nothing can stop me now @ruinskies - Tumblr Blog

Posts

ind. + selective low-activity canon-divergent roleplay blog featuring sylvain jose gautier from fire emblem three houses. please read my rules below the cut before following. penned by merit (25, he/they/sie), my multimuse blog can be found here: @spirestar.

bio. verses. prompts. headcanons. visage.

#pinned.#about.#rules.

openness

𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗱, 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲. edelgard tries to not let herself be taken by these old superstitions— that any move against holy ground will doom a heretic in this life and the next, or perhaps that the goddess herself will reach down from heaven and blot you out, blast you to tartarus. it can be hard when there is about everything a heavy weight, or when the air begins to taste of decay. when he leads sylvain through the heavy doors of garreg mach and into the crumbling wing where the nobility of his former house once stayed, he cannot shake the feeling that they are doomed. the goddess whispers in her ear that they will both die, alone and unfulfilled. it may even be one of his childhood friends that kills him. she has ruined his life, surely.

sylvain's reticence upon their return is palpable. he goes from chittering near - relentlessly, like a shrub sparrow, punctuated by these breathless little laughs as if the air were being squeezed out of him, to uncomfortable silence until they reach what she recalls was his old room: untouched by man, just by time. he stumbles over his responses. his tongue must be in knots. edelgard juts her chin out just so, her mouth a flat line. “ they will learn to accept my decision. ” he says of the strike force, because there are times as a leader where dissent is unforgivable, and this is one of them. leading by force is ugly but at times necessary. this is one of many lessons he has learned after crawling out of the muck of his childhood.

edelgard shakes her head and with it goes some of the cobwebs, but not all. the journey back from faerghus is visible on her face: plum - colored shadows below her eyes, a patch of cold - burn high on her right cheek, a split in her lower lip that has yet to heal. his patience is as thin as it ever was, if not made worse by the exhaustion of the weeks spent on horseback. “ i have made my stance clear to them and they know better than to challenge me. you shouldn’t concern yourself with these things. ” there’s no point in reminding him that they are at war, that he betrayed dimitri and his ilk for a greater cause, and that whether or not she is liked by their comrades means little now. sylvain knows this already. he is equally vain and self - conscious, that’s all. it is for this same reason that he descends on him now, searching for warmth, for a reason stronger than pure ideals that she left home. the small face below her crown is glacial.

his voice bites, but it’s closer to the warning nip of an exhausted pet who has had enough of its owner’s childish games, “ what would you like me to say, sylvain? that i asked you here for a tryst? ” once, she may have considered it. in need of release, and urged, perhaps, by an even stronger desire for real, human closeness, edelgard had watched sylvain from across the library or the mess hall and imagined her hand between her legs. her ghostly eyes had hardened to flint and she stared at his throat and the soft flesh right below his jaw. she’d thought about the gentle swell of his chest and what his skin would taste like. but they are older now.

edelgard won’t admit that she is tired and cold and can feel death creeping in her bones; for all the openness between them, there are certain appearances she must keep. instead, she lowers herself onto an old chair pushed up against the wall, close to the door. her armor butts up against itself uncomfortably and she considers removing it all, but abstains, if only to catch her breath, or maybe she is too afraid of the other woman seeing something she’d rather keep hidden. it would take seconds to excuse himself, if he wanted. but here, no - one will come looking for him. so, she stays, ignoring the lack of space that exists between herself and sylvain now. he is so close that she could collapse into his arms.

in place of an apology, a heavy sigh is stifled, pushed slowly from her nostrils. in her bloodstream are the heaviest of metals and they weigh her down to the earth and pin her there. pale eyes lift to sylvain's face, soft, but wounded. ‘ i feel like an injured animal. ’ she thinks. ‘ i am aware of my mortality. ’ he has never been further from god. “ i’ll be out of your way soon, i promise. i’d like to rest for a moment. ”

ruinskies

There's a bitterness staining Sylvain's heart that will never wash out. It's familiar to him, a comfortable fallback. The faded blue fabric draped across her old dorm's window draws it out like a recurring infection. With unsubtle irritation he crosses past Edelgard without fully moving into her space, skirting around it as if to challenge him for the sarcastic question, and yanks it free. Dust falls over him like a concentrated fall of rain and he balls the old flag up like dirty laundry. When she turns back to him, she gives a meek sort of shrug and her smirk goes wide like a crocodile's.

"I'd be pretty bad at all this if I didn't pay attention to what people think of you." Because yes, Sylvain can be self-conscious, but he's also observant. She can read a room and she knows it could save her life. It's a trait of his that's awarded his long-dead brother with eternal pity. She can defend with more than the lance that she leans against a book shelf. He's not Hubert, but in the man's absence, someone should watch the Emperor's back with fresh eyes. Sylvain drops the fabric onto the ground and kicks it under the old dusty mattress.

"And you could ask. I'm pretty eager to prove my loyalty, you know. It's probably what some of them think I'm here for anyway." His mouth shifts subtly, the corners of his lips curling just-so and he looks twenty again, into a small smile, smug and false. "I know my reputation." A tryst? With Edelgard? Ingrid once bit his head off for joking about revolving doors. In school, there wasn't a girl Sylvain hadn't tried to get for that exact purpose. She hated more than half of them and she knows what all of them thought of her. Object of affection had a literal application for him back then--He knew how to treat people to make them feel like a tossed away object in the end and he was only affectionate if he would get something out of it. His few friends were right to be disgusted. She would understand if Edelgard ever felt the same way. But he trusted her anyway. Maybe it'll be Edelgard's mistake in the end but Sylvain appreciates the faith nonetheless. Now that they're back in this place that's certain to be filled with memories that wisp between them all like ghosts. Not for the first time, Sylvain misses the simplicity of it all. It was easier to be cruel back before they all started killing each other. "Except maybe Linhardt, he's never seemed to notice much about me at all, hah."

