#simulapia

Send “✆” for a MORNING text.

[ ✉ → min 🐨 ] do they have better food over there? [ ✉ → min 🐨 ] more precisely, how are the burgers?[ ✉ → min 🐨 ] if its any good, maybe I’ll deflect toosent at 7:01:46 a.m.

HEAVY BREATHING OH JEEZ SENPAI NOTICED ME ;; YOU’RE FLAWLESS DON’T LOOK AT ME I AM A POTATO

It was a rare day; Vartouhi didn’t often take excursions on her own, for leisure alone. Her usual companions were all busy with this or that, and she felt too restless to wait for them to return home from their various schedules. However, she was too disheartened to go on a search for leads on a way to return to her planet. This happened every few weeks, sometimes every few days if she were unlucky. She could only take so much failure before she needed a break to find motivation again. So she found herself paying a little fee to go into a museum and distract herself with art, hoping that perhaps one of the works would reinvigorate her spirit.

At first, her feet shuffled from piece to piece, unable to get into it. The section of local art had some gems, but a lot of it went over Vartouhi’s head. She was no stranger to symbolism, but as she wasn’t well-versed in most Earth things, a lot of it was lost on her. She didn’t start perking up until she wandered out of that section and through the modern art section, into classic art. That was when her eyes went wide with wonder as she evaluated each on concepts such as composition, color, style, etc.

It was a weekday, and the middle of it, at that. As such, the halls were practically empty. Occasionally she’d pass another person, but no one seemed to linger on the pieces as long as she did, so there was no opportunity to talk to anyone. Finally, she rounded a corner and spied a man about her age, and she slowed to a stop. Vartouhi stared, heart pounding a little harder just to be in the same vicinity as someone that attractive. 

you’re doing great!

Awh, thank you! That makes me feel better coming from you, heh. I worry about it at least once a day. ; ^ ; 

simulapia replied:

but i love u no one else matters i love you the most my fav bora

SEND ME SOME !.

★ for an IC fact.

★ for an IC fact, or ☆ for an OOC fact

{ simulapia } | au > x Lightning – the megawatt smile that nature greets you with, but there is absolutely nothing friendly about the its sinister ferocity. And especially not to a child of royal blood, turned newly four. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. One. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Two. Inhale. Exhale. In- An explosion in the far-off distance – a sonic boom that shakes Aera’s insides and makes her teeth rattle. The storm isn’t as distant as she would’ve liked, and she drives the soft flesh of her stubby fingers deep into the damp earth. It smells musty. It reeks of fear. An overwheming sense of longing to rest her cherubic cheek upon her wet nurse’s snug bosom has her eyes watering, but the Queen does not like her child to cry, and cry she does not. 

She allows herself a shaken whimper and then she takes flight once more deeper into the primordial forest  – and this time, she welcomes the rain even as her the viscous mud seems to have taken a stubborn liking to her boots. Enthralled, she stares down at its sticky form and wonders if it will devour her fragile little frame whole. The rain is a hindrance and it plasters ebony locks flat against supple porcelain and renders her sight nearly useless but the noise envelops her into its white embrace and shrouds her from the rage of Zeus. She feels safe, and she finds that she quite likes that. Her toes get caught on a root and she stumbles forward with all the grace of an untrained ostrich. And down the rabbit hole Alice went, tumbling irreversibly into the world of Wonderland. The first thing Aera registers is agony. Cuts and bruises litter the expanse of her pint-sized form, some scrapes nastier than others. They sting, and pain erupts in a firestorm all across her body, a swathe of nasty sharp sparks burning up the breath in her lungs. The storm has drenched her, and it is so cold that her cheeks scorch with the flames of ice. Tears run in steady streams down her ruddy cheeks, red as autumn apples, and hiccups spill from her parched throat. With a start, her inquisitive little mind registers that she has fallen deep into some sort of underground cave, and she no longer feels the raindrops numbly pelting against her skin like a torrential battalion of arrows. She is also no longer outside in the storm, exposed to the terrifying elements of lightning and thunder. She has escaped from that which she fears the most. Her tremulous sobs slow. Aera’s hiccups come to a complete halt, however, only when she notices the beast, lying dormant in the depths of the cave it now calls home. Astonishment prickles her insides and she takes a tentative step forward, and in this very instance she realizes that the dragon, much like the ones lushly illustrated in her storybooks back home, has taken notice of her as well. 

Its eyes, the windows to its soul, are in fact openly warily watching her every move, and the royal-born has to stifle the urge to laugh, because they seem to hold all the secrets of the universe and absolutely nothing at all, all at once, and that contradiction is breathtakingly beautiful to Aera. 

In fact, it seems to be biding its time, poising at the ready for an attack, but a four year-old does not yet know the meaning of trust and neither does she know what it is like to have it shattered. And as such, with all the innocence and fiery curiosity that only an untainted child could possess, she approaches as if in a trance, laughing gaily, and demands of the beast:

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. She clears her throat and puffs out her chest and attempts to seem as grown up and stiff as the Queen is, but the end result probably comes across looking rather comical.