Jul 15
[ text ] 911 [ text ] i need something cute to wear tonight . [ text ] come shopping with me ?
[ txt. ] to: doppelsnack my four favorite words [ txt. ] to: doppelsnack paris or milan?
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[ text ] 911 [ text ] i need something cute to wear tonight . [ text ] come shopping with me ?
[ txt. ] to: doppelsnack my four favorite words [ txt. ] to: doppelsnack paris or milan?
//I just wanted to say that I've seen you around and the results are always delightfully wholesome. Glad you're here to share your ditto and I wish you a wonderful time on Tumblr ^v^
thank you, I'm going to turn this into a much more serious rp blog because I think I've gotten the hang of it now. I can't promise that ditto's muse has fully come back yet, but I'm playing a lot of Pokopia, and I want to share in that excitement with other people.
Now if only I could find someone who actually RPs as a Pokopia character... Because right now, Pokopia Ditto is at its most active lol
"I, too, will challenge my fate."
Independent, semi-private RP blog for Cid Raines/The Speaker of the Dead from the FF13 series, penned by Freia/Aster (she/they).
Cid (physically 28) and the author are both adults, please do not engage with this account if you are a minor.
This interpretation utilizes the characterization of the novels, as well as spinoff entires (notably Opera Omnia).
Icons will be minimal for an unclear amount of time, and writing will be varying length wise depending on my drive. I will do as I can to ensure there's something to respond to however.
This is a side muse, and as such, my writing drive with him will come and go. I will aspire to respond when in muse, but for more consistent availability, please refer to @/skyboundheart instead.
Verses will be elaborated on as I have time, but crossovers and OCs are welcome.
ˏ 🜚 “ i’m thinkin’ it should be a big ol’ blowout. ” she’s stood herself up on a fence, leaning partway against the top beam, to look out over the pasture— or, some of it, vast as it was— and observe the few early spring foals just starting to graze, following after their mamas. the sun was grinning down on them, ooey-gooey in its heat, and rosalie felt guilty for asking amara to come all the way out here— it would be feasibly more comfortable to discuss this somewhere in town; at the country club, maybe. but. this was home. and this was where she wanted her party to be. better for visualizin’, to boot. “ somethin’ worthy of that fateful three-oh. ” june was creeping up on them, and with it, her birthday. “ money’s def not an issue. hell, we could even spread it out over multiple days. have ya ever organized anythin’ like that﹖ ” stepping down, now, to meet amara on the ground. “ as long as we have it on the ranch. i’ll be happy as a clam at high tideꜝ ”
@lovehards. amara, canyon valley ranch.
{ @purgirltory fried solo :// "Listen, I know you think yer cute an' special an' all the millions'a other shit mediocre music men like you think they are, but whatever smarm an' charm ya got in ya ain't gonna work on me, sugar, so I say we cut this short. Yer music's shit, yer as full'a hot air as a goddamn balloon, an' bein' so much as seen with ya fer more than five seconds sounds like social suicide." }
Ben cocks his head, the hell in his eyes freezes over. You could hear a pin drop amid his silence, and forget that the taproom’s sticky with voices and Bluetooth pre-echo that’d make him sick. Like he isn’t already choking back rock and re-running the drip through his cortex. You know, the slab of grey matter that processes and filters shit. Like Vi. He’s tasted her accent in a South Bronx dumpster alley. He can feel ‘ya fer more’ like the hole in his eardrum. That Vi doesn’t have the patience for anything beyond a three-hour photoshoot. Legs for miles, shit for brains. He turns his soft-cut profile and his deaf ear on her. Flicks a wrist, blistered fingers pointing at nothing, gaze a pin piercing middle-space, a cigarette cherry burning a hole in the brick wall behind Vi’s empty little head. "Listen? To what?" Ben’s baritone hums around the words: dangerous; subliminal. A lurking thing, like his smile. "All I hear is that balloon you described so well,” he says, with all the gravitas of a high gloss magazine. Or of the magazine variety you pack into a weapon. “Whoosh." He laughs. It’s not funny. It’s not funny the way he pushes past her—one hand at the back of her arm, one cupping the shell of her ear. The dog’s nose she’s insulted picking up smoked vanilla, patchouli, ‘feminine rage’. He’s not too good for whispering bitter nothings, and something about how he’s never been the Mouthpiece of God.
cable • foe.⚣.📟. • 20-29 • pearlian digital. mediator. author. archivist. alpha. savior. protector. fighter. hero. villain. manipulator. asshole.
sideblog. no dni, follow your own. don't ask about discourse, idc. no tone tags, pet names, dms.
links. about me. info ( dni ). faq.