim, pouring and unable to be contained, dead light when it touches the ground in an inaudible fall. Muscles made of lead continue to hammer. Soreness tightens at each cell, constricting every time stone hits stone. The work is steady, maintains a certain rhythm. Too late to slow down for fear of inviting unwelcomed sounds, dissonance to the trained ears. He is accustomed to the unmistaken noises, a choir that continues to sing in tune the longer he blacksmiths. Day by day, his forge becomes more crowded, walls closing in with weapon after weapon, piling without end. The stone blade hisses when he drowns it within the embrace of water, wheezing as it spills at the edges. Scarlet eyes drip towards the almost finished work, tracing the curved shape until he finds a place to begin chipping the finer details with his earthly abilities. Engraving in a mechanical font: Goldenluxury Roux. This was her commission, after all, the last commission he will do before setting off himself.
Hours passed until his own room was tinted with the paint of sunset, pinks and oranges stretched along the floor like carpet stains. Body – still. The cogs that had been turning have stopped, frozen in place, rusted. Eyes fixated towards empty, negative space. Dust particles drifting in the spotlight, vanquished by the touch of coming darkness. His lips are dry and cracked, bones whisper the sensation of deep fatigue. Constellations of stars embodying the sky can already be seen through his foggy window, winking at the sea that was calm but brooding. Feelings come in tides, brushing the shores with unnamed tones, no real intent as it moves. Intent. Motive. He has a motive, he has an intention. And yet, for some unknown reason, he can’t bring himself the will power to move. Weak. He feels vulnerable. His walls are still higher than ever, old stone bricks rising to the sun, reinforced by the nest of vines growing between the spaces. But who was to say that these emotions were unable to take flight? They are soaring above the walls he had left to grow so tall and diving him, raining his fears and discomforts, refusing to be ignored and begging to be understood. Epiphanies drizzle into his mind, epiphanies that weren’t supposed to dawn on him until he realises another. All that’s left is self-consciousness, a deep and sonorous fear.
If he were braver, he would like to bury his face in his paws, close his eyes and tune out the living world around him. He is a creature who lives on the surface of a breathing planet, full of life and intoxicated by mortal sin. Usually, he feels nauseous because it’s as if he can feel the very rotation of the earth, moving him and making him lose his touch, unable to keep balance. He is yet another insignificant speck, floating and undignified. Somehow, crying about it felt less weak than getting angry and fighting others about it. Maybe it was because whenever he felt this rage, this familiar and burning fire, it was because he was refusing to see some aspect of it…as if he was repelled by his own being, disappointed in himself and unable to truly accept things as they were. Instead of crying he feels himself stiffening like dry clay, giving up and sulking, muscles hardening. He would stay this way until, suddenly, his bones begin to click in place, forcing himself to breathe a little lighter. They move, cracking into reanimation, lifting him upwards. Perhaps the bravest thing he can do now is run away for a while, leave the island that has been rotting and choking in negativity, infested by his emotions that continued to brew within the conditions of his insecurities.
It would be like salvation. A mother who cradles her young, offering redemption no matter how great or small the price, kissing him gently on the forehead. Sweet grasp, holding him. Weightlessness finds his heart, beating softly with reassurance, quietly loving him. He imagines it to be so graceful, kind and giving, the sensation of drifting into clouds. Maybe one day his own flames can come to resemble that love that he believed to be real – real but unattainable, locked away and out of his reach. It was a disgusting move: to flaunt something so beautiful in front of his darting eyes, skimming over her wonderful form only to realise that she was just an abstract idea, a malevolent manifestation of a dream. It was a dream that tasted like ripe, plump fruits, succulent and refreshing. The reality of that dream is bone dry, not even sour or bitter. Nefarious is the universe that watches him, staring without pity through those uncertain irises, clouded with indifference. Desires only strangle his ability to function, shaking his pride that had been ruined countless times. How dare they, he thinks, give him such feelings. Life wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't know what love was.
His ego is the only thing that keeps him going, the only thing that makes him turn a blind eye to all those thoughts that refused to simply stay put. Silence is always broken by the murmurs, the feelings that can scream within the midst of a vacuum. Horrifying memories, countless in the past. Some are waiting to be made, lurking within unforeseen futures, poised with venom. Standing without warning, flared as a threat, biting when he is unarmed and unprotected. The Reaver shudders a sigh, slowly gathering his items. Only the valuables, he reminds himself. He shifts through them slowly, rummaging within his bag, trying to keep things orderly. It would give him some peace of mind to know that at least something sits in his control. He needs time for himself, time to think and escape the island for some time. Maybe a week, maybe a month. It was ironic how he blamed himself for not being there, how all he felt was swarming guilt that grew within him like weeds. Oh, but he needs to be stronger. He would like to be stronger, able to push past the struggles of both himself and those around him, carry everyone to safety. At least by then he’d feel like a real hero, no longer having to feel so miniscule to the ones around him.
