Still feel down. Sorry if my work isn't up to par because of it.
oOoOo
She lay there, sobbing, pathetic, broken. The room was dank and smelly, and shrouded in darkness. It was something not even a mangy dog would be able to live comfortably in, much less a little girl.
She was, at the moment, trying in vain to pull the dirty blanket up to her shoulders while also making sure it covered her feet. It was a desperate struggle that wasn't bearing fruit any time soon.
Even at thirteen, Crona was already a gangly girl. Her shoulders were slender, collarbones protruding, and if she turned sideways, Ragnarok was sure she would disappear, and he along with her. Despite this, he thought in the comfort of his own mind, she was shaping up to be quite pretty. Legs that went for miles, and long tresses of cotton candy pink hair that framed her face and curled like hands around her. And those eyes. Those big, grey, soulful eyes. Not that the Demon Blade would ever fucking admit it to the brat, but she had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.
(A/N she has long hair. Sorry. I always picture fem crona with long hair. deal.)
They had been 'partnered', if you could call it that, for about a year now, and Ragnarok honestly could not imagine his life otherwise. Yes, life here seriously blew balls ninety percent of the time. Medusa was a crazy, abusive bitch and the food sucked. Crona cried a lot (although he couldn't blame her) and they were thus locked in the Dark Room for days on end.
At the same time, in the same instant, he was glad to be here. Before, what was he? Just a thug, a tattooed, dirty, loser. At the age of seventeen he had been out on the streets selling drugs, shooting up and pissing his life away for nothing. He could see that now. He could see it because, now, he had something to live for. Someone to live for.
He was her protecter. As much as he would abuse her himself, he would make up for it by keeping her safe no matter what, by taking the worst of Medusa's wrath so she didn't have to, by comforting her when she thought she was completely alone.
And that was why, despite the tears, and the patheticness, he forced himself out of her back, and wrapped his arms around her, gloved fingers holding her tightly. She shuddered once, then relaxed into him, letting him heat her up and guide her gently, cautiously into sleep.
"Thanks, Raggy." She murmured sleepily into her pillow.
"Don't mention it, kid." He said gruffly, trying not to let his pleasure at her comment show. "And I've told you before, don't call me Raggy."
Crona giggled faintly, then nodded solemnly, trying to at least pretend to be serious.
Ragnarok sighed as the young girl fell into a no doubt dreamless sleep. He was glad she was getting the rest that she very much needed. It didn't come often.
He wondered what she would think of him, before. Before this mess. If she had seen him in the sewers of Death City, begging, busking (A/N playing guitar in the street for money) or selling drugs. Would she have passed him by, eyes not even registering his hunched over form. Or would she have stopped for a second, curious, head tilted just so, before moving on?
Or maybe she would come to him like they did sometimes, with one or two friends, nervous and giggling, to buy weed. Would she have found him handsome, he wondered, under the mask of dirt and poverty and desperation? He liked to think she would. He liked to think a lot of things, but that, sadly, never made them true.
The one thing he held onto, his faith, his devotion, was that he was a part of her. He was with her, through thick and thin, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, in life and in death. They were together, joined.
They were a part of each other.
