#madkoka

[ofamess]

@madkoka : ₍₍⚞(˶ˆᗜˆ˵)⚟⁾⁾ togame-chan!!!

"Hm~? Someone's in a good mood."

[devilbreaker]

"you said you wanted to be a hero." for wanda from pietro.

ff7 rebirth / accepting

they are both aware of the looks they could get, after all they've done it's even a strange thing that they are considering both of them to even be part of the team. that they could have a choice in making all of this right. pietro knows well the inner workings of wanda's head and so does wanda.

like clockwork he speaks up and it's as if her doubts vanished away. "i can't do it without you. you're coming too." of course twins are always together always one step right by each other. "please?"

[nocturnique]

I could hear you in the night. I didn't say anything. I'm saying something now. felix for sylvain.

blood on your sleeve meme // @madkoka

he wonders if it shows in his eyes, the way that his words have so quickly, so easily, managed to pull the rug out from beneath his feet— the discomfort, the unease, sinking deep into the marrow of his bones. he wants to ask, what do you think that you heard?, though he knows the answer well enough; he hardly needs to hear anything more said aloud, nor does he really want to.

for a moment, or perhaps more, he remains silent, the faintest of creasing to be found betwixt his brows as they knit, though features work to maintain a feigned impassivity, as gaze shifts, meeting sunset hues that seem to remain ever affixed upon his own, searching. his mind is abuzz with thoughts that swirl, incessant, that he struggles to hold within, to choke back in the hopes that perhaps he may be able to swallow them, to force them to wither and die before they reach his throat.

they don't talk about these things, not really. their pain, their sadness, their anger, their regrets-- thoughts and emotions kept quiet, held tightly within their chests, bottled up and released only when they were alone, no one around to hear the suffering unleashed.

they both knew more than they let on, he imagined, yet forever held their tongues, questions and concerns so often dying upon their tongues.

tonight, however, that's changed; felix opening a door that he otherwise wouldn't. why now sylvain doesn't know, doesn't bother to ask. it doesn't matter. all the same, he manages to huff a laugh, force a smile. he sounds tired. 'i'm fine if that's what you're wondering. you don't have to worry about me.'

[nocturnique]

i’m worried about you. tsubakino for seiryu.

misc. angst starters // @madkoka

'huh?' he quirks a brow, phone slipping slightly within his grasp as he glances upward, russet gaze greeting tsubakino's countenance. there's a near imperceptible folding to his brows, a subtle shift to his features as the statement reaches his ears.

worried? why would he be worried?

head falls slightly, tilts to the side, as vaguely he considers what he had done to leave the other with such an impression. it crosses his mind that he, perhaps, had been a bit quieter than usual. minor a change though it was, he's left unsurprised that such hadn't gone unnoticed.

that said, it was hardly anything serious-- at least to most.

easily his phone is spun betwixt his fingers, a soft smile working its way upon his lips. 'as much as i enjoy the attention--' and, of course, the subsequent concern. 'i'm okay. there's no reason for you to worry yourself. promise.'

[nocturnique]

i’m not going anywhere without you. felix for sylvain.

misc. angst starters // @madkoka

he can take a hit. he wonders, sometimes, if perhaps that’s why he’s so quick to throw caution to the wind, if that’s why his tactics in battle so swiftly take on the reckless air that they do  (for all the talk of flashiness that he hears, all the talk of his incessant need to garner attention and praise, he doesn’t desire it, not usually, not really; doesn’t even necessarily care for it— he isn’t showing off, however it may seem).  he’s strong, sturdy; he can take a blade, he can take the brunt of an axe, he can take the tip of a lance— 

so long as it doesn’t strike too deep, too true.

this one, it seems, may have had.

the sound of felix’s voice registers within his ears, the raw emotion within his voice as his name spills forth from his lips; it causes something to twist deep within his chest, though he doesn’t respond, not immediately, the hold upon his weapon weakening, grip going slack, as his free hand finds its way upon his stomach, palm pressing flush against the wound, wet and warm. red seeps through the cracks between his fingers, runs, coating his armor in lines of crimson, stark against the gleaming steel. 

palm presses firmer still, head turning ever slightly upon felix’s swift approach, gaze falling to meet eyes that never quite seem to reach his own. he notes the tightness of his jaw, the knit to his brow, the tension that bleeds into his features  (anger, concern, perhaps both; perhaps something else that he can’t quite place at the moment). 

he feels heavy and light all at once. breathes in, exhales (it hurts him to do so, though he will never admit it; doesn't want to worry felix further still). he has yet to fall from his horse, though he's gone somewhat lax upon his seat.

