the devil on your shoulder // Ymir x Historia
Mar 13, 2014 9:43:01 GMT -5
Post by Python on Mar 13, 2014 9:43:01 GMT -5
[presto]  [/presto] |
Y M I R
{ I live for me ;
There were many things a girl could do on a day like this - idle hands were the worst of inconveniences to an impatient mind, and with no missions on their agenda Ymir was not about to keep herself cooped up like an obedient zoo animal. She was far too selfish for proper behavior, and after a few extra hours of sleep she had little choice but to climb out of bed, escape her quarters and keep herself occupied somehow. She could take the predictable way out and arrange a private training session for herself – swing a blade around, lop a few fake heads off, practice her hand-to-hand on a sack of meat, maybe tweak with her 3D maneuver gear. As thrilling as that sounded, she wasn’t in the mood to tolerate something that felt so routine. She trained a lot, just like everybody else did, and she wouldn’t be surprised if a few of her comrades were outside training right now. Today was a rest day, though, so why spend that time exerting herself? Call me lazy, I don’t give a shit. She would rather waste her time on something enjoyable.
Another option was taking a stroll into the city limits, where citizens roamed and city life thrived under luxurious roofs and enormous television screens that would display this year’s Hunger Games. She could visit a bar, have a drink or two. Relax. That sounded much more appealing than her previous suggestion. We have booze here, though, don’t we? There were always drinks in the kitchen because they were hard-working adults straining themselves in a dangerous business. They needed this shit sometimes; she wouldn’t even deny craving it after certain missions. The blood and stress took its toll, not that she minded relieving it all with few drinks. But drinking only after missions sucked the fun out of everything – they should drink just for the hell of it, too. Why not? They were mature adults.
Usually.
She took a detour to the kitchen, and not by accident. She intended on visiting a room she often visited at least once a day – one with a cute blonde inside. Not Armin, you idiot. Historia was always up and awake earlier than Ymir was on rest days. If she was lucky she would catch the blonde while she was still deciding on how to utilize her free time, but it was more than likely that Ymir would face a closed door with empty promises. She waited ten seconds after three loud knocks and listened for that timid voice to respond. No answer. She shrugged and walked off, eyes aimed toward the kitchen. Alcohol first, Historia after. Hopefully she wouldn’t encounter Sasha on the way – the infamous “potato girl” (a nickname that would never fade, she would make sure of it) was always loitering about in the kitchens, devouring everything she touched that smelled remotely like it could be eaten. She would rather not deal with any nuisances right now, not that she wasn’t prepared to shoot a few snarky remarks her way.
She walked into a barren kitchen. Nothing was cooking, nothing was opened and everything was spotless. Somebody had cleaned here, probably to appease (more like to avoid the wrath of) Levi. That was another thing she could occupy herself with, but she didn’t live to suck up to the shortstack, so cleaning was not an option for her right now, not when he would force them all to do it later. With no distractions in sight she raided the liquor cabinet with a hopeful heart. Make that an empty liquor cabinet. She would be lying if she claimed not to feel her heart sink in disappointment. She had psyched herself up for intoxication, and now she would have to make a run into town if she hoped to soothe this blooming craving. She would also have to change her schedule.
Historia first, alcohol later.
She checked outside initially, bathing in yellow sunlight as she paid a visit to all of the usual locations. No blondie there. Next she wandered into the library – the wrong blondie was seated in one of the chairs, his nose buried in a book. She turned away without bothering to interrupt Armin’s studious trance. Not outside, not in the library, not in the kitchen, obviously – the weight room, perhaps? Why not. She sauntered through corridors and rounded corners with her hands in her pockets, dark hair tied lazily back into a sloppy ponytail. They had all seen each other at their best and their worst during rest days, so there was no point in trying to impress anyone with tidy appearances unless someone desired a favor from Levi. Good luck to anyone brave enough to dare something that bold.
The door to the weight room was wide open, and the echoes of clinking metal and heavy breaths told her that somebody was inside. It could be anybody, really – Eren, Jean, Reiner, could be all of them training together, spotting one another as if that would end well. A room full of sweaty men? No thank you. But when she slipped past the door frame she spotted only one figure in the room – a figure with bright blonde hair and slender hands grasping at the metal above her eyes. She was about to bench press without assistance. Ymir quickly stole a glance at the weights and counted.
