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"Switch" A KKM Fan Fiction
"...I am so bored."
"For once, you say something that isn't completely stupid, Wimp."
"Don't call me a wimp!"
Murata rolled his eyes at the antics of the royal couple, and glanced around the inside of the Tomb of the Shinou.
As usual, it was very dull and empty, only four figures currently in the room. Yuuri Shibuya, Wolfram von Bielefeld, Ken Murata also called the Daikenja, and last but definately not least, Shinou-Heika himself.
Shinou sighed and glanced over at Murata.
"So, Daikenja, if we're all in agreement to being bored, then what do you supose we do?" he asked from his position on the Bottom of the Mirror, where the Soushu had once been sealed away.
"Like I have any ideas. Why don't you come up with some of your own for once?!" he snapped angrily.
Shinou sniffed and turned his head away.
"That's what I have you around for, so I don't have to strain myself thinking of any ideas," he explained in a matter-of-fact voice.
Murata rolled hi
Never Tickle a Sleeping DemonAnd with a mighty cry, the great Demon King was brutally usurped from his royal perch. The anguished scream was heard throughout the quarters as he was banished from his resting bed. He landed on the stone with a thunk. Yuuri lay back on the hard stone in dazed confusion. He grunted as he righted himself, and sat up straight on the stone floor. Darkness and moonlight filtering through the glass windows and blinds, and he looked confusedly about.
"What happened oh man, not again!" the boy groaned and ruffled his hair. "That's the third time this month!"
His Majesty looked behind him to see his royal bed, and his eyes glowered when he spotted the second body. The offending foot resting boldly out from under the blue covers, and he glared past it to look at the cherubically serene face sprouting from the frilly pink nightgown.
"You're such a wimp " the angelic face muttered in sleep, "You weirdo "
Yuuri quickly seethed and rose to his knees, intoning his irritated displeas
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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