Everyone must be destined for glory and he can sense their shadows looming and growing above him. It exasperates his very core, shakes and rattles him the wrong way. His fury are the fault lines of his temple, rumbling into earthquakes, avalanches rolling from mountains – crumbling and dilapidating. He’s always felt so small, too small to fit the size of his ambition. The way he has always coped with it was to keep working, to continue to thrive and push his limit, to keep walking forward. With every step he feels gravity tighten its grip, feeling his paws sink further into the ground as he organises his home, keeping everything in place for when he will be away. He doesn’t have a particular plan in mind. He will let the earth take him where it wishes. Hopefully it will be somewhere quieter, harmonious strings wrapping him, telling him it will be alright. No longer will he have to be bedridden by the recent memories, the resounding shrill that patterns within the convolutions of his brain. Maybe he could think himself a danger to society but, despite the insults and death threats he fired, he never really intended to destroy everything he touched. And yet he was realising how uncontrolled he was. If he wasn’t careful, the entire island could catch on fire from his own emotions, paying for the anger that was nurtured within him.
The door swings gently open, the ebony of the night swarms his light body, engulfing his bright appearance. Speckles of stardust is glittered across the blackened canvas, unoppressed by clouds, disruptions vacant for the serene sight. He too is a disruption of the landscape's tranquillity, daring to walk within the territory of the sleeping sun, his current goal to find the Dealer and place her commission at her doorstep. The weapon has been carefully wrapped in animal skins, shape indenting the soft fur, allowing the eyes to immediately guess what exactly was inside. He is careful not to drop it. Although it won’t break, he would rather everything was dealt with professionally, without a single grain ruining the texture of its covering when he finally places it down. Breathing feels a little easier, maybe because he knows that at least one thing in his life here has gone right. Nothing has been ruined.
Disorganised, the ragdoll returns to his abode, sitting in front of a blank page. Candlelight illuminates all that is needed, shadow stretching as a pencil hovers with a ghostly grip. To be frank, he doubts anyone will even care. It’s always bothered him with the idea that he might have to announce his plans even though he knew that no one was really phased by his leaving. Even when beneath all that earth, regenerating from his injuries, the main sort of ‘concern’ he was given was a reminder not to act too brash after he had just narrowly escaped death. His teeth press together, sitting between the grooves. There is Eijirou, he reminds himself, but even then, he knows that he hasn’t seen much of the Privateer. It was as if the other male wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe he now only had time for that reptile. It was his fault. Those were the words that so frequently echoed in his mind, always pointing the blame at himself, unable to find solace because he was so racked with this undeniable feeling of loss and sentiment. He just wanted to feel whole again. In both worlds had his sense of victory been stripped from him, his ego shattered. To prove himself worthy was something that continued to draw miles of distances away from his grasp.
Gone training. Will be back.
- Bakugou Katsuki.
- Bakugou Katsuki.
The writing is jagged, sharp edges define the main features, reminiscent of how he wrote kanji. Graphite is pressed hard against the sheet of paper, unsmudged because there was no palm to obscure the writing, dark and contrasting to the ivory page. No letter can be mistaken with another as if the formation of each letter was carefully decided upon. For a moment, he considers posting the notice on his door, but he knows the rain will wear it away, erasing his efforts that he leaves it on his desk. If anyone so much as cares to look for him, they will likely help themselves, probably knock before entering anyway when there is no response. It hurts to assume that others will look out for him, but he doesn’t want Kirishima to think he has purposely left his friend, or Goldenluxury to be displeased with his commission and need it changed. All these things had to be put into consideration, but maybe it was because he liked to feel needed. It was nice to know that he wasn’t another extra, a being that existed only to fill up space, become one with the backdrop. He wanted to be more than his destiny allowed him to be.
When he places the pencil back onto the table, a soft tap could be heard upon the wooden surface, a crispness to its muted noise. He leaves two pebbles to hold down his explanation note before gathering his items, hauling it over his back and leaving through his front door. He doesn’t keep his leaving a secret; there is no need to remain concealed within the veil of the abyssal night. He knows he will come back and there is no real reason to be ashamed of what he was doing. The Reaver was always out training for something but he now needed a bigger field, a place where someone wouldn’t be hurt if they walked in at the wrong time. Elsewhere. He isn’t erred by his need to become stronger, it was natural for anyone to want to continue to build themselves up. The only thing he was bothered with was his weakness and how much he would need to train. Thus, it seemed a priority to him to focus on his combat, his training. He doesn’t need distractions or anyone holding him back, but for now he will focus on his walking, the strides of his feet.
The ground felt a little cold as he moved away, pawprints left behind. He doesn’t fall for the temptation to look back, disappearing without fuss.