”You’ll need a spotter for that,”
A small frame like Historia’s could be crushed under such weight, not that she didn’t trust the girl to bench press safely on her own. It was possible, but heavier amounts called for more precaution. ”Making dangerous choices by yourself? Keep that up and I’ll start calling you Eren instead of Historia,” she teased, a smirk gracing her freckles as she slowly made her way over to her. ”It’s his job to be stupid, not yours.” She grazed her fingers along the cold metal of the bar, hands hovering next to Historia’s before she placed them beneath the bar itself, staring her in the eye. ”I’ll spot you.”
Another option was taking a stroll into the city limits, where citizens roamed and city life thrived under luxurious roofs and enormous television screens that would display this year’s Hunger Games. She could visit a bar, have a drink or two. Relax. That sounded much more appealing than her previous suggestion. We have booze here, though, don’t we? There were always drinks in the kitchen because they were hard-working adults straining themselves in a dangerous business. They needed this shit sometimes; she wouldn’t even deny craving it after certain missions. The blood and stress took its toll, not that she minded relieving it all with few drinks. But drinking only after missions sucked the fun out of everything – they should drink just for the hell of it, too. Why not? They were mature adults.
Usually.
She took a detour to the kitchen, and not by accident. She intended on visiting a room she often visited at least once a day – one with a cute blonde inside. Not Armin, you idiot. Historia was always up and awake earlier than Ymir was on rest days. If she was lucky she would catch the blonde while she was still deciding on how to utilize her free time, but it was more than likely that Ymir would face a closed door with empty promises. She waited ten seconds after three loud knocks and listened for that timid voice to respond. No answer. She shrugged and walked off, eyes aimed toward the kitchen. Alcohol first, Historia after. Hopefully she wouldn’t encounter Sasha on the way – the infamous “potato girl” (a nickname that would never fade, she would make sure of it) was always loitering about in the kitchens, devouring everything she touched that smelled remotely like it could be eaten. She would rather not deal with any nuisances right now, not that she wasn’t prepared to shoot a few snarky remarks her way.
She walked into a barren kitchen. Nothing was cooking, nothing was opened and everything was spotless. Somebody had cleaned here, probably to appease (more like to avoid the wrath of) Levi. That was another thing she could occupy herself with, but she didn’t live to suck up to the shortstack, so cleaning was not an option for her right now, not when he would force them all to do it later. With no distractions in sight she raided the liquor cabinet with a hopeful heart. Make that an empty liquor cabinet. She would be lying if she claimed not to feel her heart sink in disappointment. She had psyched herself up for intoxication, and now she would have to make a run into town if she hoped to soothe this blooming craving. She would also have to change her schedule.
Historia first, alcohol later.
She checked outside initially, bathing in yellow sunlight as she paid a visit to all of the usual locations. No blondie there. Next she wandered into the library – the wrong blondie was seated in one of the chairs, his nose buried in a book. She turned away without bothering to interrupt Armin’s studious trance. Not outside, not in the library, not in the kitchen, obviously – the weight room, perhaps? Why not. She sauntered through corridors and rounded corners with her hands in her pockets, dark hair tied lazily back into a sloppy ponytail. They had all seen each other at their best and their worst during rest days, so there was no point in trying to impress anyone with tidy appearances unless someone desired a favor from Levi. Good luck to anyone brave enough to dare something that bold.
The door to the weight room was wide open, and the echoes of clinking metal and heavy breaths told her that somebody was inside. It could be anybody, really – Eren, Jean, Reiner, could be all of them training together, spotting one another as if that would end well. A room full of sweaty men? No thank you. But when she slipped past the door frame she spotted only one figure in the room – a figure with bright blonde hair and slender hands grasping at the metal above her eyes. She was about to bench press without assistance. Ymir quickly stole a glance at the weights and counted.
”You’ll need a spotter for that,”
A small frame like Historia’s could be crushed under such weight, not that she didn’t trust the girl to bench press safely on her own. It was possible, but heavier amounts called for more precaution. ”Making dangerous choices by yourself? Keep that up and I’ll start calling you Eren instead of Historia,” she teased, a smirk gracing her freckles as she slowly made her way over to her. ”It’s his job to be stupid, not yours.” She grazed her fingers along the cold metal of the bar, hands hovering next to Historia’s before she placed them beneath the bar itself, staring her in the eye. ”I’ll spot you.”
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