( ooc: o/ hi again! a very different character this time, but we threaded together at noctium! i was shinsou there. hope you're doing well! )
( throughout the entirety of bakugou’s daring escapade, makoto is resting on the beach, legs extended into the gentle lap of the surf with his arms propping him up in the sand behind him. after the unrelenting energy of the day—be it others trying to either goad him into helping him with their scavenger hunts, or try this dubious cocktail or that equally-dubious kabob, or the occasional maneuver he has to do to avoid the ire of those ridiculous seagull lifeguards—he’s more than content to actually enjoy the peace and quiet of time kept to oneself. there are many things about the golden peacock that he prefers to where he was taken from. of course, he’d literally been taken out of hell to come here, so that goes without saying, right? but as terrible and sometimes hopeless as his situation in hell had felt, there was at least the partial freedom to step outside. when makoto had thought that his world might fall apart, and himself with it, he had stood on the balcony in the brisk cold with the demon who had claimed the last of his humanity. he’d attempted to smoke, then drink, and then he’d cried, but now when he thinks back on it, all he can think is that it had been fjord’s compassion and the bite of the night air which had saved him then. it had allowed him to bend, rather than break.
that first and only friend he’d made in hell wasn’t here now, and it just isn’t the same up in these upper levels of the resort, no matter how advanced the illusion is. there’s just something missing in the simulated sun and the modulated wind; it’s missing in the feeling of the sand and the salinity of the false sea air. even still, he knows it’s the closest he’s going to get. he tries to absorb it as much as he can, for all that it’s worth—even if, as a facsimile, it’s not worth all that much in the end.
looking out to sea, makoto pays witness to the tail end of the other teenager’s misadventure, though his weak, formerly-human eyes don’t allow him to make out many details at distance. he sees bakugou soar as a speck from the horizon, followed by a strange, sporadic tail of pops of light (explosions?), before leveling out and slowly getting larger. coming closer? at first he’d thought it was some weird malfunctioning firework, but if it’s coming this way—by the time he comes crashing back down into the water, he’s close enough for makoto to tell it’s another person. his eyes go wide, and he sits up. as luck would have it, the section of beach where he’s sitting is exactly the piece of shoreline bakugou arrives back to.
his eyes are still wide when he does, wide silver discs like coins shining out of blood-red sclera; it would seem he’d seen at least part of what had happened. )
Decided to be part of the fireworks? I think you’re a little early.
tumbling down (or not)
( throughout the entirety of bakugou’s daring escapade, makoto is resting on the beach, legs extended into the gentle lap of the surf with his arms propping him up in the sand behind him. after the unrelenting energy of the day—be it others trying to either goad him into helping him with their scavenger hunts, or try this dubious cocktail or that equally-dubious kabob, or the occasional maneuver he has to do to avoid the ire of those ridiculous seagull lifeguards—he’s more than content to actually enjoy the peace and quiet of time kept to oneself. there are many things about the golden peacock that he prefers to where he was taken from. of course, he’d literally been taken out of hell to come here, so that goes without saying, right? but as terrible and sometimes hopeless as his situation in hell had felt, there was at least the partial freedom to step outside. when makoto had thought that his world might fall apart, and himself with it, he had stood on the balcony in the brisk cold with the demon who had claimed the last of his humanity. he’d attempted to smoke, then drink, and then he’d cried, but now when he thinks back on it, all he can think is that it had been fjord’s compassion and the bite of the night air which had saved him then. it had allowed him to bend, rather than break.
that first and only friend he’d made in hell wasn’t here now, and it just isn’t the same up in these upper levels of the resort, no matter how advanced the illusion is. there’s just something missing in the simulated sun and the modulated wind; it’s missing in the feeling of the sand and the salinity of the false sea air. even still, he knows it’s the closest he’s going to get. he tries to absorb it as much as he can, for all that it’s worth—even if, as a facsimile, it’s not worth all that much in the end.
looking out to sea, makoto pays witness to the tail end of the other teenager’s misadventure, though his weak, formerly-human eyes don’t allow him to make out many details at distance. he sees bakugou soar as a speck from the horizon, followed by a strange, sporadic tail of pops of light (explosions?), before leveling out and slowly getting larger. coming closer? at first he’d thought it was some weird malfunctioning firework, but if it’s coming this way—by the time he comes crashing back down into the water, he’s close enough for makoto to tell it’s another person. his eyes go wide, and he sits up. as luck would have it, the section of beach where he’s sitting is exactly the piece of shoreline bakugou arrives back to.
his eyes are still wide when he does, wide silver discs like coins shining out of blood-red sclera; it would seem he’d seen at least part of what had happened. )
Decided to be part of the fireworks? I think you’re a little early.