He leans against the dresser next to where Edelgard is sitting, leaving a handprint in the dust. "Stay as long as you like," and she says exactly what they both already know, "nobody'll be looking for me. At least not for a bit--You can just say I wouldn't leave you alone." A sliver of a real smile. It's okay, it seems to say in response to the non-apology. "Any important missives I'm keeping you from writing?"

#openness #ic.#suggestive /#like hardly . whateva #i missed them.....

What kind of herb are you?

Garlic

You leave an impression wherever you go. Your heart is so strong, so determined, so willing to go after whatever hole you see in the world, whatever wound you need to fix next. You're there. You're justice, hot red and pure gold, fairness incarnate, a paladin in shining armor come to protect and cleanse and heal and yet sometimes you wonder if you're the most corrupt, dirty being in the world, a fraud, a monster in hero's clothing. The world is so intense and you are so small, so fragile, and no matter how hard you try you're never good enough. You want to be good. You want to be good enough. You try so hard and yet the world is so dark and angry and cruel. Perfection is always just out of reach and you want things to be okay so bad you bleed with it. You just want things to be right, to be good, to be fair, but you don't know if they ever can be. If you can ever be.

Not quite fitting for my Sylvain, but a fun quiz! Syl isn't very occupied by being good. He hates corruption but he's also resigned to its existence. If pushed into a situation where he feels like it's worth it to stand for what he thinks is right, he tries to hold power at an arms length. He will wield it if he must but he does not want to keep it for himself. He's seen how cruelty and corruption destroy the good in people. Not being seen as good isn't what Syl is afraid of--He's afraid of not being able to realize if the day ever comes that he has become someone who abuses people to get power or abuses power itself for his own ends. He'd rather die.

Tagged by: @heartinhands

Tagging: anyone who'd like to take the quiz :D

#dash games.#study.#way more of a medraut result tbh

heartinhands

"I'll hold you to that, man!" Eventually, Ardbert will have gear that will make even the finest adventurers seethe with jealousy. He will learn more about materia and melding, he will repair his own gear, he will strengthen and bolster and care and make his own kills and dry fine leather to replace the gloves when they crack--but that is eventually. Ardbert is not yet a hero, he is still just Ardbert, and he just got his warrior's job stone the other moon.

Sylvain's guess is right. Ardbert cares very little of Eulmore. It's a nice pit stop when needed, and they have good materials, but it's not a place someone like him could ever find much comfort in--pretty things are pretty, but Ardbert is still learning his own strength, and he'd rather appreciate the range of experiences on the road than the quiet, easy way of living of city life. He's about to say as much when Sylvain links their arms and a laugh is pulled from his lips instead.

"We weren't planning on leaving tonight--we had to come here to turn in a quest so we were thinking of staying here since night's setting fast and we don't have any other quests in the vicinity. The trip can wait 'till the morrow." He answers Sylvain's mundane question first, ignoring the more pointed and eyebrow-waggling one (and trying to also ignore the heat flourishing in his cheeks). "No candles, no. I--," his dimples sharpen, wiggling with the map of freckles across his nose bridge as he bites the inside of his cheek. "There's not much time for. That sort of thing." Ardbert clears his throat. The next bit he can talk about without getting embarrassed at least. "Mostly I just pass time or try to improve my disciples of the hand. Fish, too--if there's a good spot for it and it's not too cold. You can catch some interesting things at night. Kholusia's great for that kind of fishing." Maybe he's biased though.

"What about you though? Any candles?" He clears his throat again, and at least now he can blame the drink for the warmth in his cheeks instead of his own embarrassment. Ardbert thinks he can answer the question based off how Sylvain's been speaking, but still--isn't it polite to ask? Besides, they didn't get to do 'boy talk' growing up.

ruinskies

"Just say the word!" Sylvain snickers and waves at the barkeep as they enter, a shining sort of grin spreading across his face. He knows what his own presence promises--Plenty of coin and a small, noisy crowd if he's lucky. It's a good thing in a town like this one, and adventurers are even better. He drags Ardbert to the counter to sit and gives a squeeze around his arm just once before slouching into his own stool. His fist knocks against the warrior's bicep before he leans in again and smirks mischievously.

"Oh, c'mon, like you said, who has time for that--" He holds up two fingers when Tildy, who the tavern is named for (Tildy's Tavern, thank you very much), approaches with a glass and towel in hand. Sylvain hasn't been staying here long but he's an easy customer. As he speaks lowly, teasing, she pours two pints and shakes her head with an entertained sigh: "I travel too often, simple and easy is better. That way when I come back," he leans in so he can practically whisper, "there's always someone ready for more!"

The truth in this is that Sylvain is mostly alone. He doesn't have many friends and the many falling outs he's had with women have been mainly his fault. But he's not lying about moving too much. Who wants to wait around for an unreliable guy from Eulmore? One who pretends to be lazy and uncaring? No, it's better that he find what little pleasures he can and avoid further issue. Tildy slides them their ale and he digs in his pocket for a few coins to pass her.