'i'm fine.' is what he finds himself saying first, perhaps reflexively. now isn't the time to stop and fret over him and he knows that. he's sure that felix does too. they're in the midst of battle, after all. time will not stop solely for them, no matter how much that either may wish it to. 'i'll be fine.' he then amends, not that he's sure it to be true.

felix doesn't leave. of course he doesn't. were their roles reversed, sylvain knows that he would do the same, that he would remain resolute at his side.

he would follow felix to the end of the earth itself would he have wished it. perhaps even had he not.

'i'm not going anywhere without you.'

and he believes it, every word. just as he would mean every word himself were they uttered from his own lips. mouth curves in spite of the pain, in spite of the violence that surrounds them, a weak smile, eyes soft as they watch the man before them.

he finally allows his weapon to fall, clattering to the ground beneath them, hand stretching forth, reaching for the grasp of another. 'should've guessed you'd be as stubborn as ever. okay... get on-- you're gonna have to lead.'

[ofamess]

“ You said ‘forever’ like it was easy. ” choji for jo.

His  heart  felt  like  it  was  dropping.  Did  he  do  something  wrong?  Did  he  somehow  Hurt  Choji's  feelings?  Standing  there,  he  could  feel  his  heart  breaking,  and  slowly  his  hands  fell  to  his  sides.  Looking  back,  it  took  him  a  lot  longer  to  admit  what  he  wanted;  he  hid  behind  trying  to  make  the  other  happy  ---  every  day.  Every  second.  He  only  wanted  the  other  happy.  he  didn't  care  what  he  did  to  himself.

It  would  even  hurt  him  to  make  sure  that  smile  never  disappeared.  Yet,  maybe  his  mind  was  overthinking,  and  something  was  just  ---  going  wrong.  But  Togame  frowned  a  little.  His  head  tilted  a  bit.

"  I  meant  it.  Do  you  think  I'm  wrong  about  that?  Unless..."  he  froze,  and  turned  his  eyes  away.  "  You  don't  want  forever?"

angst-y sentence starters || accepting @madkoka

[sanctiichor]

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂  𝐑𝐏  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒  .  .  .  (  pt  1.  the  art  of  touch  )  - ( Still accepting! )

@madkoka asked: My  muse  wipes  away  the  blood  from  your  muse’s  face,  their  hands  trembling. 😈

They were always subtle in the way they showed concern for the other, from small brushes of hands – gloved as they may be, a hand on the shoulder or simply a look from across the room. Many words are exchanged in these small and intimate moments, as neither men needn’t speak out loud in order to be understood – they simply just were. 

And most times, that notion alone was more than enough. 

However, it would seem in this case, as the Warrior sat against the wall of the cave they hid within, bloody and bruised – his armor shattered and cracked in many places it should never be. His white hair was dyed different shades of crimson and his helm laid just beside him, in a similarly sorry state but still being held together by sheer will. The exception can be made.

The Warrior was floating in and out of consciousness but he held firm, it won’t be long until some of the others will come to find them, as the battle they had found themselves entangled in had taken a turn for the worse and they were severely outnumbered – The Warrior, Squall and Bartz had held on for as long as they could and as the more manikins arrived, the more dire their situation had become. Light was wounded from shielding Squall from a particularly powerful laser attack from a Cloud of Darkness – while the damage was mitigated by being blocked by the sterling knight’s shield, it left him in a state where he could no longer battle. 

Bartz had taken the initiative and hurriedly told Squall to take the battered Warrior and get him to some place safe while he covered their escape – thankfully the cavalry had arrived in the form of Lightning, Cloud and Cecil, who rushed to their friend’s aid just as Squall and Light hobbled away to the safety of the overpass. 

Since then it was a blur, as the knight filtered in and out of awareness – but the moment he had felt those leathered hands upon his face, wiping away at the crimson that painted the Warrior’s visage – the subtle trembling of those usually so steadfast hands that have faced the evils of the world head on had brought him back into focus. 

