#shircna

Send “BEEP” for a random text from my muse.27. a weird text

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse ---

Δ = playing with their hair

Cynthia’s nails are long, and they scratch gently against his scalp when she cards her fingers through his hair to twist around the ends. Wally flushes and looses his train of thought.

Wally isn’t quite sure how he ended up here, but he’s not complaining. Partly because at this point he’s used to being caught unaware, but mostly because it feels too good to protest. They had been talking about their respective Garchomps (Cynthia had been more than happy show off her’s to him; his was back home looking after his parents, per his request, unfortunately.), but they had strayed from that topic some time ago. When she had commented on his hair and asked to touch well, who was he to refuse? She’s the Champion. 

Besides, it’s nice. It reminds of when he was little and his mom used to play with his hair to calm him down. It’s been a long time since someone has done this to him, but it still seems to have the same effect, because it’s only after a few minutes that he notices he’s almost dozed off on Cynthia’s shoulder. He jerks his head away and starts talking again to cover his embarrassment. 

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse↱ = being lost with them.

Green was unused to crisp, cold air of Sinnoh’s Route 217. Or at least, that was the last sign he encountered approximately 50 minutes ago in his desperate search for any kind of civilization that would provide him decent refuge from the incoming blizzard.

Snowpoint City was somewhere nearby, he knew that. Where exactly, he hadn’t a clue. Fortunately, Green was not alone in his search. A woman whose name he name he hadn’t yet asked for had offered to lead the way stood before him, scanning the horizon.

If he were being honest, her company was anything but unpleasant. Not only was she very extremely easy on the eyes, she also had an air about her that radiated confidence and knowledge of the area. He wouldn’t have minded getting to know her better later on, when they weren’t in a situation like this.

“Hey,” he piped up after a long few minutes of silence. “Uh, I think that’s a sign right there-”

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse ---stargazing

He talks about the stars like a man homesick for a place he’s never been, pointed chin angled up at the sky. It’s probably the most relaxed he’s ever been in her presence. There’s a softness to his quiet voice, the slightest waver from the monotone he prefers.

Pyroar, Seviper, Talonflame. Names of constellations fall form his lips effortlessly, his hand lily-white against the night sky. He’s explaining the mythology behind it now, but his pale eyes keep skittering sideways, flashes of eye contact broken the next moment, and though he notices her watching him, he has to, he says nothing.

There’s always been the distinct possibility of running into someone he knows, taking the risk of staying in Sinnoh. He’s done fine, kept out of the public eye, assumed missing or dead, while secluded away in his cottage on Mt. Coronet. Cyrus has almost managed to convince himself he’s content with that, that solitary, quiet existence. But Giovanni has gotten into his head again, he does this, everything’s a mess, he doesn’t know what to do, what to think.

There’s always been the distinct possibility of running into someone he knows, and maybe he wants to now, paradoxically. There are choices he has to make, and he hasn’t spent six years in the Torn World just to bring Galactic back to its former glory. Someone stop me. It’s half a thought, quickly tossed to the side but still there.

He exhales on a shudder, tendrils of gray-blue smoke rising from his lips, spiraling up into the crisp autumn air. He’s been pacing aimlessly outside of the conference building, a lit cigarette being worried between nimble fingers, a tin of breath mints rattling in his pocket. There’s always been the distinct possibility of running into someone he knows but it hasn’t happened so far, Cyrus in his wool coat and brushed back hair, the image of a researcher stressed out by the conference, nothing about him that would connect back to Team Galactic, not yet.

He has to stop, cough into his arm, ignore the familiar tightness in his chest. He shouldn’t be smoking, but he shouldn’t be considering bringing Galactic back together either (someone stop me), and that’s when there’s a flash of yellow and black out of the corner of his eye, and he turns to see who’s walked out the back door of the building and--

“Cynthia?”

Send me ツ for an excited text.

[Text]: I just saw a Turtwig!! That’s so amazing, I’ve never seen one before! I’m going to try and capture one! {a blurry image of a Turtwig in a forest is attached.}

Send me ☄ for a text that was supposed to be deleted, but was accidentally sent.

[text] It’s a pity our paths haven’t directly crossed before, miss Champion.