"But you go fishing? You did always like trying to dunk me in the river..." Sylvain's nose wrinkles as he considers the visceral memory of cold water and he laughs, eyes flitting across Ardbert's face, over his cool blue eyes and the freckles peppering his cheeks from the summer sun. It's strange to look back and remember a time when making friends could be so simple. He was usually covered in bruises but he could still find fun in games played with sticks and stones. "When did you leave home? I'm not really surprised you're an adventurer--Maybe we didn't really know each other, but I think you were the only other kid I could ever really play-fight with back then--" A quick sip of his drink. "You were a lot braver than the few friends I had in Eulmore."

#heartinhands #child abuse /#alcohol /#sorry if this is all over the place....i like them #ffxiv: the first.

serapime

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝. there is a fluttering of her heart like a chest wound and she is small again and only possesses a vague idea of the depths of human cruelty. this soldier thinks his wandering eyes go without notice, maybe, because he does not leer like the rest of them, but sephiroth sees them nonetheless and they do not make her sick, which comes as a great surprise. instead, her heart squeezes. a flicker of recognition passes over her features at his confirmation, delivered like it had been practiced, like he knew he was going to meet her now, tonight. she has been here before. ‘ i am an animal, making the same mistakes. ’

only a hum is offered in response, filtered through smoke. her right hand, occupied, dangles uselessly at her side until another drag is taken, then it returns; the left wrapped around her middle, as if to protect her, or perhaps hide the contours of her wrecked and wretched body. there are people made for pageantry. sephiroth is not one of them. the attention makes her itch like a scab. if she can see the various points on her body— the junction between jaw and neck, the crown, the inside of a knee, in - between the delicious knobs of vertebral bone— where her skin fails to come together seamlessly, where the stitching is made obvious and it would only take one misstep for the thread to loose and the veneer to slip off, surely, so can everyone else. at every event, she is plated and set in the middle of the table. an apple is placed in her mouth. it is so dark that it’s almost black. the celebrants pick at her until only the sun - bleached bones of starved cattle are left. but the people do not see these grotesques in her. man, blind, or busy watching shadow plays, only sees what he wants to.

his voice is lilting, disarming. so is his laugh— fake. it must have taken a lot of practice to make it sound like that, she thinks, and still, it fails to make the contents of his words any less barbed. he has seen her on television— of course he has. he has seen the images of her proliferated by shinra and its holding companies: decorated, mysterious, the center that shall not fall, squeezed into starched uniforms and made to answer the banal questions approved by her handlers— how long does it take to wash your hair?, or, what is your signature scent?, what’s in your bag?, do you have a celebrity crush? what he hasn’t seen are the scripts they hand her before the cameras click on, or the loss of life behind her eyes as her lips move without thought or feeling and the rehearsed responses come out in a voice that is not her own. “ something like that. ” around the cigarette, her mouth has taken on a shape between a scowl and a smile; a bitter thing, emphasized by the dark liner those women with painted faces put on her before they sent her into the open maw of the event hall. some nights, sephiroth dreams of meeting someone and they do not know her face or name or bust size. again, that’s all it is. a dream. her weight shifts, and with it, the folds of the dress expose more of a slender calf. “ sorry to disappoint. ”

ashes tumble to the cold concrete. eyes narrowed, she looks him over again with an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. taller than most unmodified SOLDIERs, he still stands no less than a head shorter than her, and she knows how one throws around their weight. a slow plume of smoke fans around his face as sephiroth bends at the waist, closer to him than ever, close enough to smell alcohol on his breath and the faint sting of sweat under that thousand gil suit. shocks of hair tip forward and almost catch on the little pin on his lapel. “ — your name, soldier. ” there is a one - way mirror between them. no matter how hard she looks at him, he remains anonymous until that face gets put to a name, a shadow behind a curtain. a smile, now, “ i’ll need it so i can write you up for insubordination. ” made docile, she rolls over. her soft stomach is exposed and she will play his games. ‘ my god, ’ she thinks, out of body. ‘ whose performance am i watching? ’

ruinskies

"Disappoint isn't the right word--" He starts to say and, earnestly surprised and utterly polite, stops suddenly to allow room for her interjection. Sylvain knows he isn't nice. He might even be a bastard if he didn't have the very same wicked smile as his mother. She'd like to be no one too--Sephiroth's words draw a crow-like cackle from her lips that parts the smoke between them with its sharp timbre. "Damn, you got me. It's true, you could do that."

No amount of write-ups will get him sent back home, though, until they're all done with him. Not unless he kills someone important or joins a splinter terrorist cell or something. Not unless he does something unforgivable... In the eyes of the corporation, of course. Sylvain likes the way she leans into his space. It's what he'd do / does / to make someone sweat. Or to kiss them, but Sephiroth doesn't seem like she'd ever care about a chance rooftop meeting like he's made up romantic lines about before. He's set his life up so that most of the people he'd ever use those on won't try to look at him up close. They're satisfied with the shell and he accepts it as a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Coyly he answers, "Gautier," and he reaches for his collar to straighten it and flicks at one of the pins on his lapel just beneath. A few of the curls closest to his face get stuck on the apples of his cheeks when he grins. There is genuine glee that casts a light over his eyes and the smoldering end of Sephiroth's cigarette almost makes the color of them more red than brown. Still there is that feeling that something about this is façade too: "But I'm the third one, much less important. You'll waste your time on all that paperwork when there's plenty of other fun things you could do instead. Like, you can guess what letter my name starts with. That's way easier than telling everyone something they already know about me." That I'm insubordinate. Sylvain takes a gulp of smoke and air when he inhales through his grin. She's really nothing like she is on television but there's still something in the flat surface of her bright eyes that tells him she's not used to this sort of thing. No matter how many times she's had to play the part, to take on the role. So who is Sephiroth if she isn't the pictures and she isn't fully standing in front of him? Well, Sylvain likes puzzles and he loves a challenge. "But I'll help you out anyway," he chuckles softly again, before she can act perturbed or turn away. "I'm Sylvain. Miklan Gautier is my brother, he's taking up my father's place. You might've seen him in tabloids with Rufus." A snort, suddenly derisive, and Sylvain can tell she's playing with her own mood now, just as much as she's been trying to with Sephiroth's, by talking about her brother, it's always like this. "Just don't say you see the resemblance--I get that all the time."