He won't fall here.

Mustering what strength he could, the Warrior raised his own gloved hand, taking hold of one of Squall’s that still rested upon his cheek and leaned his head into the cradle of his palm, though his grip was weak – he needed him to see that this will not be the end of him. Not ever. 

“I’m alright…” 

The words spoken are hoarse from shouting in the heat of battle, but where action would always speak for them, he needed him to know. 

He needed Squall to hear it. 

“I won’t leave you, my heart…not as long as I still draw breath.” 

Even if he would be lying near death in a pool of his own blood at the feet of their enemies, where all hope would seem lost and victory slipping from their fingers –

Nothing will stop the Warrior from returning to his home. 

To his light. 

[sanctiichor]

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂  𝐑𝐏  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒  .  .  .  (  pt  1.  the  art  of  touch  )  - ( Still accepting! )

@madkoka asked: My  muse  tucks  a  loose  strand  of  hair  behind  your  muse’s  ear,  their  fingers  lingering  for  a  second  longer  than  necessary.

When it comes to battle and wars, the Warrior of Light would face any foe gallantly, leading his comrades to a sure victory in the name of harmony. Even should he find himself knocked down over and over again, he would always find a way to get back up to his feet. Sword and shield held aloft even as blood would drip from every crevice of his battered body and dying his hair of starlight hue a deep crimson. 

He is resilient and refuses to stay down no matter what the circumstances are. 

However, all that feels for naught – as the foe that had come to vanquish the mighty Warrior of Light, savior of a world tainted by darkness. Is a cold. 

He cannot recall for the life of him where he had contracted the illness, all he remembers was that it began with a heaviness in his chest and a sore throat one morning. He had assured the concerned commander that he was fine, assuming it was merely a dry throat and was lacking in his water intake. Famous last words. 

As the days rolled by, the Warrior had only found himself getting worse, his body becoming hot and cold all at once, then heavy, like someone had placed stones upon his visage and expected him to move them. Then the coughing began, they had started small and manageable and it wasn’t long until they made him physically heave and rendered him utterly useless, no matter how many of those tart “drops” or whatever it was that Squall and the others insisted he take before the coughing had gradually become worse 

After that, everything simply became a blur – all he can recall now was somehow ending up on the floor. Someone called out to him. Then hands? There were many hands touching him and all the Warrior knew was that he wanted it to stop and to be left to rest. Or die. 

At this point, death sounded much better than whatever this ordeal was. 

Time melded into one, darkness and dim light would swim beneath his closed eyes, never truly resting, as it felt like he was simply floating in a sort of purgatory – no fitful rest, no plaguing nightmares. Just nothingness…and voices. Many voices. 

‘ He’s from …. Not exactly… modern .. medicine ‘

That sounded like Dr. Kadowaki…was he taken to the infirmary? He wondered who had carried him, as Light wasn’t exactly the most featherweight of people. 

‘ It’s a … how could it be … this?’

Quistis? Or it could be Rinoa, the haze made everyone sound the same.

‘ His … body … not used … pathogens…’

He wished they would stop talking – he just wants to rest. Please let him rest.

Please. 

Wakefulness finally takes hold of him after so long adrift, though heavy his eyes felt, the Warrior definitely felt a lot more aware and not so out of sorts. His anchor to reality had not been the rays of the early sun that peeked through the curtains of his room in what he now realizes is the infirmary. It was the fingers that had been carding through his starlit hair, careful and cooling to the touch – the touch of Shiva. 

That would mean…

Following the hand beside him, it did not take him long to piece together whom it belonged to.

“...Squall?” 

By the gods he sounded like sandpaper had been shoved into his throat and he is being forced to sing.

He couldn't quite understand what the other was saying, all he could see was Squall’s lips moving, and suddenly the younger man began to rise from his seat, no doubt to get either a glass of water for the ill Warrior or the doctor. However, a sudden panic gripped him, but his limbs felt too heavy – he can’t – he’s going to leave –! 

“Don’t…” he rasps, the one word made the other pause and look back towards the ill knight. 

It is either the illness making him bleed out and plead or perhaps it is something else entirely that he can’t put a finger on but he begs all the same.

“ Don’t … leave.”