𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙺 𝙸𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝚂𝚃 — but not so fast that Zack doesn't see him coming. There's no beef between them [ AT LEAST, ZACK DOESN'T THINK SO ... ? ], so Zack only slightly stiffens, alright with waiting it out. No sense in extending a closed fist, Ma would say. Zack's eyes go crosseyed, watching the other, and then — a crisp clack! Reno's finger is a surprising sting against his cranium. Zack's jaw drops open in surprise.

( 🦂 ) : what boundary, once crossed, changes your muse forever

There are some things that Sylvain cannot forgive. Once his eyes have been opened to something he cannot close them again; He may not divulge his opinion openly at every opportunity or fight to change people's minds constantly if they disagree, but he will stand his ground if he feels that it's worth it.

For a more specific answer to this question: When Sylvain receives the Lance of Ruin. When the Professor argues that he should learn to wield it properly, Sylvain knows somewhere in his heart that things will never be the same. The crest that he's been loved and hated for, that his family celebrated and his brother despised him for, is a weapon in and of itself. He watched the lance corrupt Miklan into a monster--And then he must proceed to use it himself. What does that make Sylvain? She has to wonder sometimes when she's alone if her ability to use it means that she's monstrous in some way. The Crest of Gautier must be, at its core, something cruel if a lack of it turns people so horribly. His connection to the lance is nearly something psychic; She understands it and feels attuned to it. Never has a weapon felt more right in her hands or disgusted her more. He gets used to it, but the impending sense of doom that it carries even before the war is a real weight on Sylvain's conscience. She'd never talk about it, though. Complaining about things other people see as a blessing sucks.

"just don't let me fall."

❝ 'm not gonna let you fall, noct. i got you. ❞

he's just thankful that he's got a bit of a sleeper build and lifting all those heavy machines has worked in his favor, especially for moments like this. @aicidos' leg cramping in the middle of the wilderness quite a ways from camp was certainly not ideal, and prompto can't help but feel a little bad given he was the one who practically begged for his friend to join him. figures that wanting to take a picture of the sunrise was a task that wasn't so simple. well, all he could do was make things right now. he bounces noctis on his back to get a better grip on the prince's legs, boots falling quietly along the well worn road on their sad little trip back to camp. no doubt he'd be getting an earful from iggy and gladio.

❝ just try and think of something other than your leg or take a nap, we'll be back in camp before you know it. and . . . sorry. ❞

since most of my ocs are written for rp purposes the "plots" i have in mind for them are very open-ended with room to go...wherever. medraut is kind of the exception given she's a character made for an MMO but i also explicitly went in designing her with the idea of keeping her active & invested in the narrative without necessarily feeling like her arc in my brain has come to a close.

anyways basically all of my ocs have very sparse ideas so i can be flexible with adapting them to my rp partners' ideas and verses so that each thread feels unique to my writing partner and our approach to canon etc.. i never have an end goal in mind! i think if i wrote my characters more for self-contained worlds like fic or a webcomic or something this would be different buuuut i don't rly do that anymore kdfskjd. my characters are generally designed with the goal of bouncing off of other people instead of existing purely in my head, so everything beyond a basic level of plot idea is super malleable and adjustable and "the story" is what i end up writing with someone else etc

𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘀. seated below the high glass ceilings, so high that she feels dizzy when she turns her face skyward, her body has grown heavy with every thing which has not yet killed her. it feels like gravity is working against him, like the splintered remains called “ self ” and “ form ” are a moment away from collapsing in on themselves. like a star. but instead of creating something from the wreckage, edelgard thinks there will be nothing left when he is at last loosed from whatever is tethering her to the world. nothing at all. just a smear of blood on the ground, perhaps, long since coagulated. practically black. palm - up in his lap, he regards his hands. dark soil is caked under the nails and streaks over the creases of skin, stark against the quiet brown of her skin. the acrid scent of stiff, spined leaves sticks to them. heat pricks the nape of a slender neck and turns errant, baby - soft hairs a dark grey as they plaster to the skin. greenhouse duties don't bother her, not really, but there is to it all a quietude — one that lends itself to meditations on memories best left alone.

steady fingers press seeds into thumb - sized holes, and he is reminded of small hands and mouths, black with flies. they were burned in the charnel house. even from underground, the smell of those fires made her sick beyond belief, and she had emptied her stomach again and again onto the stone floor until there was nothing left inside him, but the heaving didn't stop. edelgard looked at her brown vomit and knew she was going to die. but by some twist of fate, he didn't. a tightness constricts his chest. some days, she wishes she had died with the rest. she covers the seeds soundlessly, and moves onto the next planter. carrying them with him is much harder than simply following them into the jelly bloat. ‘ soon. ’ he thinks as sweat drips into his eyes. ‘ i’ll see you all soon. ’

caught up in the arms of ghosts, edelgard doesn't notice his company until a hand dangles a ring of keys before his face. light dances off the edges; the sound of metal clinking against itself fills the air, which has gotten close. his gaze dart up into the familiar face of his classmate, half - hidden in shadow. the cat who caught the mouse. rubbing the excess soil off her palms on her trousers, a faint smile crosses her face. she hopes it conceals the grotesques left inside her. claude has a nasty habit of seeing too much. “ your crudeness never ceases to amaze,  claude. ” she says blithely. it can't be helped — a warmth ekes into his chest. “ where were you sneaking around this time?  if you feel so inclined to share. ”

❛ i’ll make you something. ❜

❝ are you sure ? ❞

dark eyes widen slightly in surprise, blinking dumbly at the offer. no one has ever made him something, at least, not that he could remember. perhaps the offer was thoughtless to @aicidos, something simple for someone as kind and charitable as him. but it makes yusuke want to refuse the gesture all the same, the thought that it came at a catch nagging at the back of his mind. akira wouldn't that to him though, would he ? he didn't even know what the other was even talking about. perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. so he wrings his fingers for a moment before speaking again, voice unsure when he speaks up again.

❝ well, if you wish . . . but please do not feel obligated to do anything just for me. ❞

from @aicidos

Spores cascaded on the other side of the Bebop’s viewport glass, a silent snowfall that the still figure viewing it didn’t disturb. Venus’ mustard-gray skies left shadows as the ship slowly rose in its atmosphere, ready to depart, to drift wherever the next bounty dictated. Another job done, no strings tying them down to remain fixated on this place, on the past moments below.

And yet—wreathed in cigarette smoke, Spike slouched, weighed down in too many moments. Here it all lay—another series of flashpoints in the tale that he grew ever more certain of, even as he dreaded it. No matter how good the intentions, how hopeful the dream to live past a criminal past, the price paid would always be the one they could least afford. A brother who was willing to pay anything for his sister’s sight, paying with the one thing that she prized above it all—his life. A lover who died once to be with the woman he loved, only for her to disappear, a ghost haunting past and present, never to inhabit the future.

Will that be the next payment? For her to live free, I finish him, whatever the cost. I’m not afraid to pay it…I’m afraid she won’t accept it. The whole world in front of her, and it lost all its color…like that broken girl waiting to see someone who’s never coming back. Won’t you do it? Won’t you live again, Julia?

"I had a feeling you'd be here."

Instead of accustomed annoyance, all he could feel in this unguarded state was relief—whether she intended to or not, Faye excelled at filling silences or drowning out the unwanted noise in his head, or in this case—both. His lips curled around his cigarette, the first smile he’d felt these past few days, however wry. Extending a hand, a flick of his fingers revealed his lighter, his olive branch.