#serapime #verse: ffvii.#la.......they kind of make me extremely ill

jamsmemes

( * WHO'S LILA?

a selection of dialogue prompts from the game who's lila? feel free to change pronouns / details as needed.

"must be really scary."

"so not existing is like being asleep?"

"you aren't making any sense right now."

"so you are your personality and your memories? is that what you're trying to say?"

"you see, there's a problem with what you just said."

"oh, i wouldn't trust the mirror, my dear. the ghosts on the other side may only look like us."

"the pupil can never see itself."

"you can analyse your memories and your personality, yet the real perceiver always stays in the shadows."

"in that sense, there isn't really a difference between you and other people."

"you have no ability to see what's inside someone's head."

"what's the definition of imaginary?"

"please, don't go closer. stay in the corner there, please."

"they are all dead, aren't they?"

"why did you tell me to stay home that day?"

"i'm sorry, i can't do this anymore. you have to leave."

"please, stop with this nonsense."

"you know, i can't leave you. but something has to change..."

"don't worry too much about it. it's important to keep a clear mind."

"no! don't touch me!"

"it's useless now. you think you've got the upper hand?"

"you are just delaying the inevitable."

"this is so wrong, isn't it?"

"do you love me?"

"i mean, i get it. if i were you, i wouldn't trust myself either."

"no, it's not about that. you just remind me of someone i knew."

"after what i did, i don't really deserve anything better, do i?"

"is that so? honestly, i feel a bit offended."

"what? if it's a joke, i don't get it."

"who's lila? some girl you like?"

"i'm alright. my face just doing its shenanigans again, i guess."

"what the hell's going on?"

"please be quiet. everything's alright. what's gotten into you?"

"this is what you get for trying to get rid of me."

"there's no need to scream. you look very cute today. don't scream."

"it's difficult for me to express emotions."

"i envy other people, they make faces naturally, but i have to make a conscious decision each time i move a muscle."

"every morning i go to the bathroom to rehearse what my face is going to show today."

"do you think we don't know what's happening between you two?"

"it's really not good to spread rumours. that's a sign of a very, very bad friend."

"so you wanted to see so badly? well. feast your eyes."

"well, are you satiated... now?"

"i do not desire to feed for now."

"your endeavours amuse me. but now it's time for us to cease."

"thanks for coming today. i rarely see you these days."

"you see, i've been studying you very intently."

"at the end of the day, i'd like to find out who you are."

"you amuse me. you really are nothing like those fools."

"oh, i expect an exquisite feast."

"we aren't going to talk here. meet me at a familiar place. i'll be waiting."

"well, if that's the game you want to play... let's do it."

"it is delightful to see your optimism."

"oh well, enough chit-chat. please, pick a card."

"i don't envy anybody. there's no use in comparing stupid glass shards, even if you think one of them is yours."

"hm, playful as usual, i see."

"don't worry. i won't stop until i find out."

"are you trying to be funny?"

"no need to be so hostile. after all, you are the one who came here."

"i couldn't help myself, i always come when someone calls."

"so it was you lot who stole all my food?"

"there doesn't seem to be a different way to do it. i'm so sorry."

"it's never that simple, is it?"

"you... you tricked me."

"your sorrow is exquisite."

"you are horrible."

"well, that's a harsh thing to say."

"you need to leave... i need a moment."

"not bad. you are much smarter than you look."

"no nourishment for me today, i guess."

"well, i'm sorry, but you won't trick me that easily."

"i don't believe you."

"was it your plan all along?"

"you don't have to be a genius to understand that there are multiple possible routes."

"you seem to think that some of the dreams you see are more important than others. i suggest you reconsider. all of them are equally ephemeral. all of them are nothing but dreams."

"you might not know it, but i've been watching you intently."

"so? did it help you?"

"if i'm being frank, i have almost no damn idea about what happened before or after this day."

"i appreciate your bluntness."

"to be quite honest with you, i feel a bit cheated."

"i'm not sure if the way it ended was a victory of good, or a terrible mistake."

"i... thought you'd be gone after that."

"does everyone see you the same way?"

"there are some who can see better than others."

"are you afraid of death?"

"i think death means different things to us."

"i've died many times, but all i was met with was a different dream."

"you are in a very special position right now. don't waste it."

"you have the opportunity to either jump into the wheel again, or be free of dreams forever."

"it's such a shame. i wish we could talk more like this."

"so, the trickster gets tricked, eh?"

"are we getting jealous?"

"what? i don't possess such feelings for anyone."

"what was that figure in the corner?"

"you love when it's about you, don't you?"

"i mean, i don't care, we can talk about something else if you'd like."

"you are so close to finding out the truth... do you realise that?"

"why are you saying that it's up to me?"

"come on. you are almost there."

"what a strange outcome that was."

"i wish i could do something about it."

"you do have the power to divert the way some events go."

"you won't lull me into a false sense of safety."

"i'm not sure if i can grasp the picture in its entirety yet."

"i don't think i'll be able to find satisfaction until i understand each little thing."

