UNREST. (Closed)
@constrainme
Back. Forth. Cold, wet, up and down her lower half. Chill seeping in.
Land. Dry land, sand and shells crinkling like brittle bone marrow beneath her boots.
She still wasn’t fully acclimated yet. Everything was wrong. Sensations like the the sand crystals lodged between her toes were sparking like bootleg fireworks. Colors blared and bled on their canvases, sounds droned and scraped and screeched.
This body was rejecting her the way a standing force tends to do under the assault of a foreign entrant.
Much as the mind was willing, basic instincts are not so easily quelled.
Said mind, one of her own ductile little despair scamps, was of a Kendo specialist, a sharp-eyed raven-locked warrior once prideful, disciplined. Her lips were sodden with drool when she begged on two bent knees. All that was asked for was a volunteer.
The pain she felt was overwhelmingly numb, a feverish chill of biological revulsion. She was bathing in it on the way here, kept the dullness of the long voyage a bit spicier.
The numbness-induced stupor had settled some since she’d been deposited on this beach. That was good, it made it difficult to command her limbs. Walking. Walking was a wonderful hell right now.
The scathing pain stuck around, which didn’t trouble her any. Some days pain was barely felt, other days it was titillating, other days like an old friend come to visit.
Right now, it was simply efficient. It quieted the spasms and numbness, and kept her consciousness afloat. It had been swimming in and out with the batting of the waves against the ship she was deposited from. From a casual observer’s, this inner unrest was nearly imperceptible. Only her stride was slightly unsteady as her heels dug slight holes in the beachhead she walked the length of.
As she neared the cusp of the island, the orange sun finally sunk beneath the waving blue girth of the tide.
Jabberwock Island. Nagito Komaeda. Hajime Hinata. Makoto Naegi.
The mantra of her thoughts reiterated its chorus as she gazed inland.
Banking on hunches and rot-covered memories, she searched the bleak dilapidated warehouses, one of which didn’t contain a marshmallow-haired boy with a spearhead through his sternum.
Of course. Why would it?
Dreams. Memories. Code. Didn’t matter. No body. No worry.
Yet, she still imagined she saw him there when curiosity compelled her to look inside, stained scarlet searing into a dull, piss-poor green sweatshirt.
The jacket awash in his blood. The awash agony petrified on his face like a mural.
The ghastly afterimage burned discoloration into her pupils, and for a moment the heat in her crotch became almost unbearable.
Then, a sight branded her focus, the sight of pallor and poorly laundered clothes.
There was the sound of a jaw unhinging as her second objective tried not to meet her gaze.
The monarch’s hands grasped her elbows, cupping herself as if she might shatter like a mishandled teacup.
An imitation he’d know well.
“Komaeda-kuuuuuuuuuuun...~” A hot, waxy bit of saliva fell on the long-held u sound.
“I’m overwhelmed...the ecstasy is searing...I’ve missed you so much it seems I may ACTUALLY rot away and die before I’m even given the chance to touch you again.”
The saccharine sweetness was almost fully real.
She found she really DID miss him, and the expression on his face, awash with that same petrified agony, did him many favors indeed.
Spit like bilgewater fell from her lips, and she licked it away.
She righted herself as her expression flowed from that insatiable hunger into an anguished frown like a river of grease.
“Oh. But you probably wouldn’t like that, would you? Sososoo soryyyyyyyyyy~, I almost forgot.”
She swayed like a specter caught in the wind as she drew closer, slowly at first.
In a freakish blitz she sunk her fingers into a seizing grasp on Komaeda’s shoulder.
As she drew her mouth to his ear like a consort, she exhaled unfiltered lust into his earlobes.
“If I withered away like that, that’d rob us both of the pleasure of seeing you do it yourself.”
