Send me a ☾ for me to talk about a fandom that I’d like to rp in but haven’t.
Easy, Undertale. It’s fandom is mass and overtaking. I just beat the game a few weeks ago, and nothing except Detective Conan has so completely consumed my soul. I sewed a Sans plushie for god’s sakes XD. However it also seems...so vast I will probably never rp in it in depth as well....
Send me a ♠ for me to describe a favorite rp I’ve been in.
Heh, not on this site yet admittedly, but I have an rp partner I have known for about 6 years. Everything we write, I love. They are so willing to put up with me, I can say that we are friends as well as rp partners. Oh, but I am not describing it am I?~ It’s better that way, trust me~
「 ✗ 」—» The wheels of the skateboard clattered noisily against the concrete surface of the sidewalk as it rolled down the street, spurred on by the occasional kick from a sneaker-clad foot. Where Yata had gotten a skateboard was a mystery (Had he stolen it from a 15 year old punk? Definitely not. Maybe. Probably. Yes), but his dissatisfaction was palpable. Sure, the thing worked just fine, he guessed, but it wasn’t his, and that fact chafed at the youth with every movement the skateboard made. And though he knew that nothing could ever replace his own beloved board, Yata was pretty sure he deserved something more than the kid’s toy he was currently stuck riding. Like hell he knew where to actually find something better than this, but hey, as long as it wasn’t a girl he could intimidate the answer out of most anyone. Or ask the little girl ahead of him. Yes, that worked.
❝ Oi, ❞ he called as the wheels rolled to a stop. ❝ You know any sports shops around here? ❞
There’s something about the way she closes her eyes. The primly-tied bow that rests too square on her head, her each step’s precision as she looks about the creaky building that connects through banks, tall arches, a spot away from the rest of the inhabited houses. Not too far from the rest, but he’s made sure to provide a few dimly lit lights and isolate them in the most welcoming corner of the house.
That’s how she knows she’s welcome.
If he had to describe it. It’s an explicit hoax, a harmless prank --hardly, an exploit to get to know her.
It’s what he’d done all day. Stash a few loose receipts he hasn’t cashed in into the hands of those that look like they need the extra payment - deliberate them not to ask questions, but just to point the young gal in the next direction tacked up to lead her in a misleading circle, to the safer outskirts where no one should hassle her.
It all started. when he passed the quiet book study where the tranquil melody would slip across the pavement of the streets, a nook he was sure there was no life of music, so it’d have to be a new installment. He’d browsed, tucked himself into shelves, scoped the whole place -- when all that walked out was that sound a squarely placed step in front of another step.
stanza :|| as she clacks out of the store. All the music disappears. The coziness, the forgiving cove turns something drab when that melody leaves and all happiness leaves with it.
Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? - When you come across a lost demoiselle, wandering around without a place, an adult, a someone special, a treasured item, to her name. Ian puts 6-timed beats to a 3-4 time signature, ♪
She’s here. Shes here, she’s here, she’s here. The distinct clack that comes to a stammering stop as she tries to knock, the hammering behind his ribs that decides whether his diminishing petals that drop, one by one would fabricate the glass case that wasn’t there at all.
@melodiousmemory But he did want to meet her. Just this once.
He’s lit and re-lit, them a stubborn seven, eight times so he knows what it takes, to make them flicker back on again.
♫ and takes a breath between before he dismisses the gust of wind that blows the doors wide open, -- compromising the wavering candle light. -- so he lets her heels clip, yanking her to a stop on the demanding ninth dot.
stanza :|| to intercept one of her hands. He reaches in his pocket to supply a thin set of silk gloves, trimmed with revealing lacy collar - hastily collecting both before she pulls away, and tugs the easy fabric all the way up to scooch it onto her wrist.
“Now, um.” He bends down to place a kiss on her wrist, “I know what it’s like meeting strangers.”
“And what it’s like accepting gifts.”
He tilts his head to the side in search of doubt, “But there’s something I’d like to ask you first. And manners are, you have to give gifts before a favor is asked.” He smiles and drops on one knee with some ceremony to the floor, “There’s a melody I wanted to hear again.”
“...Do you ...” He hesitates, “Like. the scent of new books? There’s something unearthly about them.” He smiles at her, expecting her to understand. The smile isn’t demanding, it’s not menacing, but it does have a tinge of expectation that makes his appeal look like desperation.
“I’m Ide, and you can ask anything of me you like.”
He reaches out to form a fist, turning his palm faceup, to present a quarter-sized jewelry compact. It’ll fit right in her hand.