#AUGH.#who's lila......my special girl #prompts.

4everfour

@ruinskies said: you might wish you're going to die. you might wish you're going to die, but you're not going to. :]

Her head gives the impression it's going to split. Char's never been a very good Newtype--every half-baked flash she gets feels as if that fencing lance has found some new wound to dash open. I feel like I'm a one-way radio, Quattro had complained petulantly to Kamille's back as he had walked away with Fa arguing about something but in case the younger boy had decided to turn around he made sure to wear his usual unconcerned smile anyways: I'm not an active participant in this miracle.

The after-effects of using any psycommu are too much for such a weak Newtype. Whereas the immediate area of effect seems to be far more debilitating for Kamille (whose Newtype abilities Char is convinced more and more each day rival and perhaps surpass Lalah's), it's the after that makes Char feel like he's wading in the muck of a hangover that Kamille seems to completely avoid. "I'm fine," Quattro grumbles, thumb digging into the center of her forehead against the pearly sheen of her healed scar, "It's just his youth, I'm sure, that lets him bounce back so fast." Admittedly it's taking a lot of effort for him to not want to put his head to his knees and curl up. He flashes Sylvain a small smile. "You're right, I'm not going to die, I'm just not used to these headaches."

ruinskies

Sylvain leans against the doorway, a small smirk crossing his face. It's strange seeing someone you're supposed to take orders from crumple. "Speaking from experience, youth makes it all so much worse." But we both already know that. "Kamille probably has it worse than anyone, don't you think?" She takes a step inside Quattro's quarters and lets the door behind her slide shut. There's no reason to ask for an invitation. A careful hand shuts off the lights.

"I've had a migraine all week, but you don't see me complaining." On the other hand, though, this is part of what makes Sylvain a good Newtype. Or at least skilled. Pain and every other strong feeling give him an effective aura to use against his enemies. It isn't repulsive or frightening, but enticing. He draws them in and shoots a straight shot. He'd still give up whatever mobile suit he's assigned for anyone else if they asked. Using his abilities always makes him feel like he's suffocating at the bottom of a pit if he doesn't extend them out into other people. It makes her feel like her brother, having to lash out again and again like that. He can see through his eyes over and over. "You're stunted, that's all," he says without bothering to hide the projection that he knows is true of himself too and he moves closer, crouching slightly, to offer her a hand. The Argama shifts to the left slightly but with the low-grav turned on, it hardly moves him at all. Some of his hair is finally falling back into place after being trapped and molded by his helmet. "How can I help? You don't look fine. Here, just sit back for a sec. It'll help with the whole oh no, a-hammer-is-whacking-and-shattering-my-skull feeling."

#4everfour #verse: gundam.#once we watch a bit more tonight i'll make that verse page sry it's not up already LOL #still gonna go w the like. sylvain was in some sort of newtype research program but has sort of messed up his own growth by being #disinterested in his own circumstances and detaching from everything around him there. so he's rly talented but can't reach his actual #potential before he deals with all that and this explosive accidental connection/understanding via a flash with his brother. so La #he's w the AEUG after getting out and helps pilot sometimes but tends to avoid it if he can (also doesn't want the pressure of being #relied on)

4everfour

Char shrugs, still smiling. "There's no one here who interests me that way." No need to lie about that at least... although Sylvain will probably just have an 'aw c'monnnnn' response ready to go. "If that changes, I'll let you know." She walks over to the window and lets a hand fall on top of the small ledge, gloved fingers rubbing the accumulation of dust in a half-pinch.

It's a sunny day; there is discussion below the window Char can't quite make out. "I suppose that's a fair response. But I'll be honest, it's been a while since someone came even close to accusing me of giving their secrets away." This is true in a way, Char doesn't offer up information like that, he often tends to respect the sanctity of being the receiving party of someone's trust even when that trust does not extend into respect for the people who confess to him. "Not that you can take my word for it, of course... but if it makes any difference, I might as well mention it."

ruinskies

Sylvain snorts under his breath and shrugs as Char walks to the window. There's dust on the desk too, and the posts of the bed and a thin layer over the top duvet. She can smell it in the air when she inhales to speak again. The Black Eagles must have been a pretty small house for the past few years.

"So people must say you have a trustworthy face or something," he snickers softly, eyes trailing as a little ray of light reflects onto the ceiling off of Char's helmet. "At least you're honest about not having a crush. Most people just lie, but I can tell you mean it." Or he thinks he does. Lots of the Lions have crushes that they've realized by now, but not all people pays as much attention to their own feelings. "So, what do you want to hear from me then? That I'm here to spy on all of you or that I've got some inside scoop that really rocked my world? 'Cuz I think most everyone who knows me thinks I'm trying to hook up with Edie." She smirks; Drop a far too informal nickname here and there, act like a friend instead of a subject, act like an absolute rake to keep the attention off his back... It's worked up until now at least and he's made it through the transfer. If he can fit in with their class, there's a very, very off-chance he'll be able to use his family's position to draw up some kind of treaty and work with Sreng. Edelgard has her mind on the big picture, however vague she's tried to be. Now if he could just make sure none of the girls he's been seeing off and one in the village bump into each other at the upcoming harvest festival, he'll be set. Sylvain squints a little at the way Char's blonde hair nearly goes white on the ends in the thin streams of sunlight. "Which, don't get me wrong, I'm trying to play my cards right, sure, but--"

#4everfour #ic.

serapime

𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭. waxy, ruby - skinned apples, yellowish pears with speckled flesh, citruses in greens and pinks and very pale oranges are piled on top of one another, all wrapped up in cellophane and secured with a gaudy bow in a nauseating shade of red. a note still sits on the counter beside it: thank you for being a part of the family, embossed with the bold typeface of a shinra subsidiary. returning home one night, this thing was found deposited at the door. sephiroth stared down at it with eyes as dead as a fish, like it was a pile of festering waste that threatened to get on her suede shoes, and did this for a long while before wordlessly grabbing it with one hand and carrying the offensive thing inside.

she can’t remember what event this could have been a gift for attending; the days all collapse into one another; a benefit for the families of soldiers lost in the wutai war one day, where someone had called her an evil cunt for making her son enlist, he was only fifteen and all that remained of him was a right leg, how can you live with yourself?; a conference for aeronautics the next, and this time she had to pose for photos with members of the space program, whose very flesh repulses her. they remind her of grubs, the kind that eat dead bodies. this is on account of their subterranean offices, she thinks, but they disgust her all the same. then she had blinked and time passed and now the smell of overripe fruit has flooded the whole apartment. she remains seated even as sylvain digs in further and watches the small, brownish flies hum uselessly instead of looking at him.

a film has formed over her eyes. she wonders if she is already dead. maybe she died in wutai and her corpse forgot how it ought to behave and so it picked itself up and ambles around aimlessly until it will one day collapse, at last remembering its programming. colorless lashes flutter as she considers his words: cosmic debt, penance, the suggestion of skin on skin, the act of it as he leaves, however brief. her stiff body recoils, curling into itself; sephiroth draws her knees up to her chest and the dampness between her breasts and on the tops of her thighs are more apparent than ever. he had been so resistant to cross the threshold of her apartment, as if it were a place with sanctity and not a hole in the ground that she has dug for herself, but she is tired, beyond tired, and wishes only to rest, and ignored his pleas. ‘ when i die for good, ’ she wants to ask her now, ‘ will you cry for me? ’ but she does not because she knows that sylvain does not love her. he is here on duty; lazard or someone else above them has maybe designated her as a flight risk and she has grown too stubborn for the usual suits to handle; here enters a knight in tarnished silver mail and a pistol under her arm. she is nothing like the ones in the small children’s books that hojo would confiscate when the girl misbehaved, or the theater that genesis was so taken with, but sephiroth is not much of a maiden, not the kind in need of saving, so she does not hold it against him.

he doesn't intend on letting her go, in any case. “ do you think you can save me? ” the shock of collision still shakes her like a leaf. even as sylvain slips away, retreating further into the kitchen and closer to the discarded gift basket, she can feel her bones against her own. she can feel it in her teeth. the flies hum around sylvain now, like he, too, has gone bad. “ if you fuck me, will i be forgiven? is that what you’re driving at? ” the words settle uncomfortably between them. it sounds foreign on sephiroth’s tongue, that kind of profanity. her head falls to one side and with it, half - soaked curls tumble over cheek and brow and her eyes are cruel splinters of phosphorus. they are locked on sylvain, on his flushed face and bare arms and heaving chest and the odd shape of his mouth. it is mocking, or maybe pitying. there is little difference to her. either way, he knows nothing of penance or confession or what it is like to be rolled around in god’s mouth but never swallowed.

finally, she spits out, like she’d been poisoned, “ i think it would kill you to be honest. ” the word ‘ honest ’ had rotted in her throat. it, like the rest of her, is twisted beyond recognition, and reeks of a dead animal.

ruinskies

As she turns to look over the kitchen while Sephiroth considers a reply, her face scrunches with vacant, mindless disgust--Not at Sephiroth's words, no, but at a fly that hovers by the bridge of his nose. It's gone in a flash to zip back into the rot. Even the sink seems to have a smell. When Sylvain opens the cupboard nearest to his eyeline, he finds that all the cups inside are the same. Perfect little mirrors of each other made of that faux-glass that Shinra is so proud of formulating. Why waste natural resources on consumers when you can whip them up a substitute and sell it as innovative. Sylvain's teeth feel like knives in his mouth when he smirks and finds it easier than ever.

"Sheesh, I like to think my stamina's a little better than that." The water dribbles from the tap at first when he turns the knob and just from having his hand close to it he can tell that it's warm. She wrenches the blue-marked handle as far as it will go and turns back to face Sephiroth from the darkened corner. Slowly the dribbles becomes a trickle becomes a gush and the sound of the water is thick as blood. He may not be the hand of god or whoever else Shinra has turned Sephiroth into, but even someone like Sylvain knows that sound too. One of his hands ambles up to scratch at the back of his neck cheekily. "If you killed me, then I'd have something to forgive you for but, uh. I don't really think there's room for someone like me to decide that kind of thing. Not after everything you've done." Her expression does not match the gravity. No use mincing words or meaning. Sylvain doesn't look for absolution anywhere these days. She shrugs and pinches at the rim of her chosen glass / Now points its open face across the room like she might shine a beacon on Sephiroth with it.

"I think you're taking me way too seriously." A chuckle--Here is the return to form. "I was gonna suggest killing your boss or something." Sylvain hates things like ideals; Knights and princesses are fantasy fiction and never once has he hoped for something better than the way things are. But has he ever been so totally alone like she is? With all the honesty that aches to be smothered to death in his chest, he knows he can't say he has. He owes his commander a check-in and his father a location ping and the woman he met in Costa del Sol will recognize his face among the list of casualties if he ever dies in whatever stupid combat zone he's sent to. He had to cut his hair closer to standard after that weekend. Even now his curls crunch on the ends and only half wave where they hang at the nape of his neck and there's little left of the tiny braid he let her tie there. No, he knows he's not like Sephiroth and she will never take him for a friend. "Isn't that what most soldiers wish they could do when they look themself in the mirror? It's like a bandage. A good dream that lets you pretend you did something right in the end." A beat.

Without turning around again, Sylvain sticks her cup backward under the faucet. Another fly zips past her cheek. The smell is worse close up to the fruit. Her smirks shifts flatter. "I know I'm not your friend." What little she does know about all that's happened matters very little in the grand scheme that is Sephiroth. She's lost something again and again and Sylvain isn't under any impression he can save anyone / anything. "If you don't want to talk, just say so. You had us come here--And hey, if you want me to fuck you, say that too." She exhales through her nose but Sephiroth's probably not in any position to find the humor.

#verse: ffvii.#GOD.#this is kind of rough because i wrote it on the bus but they call sylvain the mis(s)director #i think i did a bit too much like . almost stage direction in this but oh well #suggestive /#tagged the wrong blog #serapime

she is not in the habit of gift - giving, not when there remains the worry of accusations of favoritism amongst her ranks. still, he can’t help it— clasped in edelgard’s hand is a tightly folded white square, lace - trimmed and with red - threaded initials in a tight cursive script in the corner: s.j.g. a handkerchief, the sort ladies tuck into breast pockets or saddlebags. he extends this to sylvain, but not without some shyness. “ i haven’t embroidered in some time. i apologize if it’s—, ” she cuts herself off sharply with a self - conscious cough, or maybe it’s a laugh, because a small smile pulls on her dollish mouth. “ no matter. happy birthday, my friend. ”

Edelgard is a sentimental person. Sylvain knows this because it's clear to him that she chooses the way she wishes to be perceived and acts accordingly. She can relate to that. So Edie tries and succeeds in conveying a sort of detachment that many people tend to believe, but not Sylvain. It's kind of like a little shared secret between them--Edelgard pretends not to be desperately longing for connections that he will not let himself have and Sylvain pretends, at times unsuccessfully on purpose, not to notice the princess's caring heart. That still doesn't mean he was expecting a birthday gift, though.

"You made this?" The handkerchief is already in one of his hands when he asks and his other is motioning toward it with some disbelief, sort of like someone might toward an especially beautiful sunset. Her brown eyes are wide but not bulging. She glances around carefully to be sure no one else is watching before she unfolds the square between her palms. The fabric is softer than he ever expected a handkerchief to be. In her memory, they've been waved at tournaments and clutched at funerals and there's always a flourish of some kind of flower in the air when women offer them to each other for comfort. Iris or rose or lavender. Sylvain has taught himself what all of those flowers mean so he could pretend to give thoughtful gifts, but he has never considered what one he might pick for himself. There were never many flowers in her home. He folds the handkerchief into a slightly smaller square and smiles wryly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, "Thank you--You know I wouldn't like anything too perfect."

#openness #ic.#asks.#birthday!#A DAY LATE BUT BIRTHDAY's STILL GOIN

Medraut is not particularly good at gift-giving but she tries anyways, presenting a small box wrapped in creamy pink paper to Sylvain. Inside is a small orange cameo-style pendant that can either be pinned as a brooch or looped on a thin chain to be a necklace. "Happy birthday."

"Oh, for me?" Sylvain takes the gift from Medraut with uncharacteristic care... Then shakes it playfully next to his ear. He's used to getting whetstones and quills and other practical things as gifts. He'd rather have those than garbage, but they're never very personal. She leans against the wooden wall of the stable stall Medraut's found her in and gets to work unwrapping. As the paper falls away and he pulls the cameo out to look it over he's struck by one thought first. She's not sure she's ever been given any jewelry. He's given plenty of necklaces and bracelets gifts to girls he's taken out, but he's never actually been given something like this that he's accepted. She holds the cameo up next to her own cheek and smirks, voice going wry in her throat as she pins it to her uniform collar--Then reaches a hand out to go for a teasing poke at Medraut's scaled round cheek. Her own feel a little warm. It's stupid--Plenty of girls try giving him gifts. It's silly for it to make her feel so special. "A favor for my birthday, Medraut? What'll people say?"

#heartinhands #ic.#weehhhh mimimi #asks.#saved.#birthday!!!!!#sylvain when someone gets her a gift that ppl might expect a girl to want: O:#LMFAO

it's her birthday........😈

#ooc.#gemini moment #whatever that means JCKXHSHSJJCKC

@aicidos asked:

( 🦂 ) : 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.

When the war begins, she can't help feeling like she's always known where everything would need to end. The Lance of Ruin hums to life, living and breathing, each time he takes the field. In a way, it makes Sylvain feel more alive too in a time where it would be easy to resign to the motions and rot inside while his outside moves forward. She knows there can be no going back to who she was before it.

#aicidos #asks.#headcanons.#ty for the ask :D

ariados

every day i kinda wanna cancel the show

#visage.

4everfour

Letting people talk is easy. Char has grown used to living behind masks both physical and mental, so keeping his expression vague and pleasant as Sylvain rambles about pretending to be deeply invested in the other women in their class is easy, head pivoting slowly to track the other's movmeent as she walks around in the room before ultimately plopping down onto the bed.

It's only when Sylvain's head nods at the chair that Char makes a move to sit as if graciously accepting that which has been extended to her. "Thank you," she says first, giving a simple nod, knees straight and narrow before one delicately shifts on top of the other thigh, hands clasped on top of them. For a while he looks at Sylvain's lazy posture flopped alongside the slumped shape of the bag and the mop of her curled orange hair and her dark eyes beneath those curls as if to gather his thoughts. A stark contrast the two of them make when they appear to one another like this but Char's already getting the impression they're more similar than meets the eye.

"I don't know what i thought," she replies after a moment, "but I don't think I necessarily believe you're that shallow." He smiles. "But don't worry, I won't make any moves to try to drag that truth out of you...I can respect it when someone doesn't want their secrets to be known. I just thought now might be as good a time as any to ask since we're effectively strangers and it's easier to confess things to people you don't know; or at least I find that's the case for me. Maybe I was being too curious for my own good--I acknowledge it if that's true."

ruinskies

Sylvain snickers softly and throws his hands up in the air innocently... which leaves his back to slump immediately into the mattress as he laughs. Char, Char, Char. No, they don't know each other and her final admittance, I find that's the case for me, sings like a lie in Sylvain's ears. But where Char claims to respect the sanctity of secrets, Sylvain actually won't dig beyond a certain point. He likes building up a connection, not trying to jump to the finish line before he's even passed the baton.

"You don't think I'm shallow? Heh," she rolls onto her side like a cat trying to follow streaks of sunbeam so she can see Char's face again. "I guess I shouldn't say you're pretty cute, too then--Anyone I should try not to steal from you, Aznable?" Sylvain slides one hand to prop up her cheek. He's seen Char on the sparring grounds before at tournaments and he knows she's meant to have some kind of minor crest. Is that what this is about?

Or maybe: "I dunno, Char. Are you good at keeping secrets or are you a blabbermouth? Like you said," a sly smile that leaves his eyes crinkling at the corners and he enunciates his words more properly to mimic Char's speech pattern, "we're effectively strangers. How do I know I can trust you?" When her lashes lower slightly over a focused gaze, Sylvain knows she just looks mischievous, so she adds on something that most everyone who knows her would never take seriously, "You think you can drag the truth out of me if you try?"

#4everfour #ic.

@madkoka asked:

( 🐇 ) : does your muse run from conflict, or freeze and hope it passes?

This is another really great question about Sylvain because of how much he modulates his reactions to who he is talking to (mostly to annoy them to the highest degree possible in the situation).

Sylvain doesn't run from conflict. Sylvain waits. He'll interrupt if there's something he can do that will actually make an immediate difference, but even then sometimes she feels that it's not worth it because things will just go back to how they were before anyway. He's not usually frozen in plcae--he'll complain about the conflict or make light of it like that can somehow take away the power of the argument or struggle, but he often will only step in when he feels that nobody else can. During her time at the monastery, Sylvain knows that she is often the very last person who anyone wants on their side. He's built up his lazy, careless reputation which makes it difficult for others to actually believe he might want to help them.

Things are a bit different during the war phase. No matter which side he is on, Sylvain lets herself become a weapon to be wielded. There's no time to freeze or run when there are things she has to protect. He loathes his status and the the way it's used to hurt others and how violence for the sake of it feels, but he doesn't stand aside.

#madkoka #asks.#headcanons.#another one where idk if i answered the prompt but im so sorry DSLKFJLKDSFJDF tysm for sending it

@4everfour asked:

( 🦘 ) : does your muse stop moving when they're hurt? do they push harder?

Sylvain's feelings and reactions to things greatly depend on the situation he's in and how genuine he is willing to be in accordance with that situation. So when it comes to being hurt, it depends on the hurt. A serious physical hurt will draw out his capacity for self-defense. She's been hurt many times and felt that she couldn't protect herself. At war, he won't hold back unless it will somehow benefit him to; See: in threads like mine with @/openness where she spares enemy soldiers to deliver a message and make a statement. Sylvain is tactical--He is not one to give people openings that he could have otherwise prevented. He pushes harder when he has to and when no other option stands in the way, but Sylvain does stop moving for the same reasons.

She wants people to think that she's lazy. Sometimes she pretends to be a coward. When he was younger, he took the abuse from his brother because he didn't want to hurt him back and he understood him, in that sad sort of way that didn't help either of them at all. But even when she stands still, she has a way to "win"--in whatever form that may take, even a literal loss--in mind. Sylvain will do what he has to and if that means fighting and taking other lives to keep his own, he'll do it. It's not something he's necessarily proud of... but she knows what she's good at.

( 🐻 ) : what pushes your muse from gentleness into something dangerous?

This is interesting to consider for Sylvain because I think the answer is almost paradoxical on his part. He loathes superiority complexes and finds them disgusting, especially when they're aimed at putting down others or used to ingratiate others to the person putting themself on a pedestal. At the same time, Sylvain knows he is someone who benefits in many ways from people putting him up on a similar pedestal and try as he might to step down from that through his bad behavior and laziness, he can't fully escape it or the possibility that people who don't know him might think he believes he deserves that kind of treatment. Especially since he's been hurt by it in incredibly personal ways.

He isn't one to shy away from calling people out for their shit either. And he won't mess around when it regards people he cares deeply about. Most of Sylvain's relationships are defined by conflict and misunderstandings and whether or not the friendship / partnership can survive that, so when other people try to bring insults or arguments, etc. to people that Sylvain values, she can get nasty and mean. Once Sylvain has come to understand someone, even if they don't get along well, he values that understanding. It means a lot to her, even if she's not being understood in return. He won't go easy on anyone who bases their opinions of someone on perceptions or rumors.

#4everfour #asks.#headcanons.#sometimes i write these like well. i hardly answered the prompt

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

nothing can stop me now